Page 55 of Puck Shots
“Thanks, Mom. It’s set for seven at Grizilla, a new steakhouse that opened up a few months back in the city. I can meet you and Dad there, save you driving all the way in here only to go back the way you came.”
“Sound good, hon. I’m going to go wrangle your father. He was just here a second ago. I swear now that you kids are out of the house, there are too many places that man can hide.”
“Why would he hide from you, Mom?”
“He’s been hiding Snickers around the house again. The doc told him to cut back on the sugar, but that man loves his candy. I found one behind the laundry hamper yesterday.”
“He’d be better off hiding them in the tool shed; you never go out there.”
“Hey, good idea. I bet he’s out in the shed.”
Shit, did I just rat out my own dad?
“Do you need anything else, hon?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“Well, we’ll see you tomorrow night, and Cosmo, Hun, we’re so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom, but it’s just a dinner.”
“Not because of the dinner. Just everything you’ve accomplished out there on your own.”
“Mom—”
“No, it’s true. Calvin and Tony had each other, always, and Brent, well, that boy was born independent, and your sister might have moved into an apartment closer to the school, but she’s here every night for dinner, so not much has changed for her, really. But you, my sweet surprise, you were always running a mile a minute in every direction all at once. It’s nice to see you settling into a path.”
“I’ve always wanted to play hockey.”
“You wanted to be a fireman, a policeman, a therapist, a teacher, a doctor, a ghost, a ringmaster, and a figure skater all before you were ten.”
“Yeah, but since high school, it’s been all about hockey.”
“And that’s what I’m saying is great, honey. You settle on one thing and work at it to make it happen. We’re enormously proud of you.”
“Thanks again, Mom,” I say, and I can see her smile in my mind’s eye.
“Love you.”
“Love you, Mom. Bye.”
I hang up and send off the restaurant info and a link to the menu, then share a link to the map directions so she can have it up and ready for when they set out tomorrow morning. They’ll have to leave at about four am to get here with stoppage time, but Dad won’t want to fly out even though by plane it’s like anhour and a half. He’s always saying what a waste of money flights are, but with the price of gas these days, it has to be much the muchness. Maybe it’s an old person thing. They like the drive, like it’s part of the experience. I’d rather have an extra three hours of sleep and a few extra daylight hours than drive fourteen hours from Habersham to Boston.
“What do you think?” Luka asks, stepping out of the bathroom wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and his jet-black hair slicked back tight with so much gel I bet a tornado wouldn’t make a single hair lift out of place.
“Perfect.”
“Your parents are coming?”
“Yep, they’ll drive up tomorrow.”
“Dad still refuses to spend money on flights?”
“Yeah, I bet so. Okay, if you are wearing a suit, I should probably find mine.”
I move toward my wardrobe, but Luka grabs me before I get there, wrapping his arm over my shoulder again and checking us out in the mirror on his wardrobe door.
“So I guess since you won our race the other week, if we both play for Boston, we can get an apartment together, be roomies for reals.”
