For what?
To help me run this crummy diner?
I gave up all my dreams to help him build a better life.
I’ll be the last person to tell him to give up his dreams.
I take her debit card and close out her ticket. When I hand back her card, I smile as politely as I can. “I’m by no means defending a billionaire, but I’ll always help my son chase his dreams. That means I’m beyond happy we’re getting a hockey team.”
“Ol’ Bill can start it, but mark my words, his team is going to be a laughingstock,” she says with a huff as she stuffs her card back into her pristine leather wallet. She takes another moment to tuck that perfect leather wallet into her immaculate leather bag and gingerly raises it to her bony shoulder before she turns on her heel and heads out.
My heart pounds so hard, I place my hand over my chest and force myself to take a few deep breaths. Why did I let her get to me like that? Maybe it’s time I switch to decaf? My gaze skirts to the side of the counter, where I have my travel mug filled to the brim with coffee. I haven’t had more than a few sips out of it, as this morning has been insane.
No, it’s not the coffee.
It’s living this life where I feel as if I’m being punished for my past—something I didn’t even choose. Some cards are just dealt. Poverty isn’t for the weak. It’s definitely made me strong. If I know one thing, I don’t want this life for Noah.
Helping Noah pursue his dream doesn’t scare me at all.
What scares me is Noah giving up on his dreams like I did. He has serious talent. He just needs someone to see it and give him a chance.
My gaze drifts back to my pad of paper with the words Granite Ice Hockey on it. I rip the top sheet off, fold it, and slide it in myback pocket. Thanks to that news report, I know exactly who this person is going to be…
The front door to the diner wafts open, and in walks my favorite person. Noah’s wearing his Mapleton High School Hockey hoodie, which puts a smile on my face. I haven’t seen it since last Saturday. He’s one of those sweet boys who has a habit of always lending it to a cute girl at a dance, and then it goes missing for weeks. I wouldn’t mind if those hoodies didn’t cost me a full day’s tips. I forgo a traditional greeting, and say, “You got your hoodie back.”
“Yeah, I told you Morgan had it.” He pulls out a counter stool and slides one leg over it, while he drops his schoolbag on the empty one next to him.
“And you and Morgan are—”
“Just friends,” he cuts me off with a look that warns me not to ask any more about it.
“How did your history exam go?” I grab a bar towel and wipe the counter in a large arc pattern. Not because it needs cleaning. I keep a spotless counter. I have learned Noah tends to open up more if he doesn’t feel like I’m hovering. I miss the days when he easily spouted out all the events of his days. I get he must grow up, and it’s only normal for him to want some privacy. I’m grateful we are still as close as we are.
“I got seventy-nine percent.”
“That’s a C, huh?” He doesn’t need me to tell him what the grading scale is. My statement is more me thinking through what that percentage will do to his plummeting semester average. It’s passing. It will keep him on the high school team, but I worry it won’t be enough for college. “Yeah, Cs get degrees, right?”
“Right.”
“I also saw your math test grade when I was cleaning off the kitchen counter this morning,” I say it gently, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders stiffen.
He sighs without looking at me. “I passed.”
“Barely,” I say, sliding onto the barstool next to him. I don’t usually sit when the diner is open. It’s important for everything to always look professional. But when it comes to my son, I make sure he knows I’m here. He suffers from serious anxiety and, at times, it’s made testing impossible. We’ve tried so many things over the years to ease the pain he has with his disorder. Nothing has ever really taken it away, although meds seem to help. I’ve learned not to push.
He gives me that teenage boy shrug. It’s one-half defense and the other half I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it. I let the silence hang for a moment. If he wants to talk about it, he will. Clearly, he doesn’t, so I move on. “So... I heard something just now on the news. They're bringing in a new hockey team.”
That gets his attention. His gaze rises slowly until it locks on mine.
“They’re hosting scout-free tryouts.” I keep my tone casual but watch him closely.
He gives me an angled look. “Scout free?”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess it’s a part of a big push to find the right guys.”
His brow furrows, and I see the war already waging behind his eyes. “I don’t know if it’s worth it to even try. There’s no way I’d stand out. Besides, if I was good enough, scouts would already be after me.”
I reach out and gently nudge his hand. “No, honey. Not always. Sometimes scouts miss the good guys. You know how it is. It comes down to having the playing time and the right shot. Often, the good people don’t get the chance to play when the scouts are watching.”
