Page 102 of Well Played

That brings on the retread recriminations and taunts. “Not good at anything else, are you? Never took any advice to train for something besides hockey. Your fault for not getting more education. Get a buyout. That should give you something to live on while you find a job. I’m sure you’d make a great greeter at Walmart.”

“You need my money. You just told me so. What will you do without your cash cow?” My teeth grind like millstones, making my jaw ache.

“I hear that sound, dear. Unclench your jaw. And be careful of that mouthful of expensive temporary choppers.”

I swallow several curses, reminded that several therapists have advised cutting the ties. Damn it, though. She’s my mom, no matter how often I wish she weren’t.

Meanwhile, she ignores my question and twists the knife. “God, you’re a piece of work, Frank.”

My gut wrenches from the imaginary kick in the gut. The old cliche comes to me—the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“And you may be jeopardizing the only other thing you’re good at.”

What is she driving at now?

“Saw that hit in the gonads, Frank. Hope you were wearing your cup.”

I wish we weren’t on FaceTime. The gloat on her face is too much. Not able to look at her, my eyes squeeze shut as I mumble, “Always wear the cup on the ice, Mom. And protection off it too.”

Not known as a womanizer, I’ve never had much interest aside from casual hookups to scratch the occasional itch. I have a couple of friends who are gay, and I know rumors pop up that I’m into guys. But guys don’t do it for me either. I sometimes wonder if I’m asexual, but I’ve never talked to anyone about it.

The truth is, growing up in a houseful of controlling women blunted any desire for intimacy. Then a vision of Maya floats before me. Shit. “My ability to impregnate is unimpaired,” I say, my voice grating.

The huff that comes over the line can be heard from Chicago to Kelowna. “Watch your mouth.”

“Coach is calling,” I lie. “Talk to you later.”

When Doc Gnauss finds me, I’m playing LEGO Fortnite on one of the lounge machines to get rid of the bad taste of mother non-love.

“Sauer, I need to see you, now.”

I spread my arms wide. “And here I am.”

I expect him to call me on my smart mouth, but he just motions me to get up, observing as, hand on the back of the gaming chair, I clumsily push myself forward to the edge of the seat, steady my bad knee, then use my forearms to push up, and slowly walk toward him, shuffling slightly, still trying to hide the limp.

Gnauss maneuvers so he lingers behind me. I can feel the scrutiny as he assesses me.

“Stop, Frank. Walking like that will only exacerbate the problem with your knee without hiding the limp. I can call for a wheelchair if you need it.”

“No wheelchair,” I protest, then limp forward, ignoring his scowl.

“You took a couple of heavy falls last night and I need to check you out.”

Ax must have sicc’d him on me. FU, Ax. Keep your nose out of my life.

Like an animal at bay, I growl and swivel my head to give him the side-eye. “Forget that. I’m fine.” The wince catches me unawares. “At least fine enough to get to the diagnostic tables.”

We proceed silently down the long hall until we reach the med center.

“Get up on the table. Let’s look at the knee and see what’s what.”

Not moving, I fold my arms. “Maybe I can have a maintenance day tomorrow. And a few painkillers to get me through. Tape it up before the next game and I’ll be fine.”

The deep rumble that meets this comment prods me to move.

I try to jump up on the table. Gnauss brings over a step stool and I sheepishly pull myself up, legs hanging over the side. But that shoots new pain through the knee so I scoot back as far as I can go and stick out the leg to keep the joint straight.

“Hurts to bend it. Hmm. Not a good sign. Did you feel a pop?”

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