Page 26 of The Risk

“Metal.”

“Ugh. Kill me now.” Hazel sighs. “I’ll let you know later, but right now it’s a tentative no from me, dawg.”

I snicker. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yup. Tell your parents I said hi.”

“Will do.”

I hang up and walk through the unlocked front door. In the small entryway, I toss my hockey jacket on one of the iron coat hooks, which are shaped like—what else—anchors. “Mom?” I call as I unlace my boots.

“Hi, baby! I’m in here!” Her greeting wafts out from the kitchen, along with the most enticing aroma.

My stomach growls like a grumpy bear. I’ve been looking forward to this breakfast all week. Some guys don’t like to pig out on game days, but I’m the opposite. If I don’t eat a huge breakfast, I feel sluggish and off.

In the kitchen, I find Mom at the stove, a plastic red spatula in hand. The hunger pangs intensify. Fuck yeah. She’s making French toast. And bacon. And is that sausage?

“Hey. That smells fantastic.” I saunter over and plant a kiss on her cheek. Then I raise my eyebrows. “Nice earrings. Are those new?”

With her free hand, she rolls the shiny pearl on her right earlobe between her thumb and index finger. “Aren’t they pretty? Your father surprised me with them the other day! I’ve never owned pearls this big before.”

“Dad did good.” Rory Connelly knows the secret to a healthy marriage. Happy wife equals happy life. And nothing makes my mother happier than shiny baubles.

She turns to face me. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cheeks flushed from the stove, she appears way younger than fifty-six. My folks had me when they were in their mid-thirties, so she’s constantly referring to herself as an “old mom.” She definitely doesn’t look it, though.

“Hazel says hi, by the way. I just got off the phone with her.”

Mom claps happily. “Oh, tell her I miss her. When is she coming home for a visit? She wasn’t here for the holidays.”

“No, she was at her mom’s this year.” Hazel’s parents got divorced a few years ago. Her dad still lives in Gloucester, but her mom is in Vermont now, so she alternates holidays with them. “She’ll be at the game today. Are you guys coming?”

“I’m afraid not. Your dad won’t be home in time, and you know I don’t like driving on the freeway alone.”

I hide my disappointment. My parents have never been too invested in my hockey career. Dad was always too busy with work to attend any of my games, and Mom just plain wasn’t interested. When I was little, it hurt my feelings. I’d see all my friends’ families in the stands, mine would be nowhere in sight, and envy would flood my chest.

But whatever. It is what is. That’s my attitude about most things. Can’t change the past, don’t cry over the present, don’t stress about the future. It’s all pointless, especially regret.

“Well, try to make it to the finals if we’re playing in them, okay?” I say lightly.

“Of course. Now stop looming over me and go have a seat, superstar. I’ll take care of everything.”

“At least let me set the table,” I argue, trying to grab plates from the cupboard.

She swats my hands away. “No. Sit down,” she orders. “This might be the last time I’ll be able to serve you before you have your own staff waiting on you hand and foot.”

“Nah, that’s not gonna happen.”

“You’ll be a professional hockey player this fall, honey. That means you’ll be famous, and famous people employ household staff.”

I made the mistake of showing my folks the paperwork for my NHL contract, and when they saw how much money I’ll be earning soon (not to mention all the performance incentives my agent persuaded the club to include) their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. I can’t predict the actual amount I’ll end up bringing in, but the value of my contract is around two million, which is definitely on the high end for a rookie.

According to my agent, that’s what they give the “projected superstars.” Damned if my ego didn’t inflate hearing that. My mother liked it too, because that’s all she calls me now. Superstar.

“I don’t want household staff.” But I chuckle and sit down anyway, because if she wants to spoil me today, why not? She’s partly right. Next year I’ll be in Edmonton, freezing my balls off in the Canadian winters. I’m going to miss Saturdays in Gloucester with my folks.

“Where is Dad, anyway?”

“He’s at the job site,” Mom answers as she turns off the burner.

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