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Kate knows something is up the moment Anthony makes the suggestion.
“Hey, Sharma - we should do the turkey race. You in?”
She pauses a moment, casts him a look, considers her options.
She really really hopes that the turkey race is something sexual - that this is one colossal innuendo, an invitation into his bed after all these years - but she knows in her gut that it isn’t.
So -
“The turkey race?” She asks, brows raised.
“You know - the turkey race. I figured you’d be big into the turkey race since you run all the time.” He tells her, all light and bright and bouncy, somehow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the turkey race?”
“I know the turkey race.” She argues instinctively, refuses to be bested by him. “But - if I needed reminding about the finer details of the turkey race…?”
He laughs, sits on the corner of her desk, sets to explaining himself. “It’s this fun race they do in the park on Boxing Day. It’s a relay in teams of two - each runner does three laps of the park total, which makes about 5k. I checked. And everyone gets really into it. There are prizes for everything - best costume, worst costume, fastest mixed gender team, fastest men’s team, fastest -”
“I think I get the picture, Bridgerton.”
“So - this year’s our year. We should do it.” He informs her robustly.
She frowns. “You don’t run a whole lot. You like lifting more than cardio. Vanity gym.” She accuses him fondly.
“Ah - that’s where you’re mistaken. I’ve been running all year. It’s important to take the turkey race seriously. I wondered about suggesting it last year and then I thought - no, Bridgerton. Compete to win. So I’ve been training for it, and you run loads, so we’re going to win.”
“You thought that, did you? You thought it exactly like that? Huh. You call yourself Bridgerton now. I’m rubbing off on you.” She crows, finds herself feeling rather victorious at it.
He waves an airy hand. “Not important. The point is - turkey race, nine AM, Boxing Day, at the band stand. You in?”
“Of course I’m in. I like winning a fun running race as much as the next girl.”
“Glad that’s settled.” He tells her, and stands on his own two feet, leaves his perch on her desk as if planning to depart and do his actual job, or something.
“Not so fast.” She tells him, sharp, even dares to reach out for his forearm. “You haven’t explained this at all.”
“I’ve told you all the details. Fancy dress, running, Boxing Day.” He ticks them off on his fingers.
“You haven’t explained it. Since when do you and me team up for anything competitive? Aren’t we supposed to be on opposite teams? And since when do you wear fancy dress?”
“Come on - we’re not trying to win the best costume prize.” He argues at once. “We’re there to run fastest, not do the costume thing. I fancy our chances.”
“But we do have to wear some sort of costume at least, right?”
“We do. I’ve got a Santa hat. I’ll be fine. You can just - you know - wear some antlers with your usual running kit or whatever.”
“Thank you, Bridgerton. Really - thanks. I needed your permission to wear antlers with my running kit.” She deadpans.
“Don’t say I never do anything for you. Later, Sharma.”
“Later, Bridgerton.”
He smiles at her as he moves off - one perfect, bright, dazzling smile - as if she’s pleased him by agreeing to this silly fancy-dress running scheme.
It’s dangerous, that smile.
She’s going to feel all warm and flustered for the rest of the day.
…….
He messages her about the turkey race weirdly often, considering how confident he was about having given her all the details at the very beginning. For a man who thought there was nothing more to explain, he does seem oddly obsessed with fussing over the plan.
Those reindeer antlers - do they make you Rudolph? He asks, about a week before the big event, as if that’s a sensible question.
Do they *make me Rudolph*? She asks, as well a person might.
I just think we should lean into the costume thing as much as we can without being ridiculous. If I’m Santa, you could be Rudolph. Makes us more of a team.
I don’t even own reindeer antlers, Bridgerton.
You don’t? I thought I told you to get some.
You told me to *wear* some, which is not the same thing. Also - just in case you didn’t notice yet - I don’t always do what you tell me.
Woah. I never noticed that before. He tells her, with a burning Elmo gif which feels at once out of place and yet perfectly correct, both at once.
Funny how it often goes like that, with Anthony - how something often feels wrong and yet right, both at once.
She thinks that’s why she’s so stuck on him, honestly.
…….
She texts him a few other ideas for Christmas costumes, as the days pass by.
They could both be elves, she suggests, and he is unimpressed. He could be a turkey, since it’s a turkey race, and she could be a Christmas pudding. He could be a pig and she could be the blanket, or he could be a tree and she could be the angel.
Then she realises she’s beginning to suggest costumes which imply she’d like to envelop him, or perch atop the pointy length of him, and she pivots quickly back towards snowflakes or shepherds or just those bad paper hats out of crackers, even.
At least those are safe. At least no one ever made an embarrassing implicit innuendo with a bad paper cracker hat.
At least there’s that.
…….
Anthony makes the decision for her, in the end.
She’s working just the morning of Christmas Eve. They both are, in fact. Or - working is perhaps a stretch. She’s mostly chatting to Connie and wondering why the break room is always so well-stocked with mince pies.
Then Anthony walks up to her desk holding a reindeer antler headband.
“Here.” He says, and deposits it in front of her without ceremony.
“Such a kind and generous Christmas gift.”
“Hey - I’m already giving you the gift of my company for all of Boxing Day morning. This is just the icing on the cake.”
“Icing. Huh.” She puts the antlers on her head, because someone had better be fun about this whole costume thing, and it’s clearly never going to be him. “What are you wearing?”
“I’ve got matching antlers. We can be Dasher and Dancer.”
“I’d rather be Donner and Blitzen.”
“Dasher and Dancer sound faster.”
“Do not.” Kate says, mild, her heart not really in the argument. They’ve argued about more interesting things before now.
“Great - so you’re Dancer. I can’t be Dancer. I’ll be Dasher.” He decides now, because he does like to make other people’s decisions for them.
“I object.”
“I knew you would. Later, Sharma.”
He wanders off, throws her another dangerous smile as he goes.
She sits there, and watches him walk away, and wonders whether she should take these antlers off or wear them for the rest of the day, now.
And then -
“You two have a date on Boxing Day morning? You finally sorted yourselves out? Cute.” Connie offers, grinning.
Ah.
Kate had rather forgotten she was there.
“It’s not a date. We’re just doing this turkey race thing.”
“Oh - the turkey race? I think that is a date, Kate. Isn’t that famously a couples event? A couples costume competition with running on the side? James did it once during his Margaret Goring era. He told me all about it - she was trying to like sport for him, but she didn't really get it, you know? If I’ve understood correctly, the turkey race was a key contributing factor to their breakup.”
“Is that supposed to be encouraging?”
“Perhaps not. Or - it was at first, but it got away from me. My point is, Kate - it’s a date.”
“I’m sure it’s not a date.” Kate argues, and tries for a solemn frown.
It doesn’t entirely turn out. She’s a bit busy beaming from ear to ear.
Hmm. She might leave these antlers on for the rest of the day, she decides. It can’t hurt to be festive, under the circumstances.
…….
She realises Connie was correct within perhaps three minutes of arriving at the park on the morning in question.
This is definitely an event predominantly for couples. It is one hundred percent a couples costume competition with running on the side. As she looks around at the gathered competitors, she can’t see a single team who are notably and demonstratively platonic.
She’s not sure how a person would necessarily judge that in a crowd of oddly-dressed runners, but the vibes are clear. The vibes are romantic all the way.
It’s also an event for people who can run, it seems. From the way Anthony was speaking about it, she was under the impression that they wouldn’t have much competition, that this is mostly a joke-race and they’d be the only two taking it seriously, the only two trying for the win.
That is not how it looks, now she’s here.
She chooses to start with that part, when she tracks down her relay partner by the band stand, not with the whole romance part.
“These people look like they can run.” She notes, waves towards a person wearing what are obviously a very fast pair of shoes.
“You look like you can run.” He argues, waves his hand at her in much the same way.
Huh.
She thinks that was a compliment.
All the same -
“They look like they can run fast. You wanted to win, and I’m not sure that’s realistic.”
“We’ll be fine. There are prizes for everything - first, second, third, fastest first-timers, fastest in age category, you name it. There’s probably a prize for the fastest pair of badly-dressed reindeer.”
“How do you know so much about this event, anyway?”
“I did my research.” He tells her, because of course he does. “Come on - the start line is over here.”
He steers her with a hand between her shoulder blades, and she wonders whether it’s something.
She wonders whether it’s something just like she wonders that about this whole entire morning, frankly.
…….
They don’t win, in the end.
Kate tries very, very hard. She really does. She runs faster than she has run in years, leaves it all out on the disintegrating asphalt of the park. If there were a prize for the team which tried the hardest, she likes to think she and Anthony would win that.
She presumes there isn’t a prize for that, though, even at a crazy event like this. Races are conventionally won by the people who go quickly, not by the people who go slower but sweat more in the process. That’s how a race works. It’s the fundamental principle of the thing.
So - they don’t win, but she tries quite hard, tries hardest of all on the anchor leg.
She comes home fourth, half-falls across the line, and finds Anthony’s firm arms catching her.
She wonders whether that’s something, too. She wonders if it means anything, that he’s rushing to wrap her in a sweaty, supportive embrace. She shouldn’t find it attractive, probably, under the circumstances. They’re both in serious need of a shower.
But there’s something she very much likes about having him catch her. There’s something about him being there, waiting for her, watching for her, and then reaching for her.
She allows herself to enjoy it for quite a long while, in the end, as he keeps hold of her, pats her on the back, tells her again and again to breathe.
“I am breathing.” She argues at last, when she has the breath to manage it.
“Now you are. You weren’t at first. Or - not enough.”
“That’s what happens when a person runs fast. You should try it.” She teases.
He laughs at that, and she’s honestly not sure why. It’s not the funniest thing she has ever said.
She pulls away from him, now, forces herself to stand properly on her own two feet. She can’t stay draped over him all day just because she ran a turkey race.
At least - she thinks she can’t.
“Is there a prize for fourth?” She asks, curious.
“No. But I’ve heard we’re in the running for worst costume.”
“Hmm. Well done us.” She deadpans.
He rolls his eyes, swats her lightly on the arm. “I’m sorry we didn’t place. But you had fun, right? This was fun. And fourth isn’t too shabby.”
“I had so much fun.” She tells him, and means it. “This is everything I didn’t know my festive season needed. A hard run, a lot of pointless competition and meaningless prizes, and the chance to argue with you about reindeer antlers. Honestly - ten out of ten. Best Boxing Day ever.”
His grin of triumph suits him, she decides. “I knew it. I knew you’d love it. You can never resist the chance to get competitive about something really unimportant.”
“You liked it too.” She insists, jabs him in the ribs. “You love things like this. You don’t even like cardio and you took up running just so we could do this.”
“Guilty as charged. Hey - same again next year?”
“Hell no. Next year we’re going one better. Third place and those bad paper crowns from crackers. If we’re serious about winning worst costume, we need to up our game.”
The two of them stand there a moment, not far from the finish line, laughing together about nothing in particular.
And then -
“Shall we get brunch?” He asks plainly. “Or - shower and then brunch?”
“Like a date?” She dares to ask, dares to speak just as plainly straight back at him.
“Exactly like a date. I’ve been thinking for a while that I should ask like this, you know? Our first date should be something I’m confident you’ll enjoy - like a pointlessly competitive fancy dress race - and then if it goes well, I should just ask. So - you in?
“I’m in.” She says easily, jabs him fondly in the ribs again. “I’m definitely in. Don’t let it go to your head, but you played that pretty perfectly.”
“I know I did.” He tells her, smug and unrepentant.
“Bridgerton -”
“I’ll stop. I’ll stop. But also - thank you. This - us… it’s kind of a big deal for me.”
“I already figured that out. You let on that you’d been planning our first date for an entire year. You’d been training for our first date.” She points out. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, you know. It’s a big deal for me too.”
“Mmm. You wore those antlers all day after I gave them to you.”
“You don’t know that I wore them all day. You didn’t see me in the afternoon.”
“When you sent me that photo of Newton at eight PM they were reflected in the window.”
Ah.
That’s… embarrassing, perhaps? But also, he does seem to think it’s very good news. He does seem to be beaming from ear to ear about it.
Or perhaps he’s just happy with the situation in general, not with specifically the antlers.
All the same -
“What can I say? I’m more committed to this worst costume thing than you are.” She teases.
“Are not.”
“Come on - brunch calls.”
“Aren’t we staying to collect our prize?”
“You’re kidding, right? If we do win worst costume, there’s an actual prize for us to collect?” She asks, incredulous.
“I’m perfectly serious. I told you - prizes for everything. This is the turkey race. Best first date ever.”
“Best first date ever.” She agrees, solemn, and reaches out for his hand.
He holds on tight despite the general clamminess of the situation, and she’s glad of that. It implies that he meant it when he said all that about a big deal, she thinks. It implies that he’s quite into her, that this turkey race might turn out sexual in the end after all - just as soon as they’ve both showered.
It implies that there’s a future worth holding on for, there beyond Boxing Day.
Huh. She quite likes the sound of that.