"It's your job, not for other people," I point out, dropping my duffel on the bench. "Not for your son."
"Especially my son. Do you know how long I've been waiting for grandchildren? Your father and I aren't getting younger. And Jacob is only nineteen years old. I’ve got at least another five to seven years before he settles down. I might be dead by then.”
And there it is… my mother’s flair for the dramatic.
"You're fifty-three. You’re not dying soon."
"Fifty-four next month, and that's not the point." Her voice softens just a little. "I just want you to be happy, Scottie. You work so hard, and I know hockey's important, but… you deserve someone who makes you smile. Someone to come home to."
The guilt sledgehammer hits right in the center of my chest.
I know she means well. She always means well. And the truth is, part of me wouldn't mind having someone to come home to. Seeing Hunter Reed and his girlfriend Peyton, Trey Hartley and Vivi, JP Dumont and Cammy, Aleksi and Kendall. The list is growing. All my bachelor teammates are starting to settle down. But between the season schedule, training, and trying to sendenough money back home to help with Dad's medical bills and the mortgage, dating hasn't exactly been a priority.
"I know, Ma. I appreciate it, really. But I'm fine. I promise."
She sighs—long and dramatic, the kind of sigh that says she's not giving up but she'll let it go for now.
"Fine. But you're sitting next to Anika at the reception. She's a kindergarten teacher, Scottie. Kindergarten. She's perfect for you. And didn’t you two date a while back?"
Anika Jeeter. The girl-next-door. The girl I had a crush on in elementary school and finally got my chance with in middle school… for all of three months until I started taking hockey seriously. I probably ignored her too much, and then she dumped me for Brandon Thorten. I know this because she told me at the lockers. She said that I wasn’t paying enough attention to her.
My little seventh-grade heart was broken, but I haven’t thought about her in years. She and Brandon went “steady” until sophomore year, when he became a big-shot football quarterback and started dating the most popular girl in school.
Last I heard, he’s the manager at the local grocery store in Whitefish. Married with two kids. His football career ended senior year, and Anika went to college somewhere in Texas, I think.
"Ma. I wouldn’t say Anika and I dated. There’s hardly any history there. I barely remember what she looks like." Which is true. I couldn’t pull up her face even if the Stanley Cup championship depended on it.
"Well, you’ll have plenty of time to reconnect at Corey’s wedding. She’s really looking forward to it. And she makes the most beautiful sourdough bread. From scratch. She has a small booth at the local market on Saturdays. You’re going to hit it off, I just know it."
“Sounds more like you should date her,” I say under my breath.
“Sorry… what was that, sweetheart? Your dad was calling for me.”
“Nothing. I can’t wait to be home for a couple of days. I’ll see you soon.”
“Make sure to shave, okay? And cut that hair. We want to present our best version of ourselves. Who knows… maybe this time next year, it could be you and Anika walking down the aisle.”
In your dreams, I want to say, but I won’t break her heart right before the wedding.
"I'm hanging up now."
"I love you!"
"Love you too," I mutter, but I'm smiling again.
Before I can hang up, she adds quickly, "Oh, and make sure you call your father later. He's been in a mood all week."
My hand freezes halfway before ending the call. "Is he okay? Do I need to—"
"He's fine, sweetheart. Just grumpy because the physical therapist keeps pushing him harder than he wants to. He’s threatening not to go next month since insurance is saying they won’t cover it. Tell him he still has to go, will you? He listens to you."
Ten years ago, my dad was one of the hardest-working guys at the mill. He'd leave before dawn and come home after dark, smelling like sawdust and engine grease. Then one day, a machine malfunctioned. He spent three months in the hospital and came home in a wheelchair.
He's never complained. Not once. But I've seen the way he looks at the front porch steps sometimes, or the way his jaw tightens when he has to ask for help to reach something off a high shelf.
I send money home every month. It's not charity—it's just what you do. They tried to refuse it at first, told me I didn't need to, that they'd figure it out. But I saw the medical bills stacked on the kitchen counter. I saw my mom's face when the mortgage payment was due.
So I send it anyway. And I don't talk about it.
