Page 38 of Top Scorer
“This eggs Benedict is divine,” my mother says, her voice like static in the background. She takes a dainty sip of Earl Grey tea like she’s being photographed. I nod slightly to acknowledge her comment. She’s not talking to me, anyway. Not really. She’s saying things so it looks, from afar, like we’re a normal family who have things to say to each other.
She adjusts the cream and sugar dispensers, fusses with table settings, and pats her perfect hair. Can’t have anything asymmetrical or messy. God, I want to knock the sugar cubes awry. Maybe then my mother will drop this mask she wears as a shield. I doubt she wants to be here any more than I do. And I don’t think she can stand my father any more than I can. She cares aboutthings, sure, but humans? Not so much. Not since Olive died.
My father doesn’t bother to look up or answer. He slices into his eggs Benedict with the clean, economical precision of a surgeon. It is with the same intentionality that he’ll be cutting into my ego.
“Now that you’re back in Ohio, have you thought about law school again?” he asks. “The offer still stands.”
And there it is.
This isn’t about brunch. Not about Christmas, either. This is another obligatory check-in to remind me that I’ve disappointed them by becoming a mid-line hockey player instead of a top-tier junior partner at Thorne & Smith.
“Can’t exactly study for the LSAT while playing for the NHL,” I answer bitterly. I glance down at my plate of pale hollandaise and runny egg. The side salad of arugula leaves reminds me of lawn clippings. I stab them with my fork.
“We’ll be at the resort,” my mother says, dabbing the corner of her lip. “You should come. The Florida Keys are beautiful in December.”
“Sorry, I have to stick around,” I say, not bothering to add that December is the middle of the hockey season.
“You think the Mavericks will renew your contract?” My father states with a raised brow. It sounds like a question, but it isn’t. This is a taunt.
I chew the toast slowly, even though it tastes like cardboard and scrapes against the roof of my mouth. My eyes stray to the frosted glass panels, the marble floors, the tastefully bland palette of the dining room.
“Not sure yet,” I say, keeping it vague.
I withhold details about hockey. I never give them more than I have to, because hockey is something I have to protect from their disdainful judgment. My career is mine and mine alone. They never wanted it, anyway.
The silence is broken by a pianist playing instrumental carols by the fireplace. An uninspired version of “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” impersonal like everything about this country club.
At least we’re not meeting in the home I grew up in.
When they turned Olive’s room into a posh guest room, I nearly lost my fucking mind. Sleek and modern. Stripped of color and memory. No trace of her purple walls or the white canopy bed she used to leap off like a daredevil. No books on the shelves or stuffed animals lined up for story time.
Olive was five years younger and used to follow me everywhere, always trying to keep up. She’d wear her glitter sneakers and a pink tutu and still insist she was “on my team” for street hockey. I taught her how to cradle a tennis ball against her miniature hockey stick’s blade and how to aim low and fast. She taught me how to serve tea to stuffed bears and fluffy rabbits.
Those were some of the best summers of my life. Playing street hockey in the morning and sipping from dainty cups in the afternoon. This brunch with my parents, with its monogrammed butter knives and painful silences, has nothing on those imaginary tea parties.
My father clears his throat.
“It’s a drive back for you to Columbus. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to join us.” The words are benign, yet the delivery is dripping in mockery, as in how could I possibly be busier than him.
On cue, Mom looks at her watch. “Oh dear, I still need to pack before we leave tomorrow.” I check my watch, too. We’re all bullshitting, and no one calls it out.
Saying goodbye is the best part of this brunch. The lobby smells like expensive perfume. A doorman opens the glass doors for me, and a gust of winter air hits my face. Relief and oxygen enter my bloodstream for the first time in two hours.
Halfway down I-71, my bluetooth buzzes and the caller’s name light’s up the dashboard screen. I nearly veer off the road when I see it’s Ligaya.
She kicked me to the curb at karaoke weeks ago. Plenty of time to change her mind about cutting me off. I thought for sure she would at least text me back.
But November came and went. It is by a sliver of my willpower that I’ve kept my distance. I stare at the screen.
I should ignore it.
I answer on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey, Tristan.” She sounds cautious, reluctant to start.
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “Everything OK?”
