Page 70 of Taking It To Overtime
“Yeah, I’ve got him right here.” He says into the device, his blue eyes boring into mine as he chews on his bottom lip. Even with the patchy facial hair he has growing in, he looks about twelve years old. His eyes blink fast as he holds the phone out. “You’re gonna want to take this, Robbie.”
His use of my first name concerns me. Vic’s the only one on the team who calls me Robbie. Most stick with Oakes. Spags and the other rookies routinely call me Dad. I swear just to get under my skin. There’s a sinking weight in my gut and a roaring in my ears. I nestle my phone against my shoulder and step off the ice, passing Spags. We nod at each other as I pass, and he takes my place as referee.
“Mom?” I can’t get enough air into my chest. “What’s wrong? Is it Dad?”
“No honey,” my mom’s voice echoes through my speaker. She sounds distant, a bit distracted. “Dad and I are okay.” There’s a long pause and I feel my heart stop. I know what she’sabout to say before she I hear the words, “it’s Vera,” and I drop heavily onto one of the metal spectator benches.
“Is she…” my voice cracks and my shoulders shake as I suck in air. “What does she…”
“She’s okay,” my mom says. She’s using the same voice she used to feed me when I woke up with bad dreams. “There was an accident.”
My mind spins to twisted metal, a screech of brakes, the wail of sirens.
“Robbie? Robert?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t—
My mom is still talking.
“Her mom fell this morning and was taken to Beacon. She hit her head so they aren’t ready to release her yet.”
So many emotions hit me at once that I feel dizzy, my stomach twisting in nauseated loops. Relief that she’s okay. She isn’t hurt, or dead, or dying. I didn’t get her back just to have her ripped away all over again. Worry that she’s alone. She’s probably scared. What if she’s wondering where I am? Did she try to call me? And I didn’t pick up? Did she have to send my mother to hunt me down like an errant child?
“Vera called from the hospital. She didn’t want to bother you today, not with the scrimmage, but I thought you’d want to know.”
She hadn’t wanted to bother me. A medical emergency with her mother, and she’d assumed I’d want her tonot bother me.
Because, a little voice said in the back of my brain,last time it came down to Vera and hockey, you chose hockey.
I’m not going to do that again.
Except I let Brad go, and we’re already stretched thin running the scrimmages. I can’t just step out.
“Mom?” I’d almost forgot she was still on the phone. “She’s not alone right now, right? Someone’s with her?”
“Of course, honey. I wouldn’t leave her alone for this. I stepped into the hall to call you, but she’s not alone. I’m here. Her dad’s on his way. I just thought you should know now.”
I nod before I remember mom can’t see me. “Yes,” I say. “You’re right.” I’m glad she told me.
I tell my mom I love her and slide my phone into the pocket of my sweats. Out on the ice, Marlowe zings a shot right into Gavin’s glove and they reset for another faceoff. Spags drops the puck and skates over, concern still etched across his face.
“Is Vera going to be okay?”
I nod. “I think so. They’re keeping her mom for observation.”
This feels wrong, standing here, watching the kids shuffle passes back and forth. I just can’t see a way to make this work. Not without someone to fill in for me. I suppose we could cut the scrimmage short. Tomorrow is Saturday, but we could reschedule the games.
“So, what are you still doing here?” Spags asks, and I narrow my brows as I look out over the ice.
“I can’t just leave.” Can I? “We’d have to reschedule the games.”
“Or,” Jack says as one of the other assistants lifts his arms to signal the puck, “I can handle it for you.”
My gut instinct is to say no, I’d never trust Spaeglin with something this important. Not when the kid eats jokes and shits rainbows for breakfast, but I don’t have a ton of options at the moment, so I stop and consider it. Spags is a damn good hockey player. He knows how scrimmages work. He could easily handle the games. The question is, would he be mature enough to keep things on track? Or would I come back to some mess of chaos as he pitted the players against each other,Hunger Gamesstyle?
“You’d do that?”
Spags’ flinch is so small I almost miss it, and I force down my next words before I can ask if he’scapableof supervising the kids. It suddenly feels cruel to say out loud.
