The Biscuit has a cozy, old-time feel, like it’s been here forever. The walls are paneled in dark brown wood, but most of the space has been given over to group photos of Moo U sports teams from every consecutive year since the turn of the last century.

I love to stop for a glance at the oldest photos, with the baseball players in their baggy, pinstriped knickers. And the hockey players with their 1960s haircuts. The women’s team photos start up a bit later, in the eighties. There’s basketball and cross country too.

One thing you won’t find on these walls, though, is a photo of a football team. Moo U doesn’t have one. We’re a D1 hockey school, and we do well in lacrosse and baseball, as well as winter sports like skiing and ski jumping. But football just isn’t very Vermonty. So we don’t bother.

To finish up the night’s work, I take a seat at an empty table and roll silverware for tomorrow’s shift. And I just happen to pick a table that’s within earshot of table seventeen. Eavesdropping is good service, right? I’m easy to find if they need anything.

Plus, it’s entertaining. The hockey players are making celebratory toasts. “To winning the league this year!” one of the twins says.

“The league?” Weston yelps. “Why not the national championship? Aim high, Patrick.”

“To Professor Reynolds for postponing the Rocks for Jocks test!”

“Wait, really? It was postponed?”

“To cold beer and warm women!”

That was the obnoxious freshman again. Weston ignores him this time.

“To Weston!” Tate cheers. “Another trip around the sun!”

“Aw, shucks, guys. You’re all buying me dinner, right?” He sets down his beer. “Speaking of dinner, I almost forgot about my flyers.” He pulls his backpack off the floor and unzips it. He pulls out a folder from the copy shop and flips it open. “It’s time to hang up my sign.”

Tate looks over his shoulder and laughs. “No way. You’re doing that again? Why?”

“Because I love Thanksgiving. It’s my favorite holiday.”

“You could come out to our farm, you know,” Tate argues. “You have a standing invitation.”

“That is a tempting offer, especially because your grandma makes that apple pecan tart with the crinkly edges.” Weston makes a motion with his fingers, as if crinkling imaginary dough. “And the crumble topping is spectacular.”

It’s so cute I find myself smiling into the silverware bin.

“So what’s the problem, then?” Tate demands. “And if you pick on my grandma’s cooking, I will hurt you.”

“Your grandmother’s cooking is awesome. My problem is with your father’s football picks. I can’t root for the Patriots, man. Besides, this way I’m providing a public service.”

“What service?” Someone snatches a flyer out of the folder and reads it aloud. “Rent a boyfriend for the holiday. For $25, I will be your Thanksgiving date. I will talk hockey with your dad. I will bring your mother flowers. I will be polite, and wear a nicely ironed shirt. Note: I don’t cook, so I am not able to bring a dish. I'm from out of town, and have no plans for the holiday. But I love Thanksgiving, and would be happy to celebrate with you. Especially if your mother is a good cook. Or your father. I’m not sexist.”