Page 75 of Delayed Offsides

“Hey.” I greet my mother like we talk every day when really, the long-distance hum reminds me how far apart we really are.

We don’t talk every day. In fact, I only hear from her on my birthday and Christmas. I hear from Patrick more. Not that I want to. Little shit needs to learn to take care of himself.

“Are you still showing your meat on social media?” she asks, laughing.

“No. I’ve moved on, but—” I pause and draw in a quick sharp breath. “I’m going to be a dad,” I blurt, not knowing what she’s going to say next.

There’s a long pause. “What?”

I clear my throat. “Callie and I… we’re having a baby in September.”

“You mean that girl you sent a picture of your dick to?”

I nod, though it’s not needed. “Yeah, her.”

Nothing. Silence. I suppose knowing me, this kind of news would shock most. I’ve been all about hockey my entire life. No time for anything else. Most people who know me understand fatherhood was never in my future. I’m very vocal about it at times.

“Well, that fucked your career up.” My mom sighs. “I don’t get you, Leo. What are you looking for, a congratulations or something? I put food on the table, a roof over your head, and made sure you made it to every damn hockey camp you had to get into. And now you’re throwing it away because you knocked a girl up?”

Now do you see why I don’t talk to my mom often? What about my feelings about kids? See why I didn’t want them? With a parent like this, I think you can imagine my reasons. It’s always the same old shit with her.

“You paid for every damn hockey camp?” I snort. “Yeah, try Coach Welch. He paid for that shit. Not you.”

There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the phone, and I suddenly feel sick, unable to swallow over the thoughts. And then I’m angry. Fucking pissed because I know how she paid for them. Right. I should have known.

“Oh, I get it.” I flop myself down on my couch, running my hands through my hair. “Youpaidfor it.” I laugh sarcastically. “You paid for it by spreading your legs for my coach, am I right?”

“Fuck you,” she snaps. “I did what I had to do for you boys. And if that meant sleeping with your coach, I did that so I could get you playing time.”

The really shitty part about this? She did. And wants thanked for it. Not be me. Nope. Fuck that. “No, I earned that playing time and you didn’t do shit for us.” Every word is practically spit and my heart is in my throat. I don’t know why I’m letting this get me so upset, but I am.

Guess what? She hangs up on me. No surprise there.

She’ll call back. She always does. It’s the way she is. Honestly, it’s absolutely no surprise she slept with my coaches.

Like clockwork, ten minutes later, she’s laying into me again, and I’m regretting calling her in the first place. “I don’t need approval from you, Leo. And you don’t need it from me. You’re just like your father.” She draws in a breath, and if she was in front of me, I bet she’d been shaking her head in disappointment. “You have a great life, and I’m proud of you. You did what you needed. I wish you’d see that I did the best I could.”

I’m not sure how any of this relates to me becoming a dad, the reason I called in the first place, but I don’t think she did the best she could with us. I feel bad saying that because she’s my mom, but I don’t ever remember feeling like she was amotherto me. There were no hugs or “great game, son.” It was “stay out of my hair.”

When I think about the words “mother” and “father,” I get sick to my stomach. They’re deceiving terms. You’ve heard that saying, anybody can be a father, but it takes a special man to be a dad?

My dad clearly wasn’t either of those. He was a sperm donor at best.

Anybody can birth a child and care for it. Provide for it.

What was the saying for a mother?

Anybody can be a mother, but it takes a special woman to be a mom?

I don’t know if I even believe that, because when I think of the word mother, I think of a bond between mother and child. Like Judy and Evan. Judy is a perfect example of a mom. Hell, I bet even old Granny B was a better mom.

When I think of mine, I think of someone who went to her son’s hockey games and stood in the freezing cold to cheer on her son with six assists and four goals.

I had neither of those.

You want to know who came to my games?

Certainly no parents. Patrick did. Only because he had nowhere else to go, and he looked up to me. I also had to keep an eye on him, so where I went, he did.

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