Page 84 of The Pucking Player

Jessica lifts her glass in greeting as I climb the porch steps. Mom wordlessly hands me her own glass of red, then pulls another from the side table she keeps stocked for exactly these kinds of emergencies. Because Margaret Novak believes in being prepared for everything, whether it’s a surprise motion in court or a daughter’s heartbreak. The wine sloshes slightly as I sink between them on the swing, the familiar creak of the chains and the proximity of their bodies comforting. Just like old times: Mom in the middle, me and Jessica flanking her.

For a long moment, we sit in silence, the gentle sway of the swing matching the rhythm of my breathing. No questions. No platitudes. Just the three of us, like countless evenings before, when boys broke my heart in high school or college acceptance letters went the wrong way. Or when we were much younger, when we used to crawl into our parents’ bed, crowding and pressing into our mom.

Though the night is warm, I huddle deeper into my coat, taking a long sip of wine. The moment stretches, broken only by distant traffic and the soft whisper of budding leaves in the breeze.

“Please don’t make me see him again.” My voice comes out ragged. “The Valentine’s Day PR date...I just can’t do it.”

Jessica leans over and puts her hand on my knee. “Already canceled. And I have to tell you, watching Dad try to convince Rothschild that his star player needs to be traded to Seattle was quite a spectacle.”

“Seattle?” Mom arches a perfect eyebrow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Last I heard him fuming, he was pitching Alaska.”

“No, Alaska was reserved for Tommy Jenkins when he asked me to Junior prom.” Jessica grins. “Dad had his hockey leagues hierarchically organized by then.”

“Ah yes, Tommy.” Mom swirls her wine, the ruby liquid catching the porch light. “He’s a partner at a hedge fund now. Probably for the best, your father would’ve ruined his hockey career.” She pauses, something shifting in her expression. “But seriously now,” she continues thoughtfully, “everyone talks about my choice to step back from corporate law like it was this great sacrifice. A textbook cautionary tale about giving up your dreams for a man.”

Jessica and I exchange glances. We’ve heard variations of this story our whole lives, usually as warnings, red flags to watch for in our own futures.

“Life can get messy and confusing,” she continues, her voice softening. “Especially while you are young. When I fell in love with your father, it felt like...like finding a missing piece of myself. Like becoming whole in a way I didn’t even know was possible. It’s what we all search for in love, that feeling of completeness with another person.”

“But you gave up being partner,” Jessica says quietly.

“I did.” Mom takes a slow sip of wine, late afternoon sunrays reflecting off the rim of her glass. “And I resented myself. Questioned my choice. Then Jessica came along, and I found myself losing my identity in motherhood too. It’s what love does to you, you see. Whether it’s for a partner or a child, it makes you want to merge completely.”

I think about Liam, about how easily I’d started reorganizing my future around him. How natural and right it had felt. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Losing yourself?”

“No, sweetheart.” Mom shifts to face me, her eyes bright with hard-won wisdom. “The problem is thinking it has to be one or the other. That you have to choose between loveand self, between heart and ambition.” She laughs softly. “It took me twenty years to figure out that balance doesn’t mean equal parts at all times. Sometimes love takes the lead, sometimes ambition does. The trick is not letting either one consume you completely.”

“Is that when you went back full time?” Jessica asks.

“Yes. I finally understood that there is time and space in life for everything. Being Mark Novak’s wife, and being your mother, those things don’t prevent me from being successful in my profession. Despite what people say, itisabsolutely possible to have it all at the same time. Youdon’thave to choose.”

I think about Stanford, my dream school. About Columbia and the possibility of having both love and freedom, if there was still anything to have.

“But how do you know?” I whisper, my voice small. “How do you know what’s right when everything feels wrong?”

Mom wraps an arm around each of us, pulling us close like she did when we were little. “Oh, my brilliant, careful girls. You follow your heart, not just your head. Our world puts logic on a pedestal, tells us to ignore our feelings. But I’ve learned differently. Yes, make your spreadsheets and decision trees.” She smiles my way, no doubt as a dig at my color-coded planning habits. “But in the end, trust your gut. It knows.”

“Being with Liam felt right, Mom,” I whisper, tears finally breaking free. “It felt so right.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She pulls me closer. “Heartbreak doesn’t mean you made the wrong choice. It’s just part of finding your way.”

“Even if the man in question is currently dating pop stars?” I try to joke through my tears.

“Even then.” Mom kisses my temple. “Because here’s what I’ve learned: the right love, the real kind, doesn’t ask you to be less. It challenges you to be more. To find that balance between merging and maintaining, between giving and growing.”

“Like you and Dad?” Jessica asks softly.

“Like me and your father. Like me and my career. Like me and motherhood.” She squeezes us both. “The heart is infinitely expandable, girls. You don’t have to choose between loving fully and living fully. You just have to do both at once.”

We sit in silence, letting her words settle. The swing creaks gently, the wine warms our bellies, and somewhere in my chest, something that felt knotted begins to loosen.

“Besides,” Mom adds with a flash of her courtroom smile, “any man worth loving will be worth the work of finding that balance. And any man not worth it, well, that’s where furious fathers come in handy.”

Jessica snorts wine through her nose, and just like that, the heavy moment breaks into laughter. But Mom’s words sink into my heart, a compass pointing toward something I’m not sure I can see yet.

Trying to lighten the mood, I wipe my eyes and grin. “Remember when Dad installed those motion sensor lights because he was convinced guys were creeping around?”

Jessica groans. “The neighbors thought we were having a disco party every time a squirrel went by.”

---