Page 73 of Your Pucking Mom

She wore a beige dress with an oversized black peacoat, even though I’d told her the team colors were red, black, and white.

“Mother.” Nova shot me a look, so I grabbed my mom and headed out of the tunnel and into the arena. We walked silently until we stopped outside the suite where families and friends sat.

When I accepted the ticket that Ledger gave me, I forgot that my mother was supposed to attend this game. This was what happened when I focused too much on whatever bubble I was in.

“Hi,” I squeaked out. “Did you get in okay?”

Her long blonde hair hung past her shoulders in a blunt, straight cut. She was dressed like she was headed to the opera, with dark brown eyes and her usual large pearl earrings.

“I stopped by Aspen for a bit before coming here. I believe I told you that, but you seem to forget everything.” She adjusted her coat, shivering. We were in a hockey arena. Did she think they’d warm it for her?

“Great.” I pushed the door to the suite open, and a few families were already mingling. According to Austin, not a lot of families attended away games since many of them had younger children, but a few wives were there.

My mother stared at me, clutching her dark Chanel bag tightly to her chest. “You didn’t get us a private suite?” she hissed in what was supposed to be a whisper but came out as loud as a normal conversation.

My mother was dating the mayor in the town over from us in South Haven, Michigan, so she thought this made her ultra rich.

“Nope,” I said, popping the p. At this point in my life, I was used to her antics, yet I knew by the time the game was over, I would be mentally exhausted by her.

She looked me up and down, taking in my “Hart” hockey jersey, skinny jeans, and the messy bun of curly blonde hair atop my head. Sensing the incoming backhanded comments, I folded my arms across my belly, where she usually started.

“You look like you’ve been adjusting well to the food in the city,” my mother said, taking a step backward to inspect me.

Yup. There it was. She was always like this. She’d given me so much and had these implicit expectations in return.

“I have. Thank you.” I was a different Auburn than who I was a child, though. I had spent years researching reasons my mother thought it was okay to say these things.

Once, in my late twenties, when Emma had taken me on a trip, I’d asked my mom to watch Austin because she was the person I trusted. It was a three-day weekend trip. She encouraged me to go, and I was excited to have caught her in one of her good moods, but when I returned, that shifted quickly.

For months, she held it over my head that she had to watch Austin whenever I went to work or spent time with friends. She constantly reminded me what a terrible mom I was, and blamed me for the fact that she’d had to give up her modeling career after getting pregnant with me from a one-night stand.

“You’re not taking care of your hair. I keep telling you to straighten it. They have ways to keep the strands straight now.”

I ushered her into the suite, casually asking if she wanted anything from the buffet or the bar.

She grimaced. “I don’t eat food that’s been sitting out and touched by people’s fingers.” It took all the willpower in my body not to roll my eyes.

I led her to a secluded spot in the suite with a perfect view of the ice and said, “One of the best seats in the house.” Then I headed to the bar to grab our drinks. She ordered a dirty martini—extra dirty—at a hockey game, while I went for a straightforward ice-cold beer.

After handing her the martini, I pulled out the seat next to me.

“I still don’t understand why you pushed this God-awful sport on Austin. It’s so violent. I don’t understand why you didn’t insist he go to college and get a degree.”

“Mom…” I turned toward her, noticing how she fidgeted with her purse. She sat stiffly in her seat, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Hey, Mrs. Hart.” One of the wives I’d met at family day waved at me, and I smiled back.

“Those are the kind of people you’re becoming friends with?” my mom asked, glancing at the woman, then back at me.

“If you’re going to say shit like that, at least keep your tone quiet,” I whisper-yelled.

She had always been like this—thinking she was above everyone and that we cared about her opinions. The problem was that my inner-child was waiting for her to tell me she was proud of me. I’d hoped maybe she would change for me and tell me that what I went through wasn’t my fault.

It was stupid. Emma’s mom was more of a mother figure to me than my own mom. Emma and her mom had told me that keeping my mom in my space was only hurting the inner work I was doing to try to heal, but without my mom, I had no family. While the things she said were frustrating, she helped me with Austin. In her own twisted way, she cared about me, but she had a shit way of approaching it.

I supposed that was also the reason I never fell in love. I wasn’t sure what that was supposed to feel like. You know, the healthy, normal type of love? I hadn’t ever experienced it.

“What’s going on?” Her question brought me back to the present, and I realized the team had skated onto the ice to warm up before the game. Even though I’d been watching for the last ten years, I had no idea what was actually happening in the game aside from when they scored.

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