Page 95 of The Chase

I’m a pussy. I don’t go looking for Summer after the game, and I don’t go to Malone’s. I also don’t go home.

Like an asshole, I get in my car and drive to Boston.

My friend Tucker bought a bar in the city this past fall. I helped him with the reno, getting it ready for its big opening in November. Doesn’t surprise me that the only person I want to confide in right now is Tuck. He’s easy to talk to and has a good head on his shoulders. Gives really smart advice too, and right now I’m desperate for some advice.

I’m reaching the freeway exit when my phone rings. My car is an older model and doesn’t have the Bluetooth feature, so I’m forced to use speakerphone. If it wasn’t my mother’s number flashing on the screen, I’d probably press ignore. But ignoring Mom is never a good idea.

“Colin! Sweetie! Are you all right?” Her greeting holds a hefty dose of concern.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Your Uncle Randy was at your game tonight, and he just sent me a phone picture of your face!”

“You can just say ‘picture,’ Ma. You don’t have to specify ‘phone.’”

“But he sent it from his phone to my phone.”

“Yes, but—” I stop myself from continuing.Pick your battles, man.My mother isn’t an old lady and therefore has no excuse for her total lack of knowledge about anything tech-related. But she’s also set in her ways and arguing with her is pointless.

She still uses a BlackBerry, for chrissake.

“I promise, I’m fine. Got stitched up and now I’m good as new.”

“How many stitches?”

“Only two.”

“Okay.” The worry leaves her tone. Unfortunately, it’s replaced with anger. “This is all your father’s fault.”

Here we go again.

“How do you figure?” I don’t know why I’m playing along. I already know the answer.

“Because he forced you into hockey.”

“He didn’t force me. I love hockey.”

I may as well be speaking to my car windshield. “What a selfish prick that man is,” she gripes. “Come on, Colin. You don’t think it’s pathetic that a grown man is trying to live vicariously through his son?”

My jaw tenses. No use in asking her to stop, though. Or vice versa. The pair of them never stop. “In other news,” I say in an attempt to steer the topic into safe territory. “My job interview went well.”

“You had an interview?” She sounds startled.

“Yup.” I quickly fill her in on Kamal Jain as I get off the freeway and stop at a set of red lights. “I guess he’ll make his decision after this fundraiser thing in New York.”

“There’s no decision to be made—you’reclearlythe best candidate,” she replies with the kind of unshakeable confidence only a mother can feel toward her son.

“Thanks, Ma.” I turn onto the street that houses Tuck’s bar and click my blinker to claim the last available parking spot at the curb. “I just got to my buddy’s and need to parallel park. I’ll call you later this week.”

“Sounds good. I love you.” Does she? Sometimes I wonder.

“Love you too.”

We hang up, and I experience the same sense of overwhelming relief as when I got off the phone with my father last week.

I hop out of the car and glance at the neon signs lighting the front of Tucker’s bar. And there’s actually a line at the door. Business is obviously booming. Good for Tuck.

As I approach the sidewalk, I send him a quick text.

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