Page 74 of The Pucking Player

“Out of the question, Liam. It’s a solid hour and a half commute on the train on a good day, even longer in the rush hour morning traffic. My shift starts at seven. You have practice and I won’t put you through that. And people are counting on me to show up.” She squares her shoulders, every inch the nurse who raised three kids on her own after Dad’s accident. “My patients need me.”

“And I need you safe!” The words explode out of me louder than I intended. “You don’t have to keep working like this. I make enough?—”

“Stop.” Her voice could freeze hell over. “We’ve talked about this many times before. You paying for your father’s care and Kieran’s and Erin’s tuition is more than enough.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’m not going to be a burden to my children.”

“You could never be a burden!”

“I won’t be dependent on my son!” she snaps back. “I’m only in my mid-fifties and in excellent health.” She softens and extends her hand to caress my cheek before continuing. “Honey, you’ve done so much already. The special neurological program your father’s getting at Brookdale is giving him a real chance at improving his mobility. The treatments for the nerve damage from when he was trapped are finally making a difference. The doctors think with more physical therapy, he might even get some function back in his left side.”

“Which is exactly why you should let me?—”

“Let you what?” she cuts me off. “Support all of us? You’re already carrying too much on those shoulders, Mr. Big Shot.” Her voice turns into a whisper, “I’m still your mother. Let me keep my dignity.” She sweeps up broken glass, then pivots. “Have you talked to Kieran?” That’s classic Mom—world falling apart, and she’s worried about her children first. “He has a big game against Minnesota tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I texted him earlier,” I say, gathering Erin’s sheet music into a pile. My little brother followed in my skate tracks at Boston University. Kid’s already making waves—faster than I was at his age, and with better hands. Scouts are starting to notice. “Coach Parker thinks they’ve got a real shot at the NCAA championship tournament this year. BU hasn’t made it to the Frozen Four since I was there destroying scoring records.”

Mom’s eyes light up the way they always do when she talks about her boys on the ice. “Did you see him score three goals against Boston College last week?”

“Streamed it between periods.” I can’t help grinning, remembering how Kieran celebrated his game-winning goal, pretending his glove was a phone and miming ‘call me’to the crowd.Little shit’s got swagger, I’ll give him that.“Kid’s gonna be better than me one of these days.”

“Your brother pulls off a hat trick against our biggest rival, and all you can say is ‘gonna be better than me’?” Mom teases, but I can see the pride shining in her eyes. Nothing makes her happier than her boys following in each other’s skate tracks.

“He already has your scoring record at Boston University in his sights,” Mom says proudly. Then her smile falters as she looks around the trashed apartment. “Don’t tell him about this. He has enough pressure with finals and hockey. I don’t want him distracted.”

“I’ll buy you a new cello,” I tell Erin, who’s kneeling by her broken instrument. “Top of the line. Whatever you need?—”

“Don’t.” She cuts me off, that familiar O’Connor stubbornness flashing in her eyes. “I’ll sort it out myself.”

“Erin-”

“You do enough, Liam.” Her chin lifts in that way that means the discussion is over. “Let me handle this one.”

“Ma,” I try again, switching tactics, “at least let me get you two a hotel room tonight. The Williamsburg Hotel’s right around the corner?—”

“No.” Her voice has that steel edge that means the discussion is over. “I have an early shift, and Erin has class. We’re not letting some thugs run us out of our home.”

“Kieran’s going to find out anyway,” Erin pipes up from where she’s still hunkering over her ruined cello as if she could magically put it back together. “You know how the hockey bros gossip. Someone’s cousin’s roommate’s girlfriend will post about the break-in, and it’ll make its way through the BU locker room faster than mono.”

I wince. She’s not wrong. “He’ll kill me if he finds out from someone else.”

Mom sighs That sound that means she knows she’s beat. “Fine. But let me tell him. After his game tomorrow.” She looks at me pointedly. “And don’t youdaretry to drive up to Boston to check on him. I’ve got enough to worry about without both my boys getting into trouble.”

“I’ll call him,” I say, pulling out my phone.

Mom snatches it from my hand with the kind of speed that reminds me where Kieran and I got our reflexes. “After his game,” she repeats firmly. “Let him concentrate. You remember what it’s like, playoffs coming up, scouts in the stands...”

I do remember. The pressure, the expectations, the weight of a family’s hopes riding on every shift. But I also remember what it feels like to shoulder that weight alone.

I’m not letting Kieran do that. Not when there are what appears to be Russian mobsters sending warnings through our family’s apartment.

But Mom’s right about one thing—tomorrow is soon enough. This shit storm will still be here.

“Fine,” I growl, pulling her into a hug. “But I’m staying tonight, and I’m installing a security system first thing tomorrow. No arguments.”

She pats my cheek, and for a second, I’m eight years old again, coming home with scraped knees from street hockey. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear.”

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