Page 85 of Three Pucking Words
CHAPTER TWENTY
Honor
I’m in themiddle of trying to figure out what “GYAT” means on Urban Dictionary—which I’ve bookmarked on my favorite’s toolbar at this point—when there’s a soft knock on the door.
I expect to see a six-four right winger taking up the doorway, not my father and Cal, the security guard I say hi to every morning that he’s on shift at the front. “What’s going on?”
The frown on my face is heavy, but not as intense as the one on Dad’s. Briefly, I wonder if I did something wrong that warrants a talk with security. I’ve used the rink once or twice when I knew nobody would be around after checking the schedule, but I was told by at least three different people that it was fine. One of them being the man I share half my DNA with. I’ve snuck in snacks plenty of times at games because I find concessions to be wildly expensive, and I can’t afford to be stuck in a line when I should be taking pictures. I’d like to think I’m sneaky about it, but maybe not.
Stomach heavy, I turn in my chair to face them. Whatever it is, it’s probably a misunderstanding. I’m a rule follower. A do-gooder to a fault. The one and only time I was pulled over was for a broken taillight, not for speeding or texting while driving. I still almost broke down crying when the woman handed me a fix it ticket and told me I had three days to get the problem taken care of and signed off on. Max didn’t have time to deal with it, so I had to go to a mechanic and spend way more money than necessary to get the light replaced before the deadline.
Nerves bubble under my skin. “Is this because I kicked the vending machine when it ate my money and didn’t give my soda?”
My father’s eyebrows go up. “You kicked the vending machine?”
Cal laughs. “I saw that on camera.”
My foot still hurts from the outburst. “You did?”
“I didn’t know someone so short could hold so much rage,” he muses, smiling at me.
My father, who I have dinner with every Thursday in this very office, sighs when I say, “I am five-foot-three. That’s almost average height for a woman, thank you very much.”
Cal holds his palms up in surrender, still looking amused by the incident.
“This isn’t about the vending machine,” Dad tells me. “Although, don’t do that again. With your luck, you’ll break your foot.”
He’s not wrong. That happened at least three days ago, and I wince every time I step wrong on my toes. “What is it about then?”
The amusement on Cal’s face fades when he remembers why he’s here.
Dad is the one who replies. “Your mother came by the stadium and made a scene when Cal wouldn’t let her through.”
I blink slowly. “Mom ishere?” Disbelief coats my words. “Is she here to see you?”
I’ve seen my father uncomfortable in a lot of situations, all pertaining to fatherhood. We’ve had talks about dating and sex and periods that make him look as unsettled as he is now. “Shewashere, and no,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “She wanted to see you. Apparently, she knows you work here. I’m going to assume you didn’t tell her based on your confusion.”
I shake my head slowly. “I haven’t spoken to her in…I don’t know how long.” In hindsight, it’s not impossible for her to find out where I’m working. That would just mean she cares enough to get the information, which is shocking in itself. “What did she want?”
Cal speaks up. “She told me she needed to talk to her daughter. When I explained I couldn’t let anyone that didn’t have a pass go through the security checkpoint, she started yelling. I tried to offer getting you, but she didn’t like that idea.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Why would she even need to speak to me? She has my number. It hasn’t changed since I got a phone as a teenager, so it isn’t like she can’t reach out if she wanted to.
Then something hits me. “When you say she ‘was’ here, you mean she left?”
Cal and Dad share a look briefly.
“What?” I press, feeling antsy. If Mom came in here and made a scene, God knows where she would go and cause a bigger one. I’m tempted to ask if she smelled like alcohol or had bloodshot eyes. That’s her usual look. Disheveled. Frail. Too skinny for her own good. She could get hurt in the city. Mugged. Walk into traffic if she’s not paying attention.
Dad comes in and drags a seat over to me, sitting down with a solemn look about him. “She wasn’t listening to reason, so we had to call the cops.”
My eyes bug out. “You had herarrested?” I’m standing now, flinging off his hand that he extends toward me. “Why didn’t you come and get me when she was here? If she wanted to talk to me, I could have calmed her down. It isn’t like I haven’t done it before.”
My father looks taken aback. “What do you mean?”
He’s smarter than that. “We both know how much she liked alcohol. If you think she stopped drinking on the days she hadme, you’re wrong. I know how to deescalate situations when she gets a little too high strung. I’ve had plenty of practice.”
Dad frowns, leaning back in his chair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
