“Do you need more money next month for the physical therapist? I did not know this was happening. I can wire it to you tonight.” I say.
“No, absolutely not. You do more than you should already, and I appreciate it, I do. Business is picking up for me. Your brother made me my own social media account. I’ve been doing lives and helping coach people through finding the right person. It hasn’t taken off yet, but it’s promising. If your father knew you were sending money, he’d probably stop going altogether. You know he's too proud to let you help.”
I know this, which is why I told my mother years ago to stop telling him about the checks I send.
She takes care of all the banking and bills anyway. There’s no point in letting him in on the details of how they are getting paid.
"Tell him I'll call him tonight," I say quietly. My father was always a good provider when I was younger. Since the accident, I know he deals with temporary bouts of depression that he hides from my younger siblings. He has a hard time not being the same provider now.
When those days happen, my dad calls his brother, and my uncle will take my dad “fishing” in a boat he had retrofitted for my dad’s wheelchair. If I were a betting man, I’d bet that they don’t even fish at all. They just sit in the middle of the lake for a couple of hours with a few beers. It must work because my mom says he always comes back in better spirits.
True strength is in knowing when you need to accept help. Sometimes help doesn’t look like a chaise lounge chair in atherapist’s office. Sometimes help looks like fresh air, a beautiful view, and drifting around aimlessly in a boat with your brother.
"I will. Now go play hockey and stop worrying about us. We're fine."
She hangs up before I can argue.
I stare at my phone for a second longer than necessary, then shove it into my locker and start changing into my gear.
"Was that Mama Matchmaker?"
I glance up to see Hunter leaning against the lockers, towel slung over his shoulders and a shit-eating grin on his face.
"Yeah, she called about my cousin's wedding in two weeks.”
"Sounds like there was a lot more to it than that. So what's the damage this time? Is she setting you up with the mayor's daughter? A former Miss Montana? Please tell me it's someone ridiculous."
"A kindergarten teacher who bakes sourdough. An old girlfriend from middle school.”
Hunter clutches his chest like he's been shot. "Oh no. Not sourdough. That's serious, East. She's going full domestic on you."
"Shut up."
Wolf Ziegler, our right defender, wanders over, eyebrows raised. "Your mom's still trying to marry you off?"
"She's relentless," I admit, yanking my skate tight. "I swear she's got a vision board somewhere with the wedding announcement already printed.”
"You could just… tell her you're seeing someone," Wolf suggests.
“So, I should lie to my mother?” I ask, though the question is ridiculous. I’d never do that. “She’s the kind of mother that raised me to believe that there is a special hell for little boys who lie to their mothers.”
"Fair point."
Wolf leans back, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. "You know what you need? A fake girlfriend. Bring her to the wedding, show your mom you're a big boy who can find his own dates, and boom—problem solved."
"Yeah, because that's not a terrible rom-com plot waiting to happen."
"I'm just saying. It's either that, or you're going to end up married to Sourdough Sarah by the end of the reception."
I throw a roll of tape at his head. He dodges, laughing.
"Honestly, I'd settle for just borrowing someone's sister for the weekend," I mutter, half-joking. "Someone low-maintenance. Shows up, smiles, eats cake, goes home. Everyone's happy."
"Good luck with that," Hunter snorts. "You really think any of us are going to hand over a sister to a hockey player?"
"Hey, I'm a gentleman."
"You ate an entire pizza in the parking lot last week. In your car. Alone."
