Page 49 of Actions and Reactions
Ivan
I toldLaney that I was in a weird headspace hours before the game, and he agreed with me that giving the third and fourth lines more ice time today would be a good thing. It’s the pre-season so they get more time anyway, but I barely got three minutes, as did the whole first line.
They did a great job, really, and we won against San Francisco three to zero.
Our new backup goalie—since Matty left to play for New York—is still green, but I was impressed with how our defense supported him today. His name is Shawn May, and he’s been dubbed November because ... well, because we like to make things complicated.
In any case, November has his first shutout, and everyone’s relaxing after weeks of wondering what our play will be like without Santa. He was here for fifteen fucking years,so even though we also miss Charlie, it’s not the same. It’s hard not to think he was the soul of our group, because Bear and Jules are as well, but still... we felt his absence today, especially on the bench.
I stare down at my feet as we walk down the tunnel back to our brand new, fucking awesome locker room. Is it dumb that it doesn’t seem so awesome now? After everything that happened yesterday, the only moments when I’ve felt a glimmer of lightness have been when I was on the ice, and I don’t know how I’m going to get back to myself now.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see Milkman staring up ahead openmouthed.
“What?” In answer he points forward.
I look and then I break into a run.
It’s a miracle I don’t shout “Mommy,” for all my teammates to hear, but I do bowl into her and wrap her in a tight hug. I drop my stick and can breathe just a bit easier when her arms come around my neck. With all my gear on I can’t really feel the warmth of her hug, but it’s enough for now.
“Hi, baby,” she croons.
It is a bit ridiculous, but I get choked up.
Gab was right I suppose. I did need my mom.
The guys get all nervous around her, as they always do. Having a supermodel for a mom means I’ve experienced this from teammates—except Si—all my life, and though I should probably be used to it, it’s never not going to be weird and cringy how they fan all over her as if she were Princess Leia or some shit. But it does mean I’m the first in the showers and the first out.
Bear and Jules are the only ones talking to her when I come out, still half dressed in gear, and from her worried frown I know they’re talking about me. That won’t do.
I can tell her about my problems myself, thank you very much.
“I’m ready,” I announce loudly.
She turns her million-dollar—literally—smile on me, and I shoulder my duffel.
“You don’t have to go talk to the press?”
I swallow hard, because last season it was Silas coming in here after every game telling us who’d been selected for slaughter. No one came in here today, at least not that I heard, and that’s just another kick in the balls I didn’t need.
“Nope,” I tell her simply, then grab her hand and pull her out of the room, only sparing a moment to send Jules and Bear a chin lift.
“That was rude,” she mutters, in that quintessential Mom voice.
“It wasn’t. They were probably telling you how I’m not myself today but that I’ve been doing pretty well all season, and you know exactly why I was doing well and why I’m not anymore, so there was little left to discuss.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and that’s all I need to know that I’m right.
“I brought your car,” she says, easily changing the subject. “Gab sent a car for me to the airfield, and they let me into the practice rink and handed me your keys.” She holds them up, and I let go of her hand to snatch them away, but she closes her fist around them and tsks at me. “Nah-ah-ah, I’m driving. You’re in no state.” She sounds just like Gab did last night.
I don’t know why she thinks that. I barely played and I’m not the one in the hospital, but it’s such a small thing that I’m not going to waste any energy debating it with her.
“How long can you stay?” I ask instead. She has a busy life, a husband and stepson who will surely miss her and a company to run. I know it’ll be a week at most, no matter how much I wish it could be more.
“For around three months, I’d say.”
“What?” Her casual tone doesn’t sit right with me. “You can’t be away from home for so long,” I argue. “You have your job and Michael and Eli.”
“Believe me, they can fend for themselves.” She rolls her eyes as we walk into the players’ parking lot. “They’ll come visit, I’m sure, and you’ll have your away games, which means I’ll go home and come back.”
