Why is driving so exhausting? I can play hockey for hours and not feel this beat. There’s no time to get cozy though, Mom’s on me in a second, practically leaping into my lap and throwing her arms around my neck. “Oxygen, Mom. Need oxygen.”
Giggling into my shoulder, she squeezes tighter like she thinks I’m kidding. “How am I going to cope when you leave for real?” And here comes the guilt trip. “Your sister’s always at work, and Billie just sits there and drools at me.”
“She’s a baby, Mom. That’s kind of what they do.”
“Don’t talk back. You know, maybe you should just quit hockey and stay home to care for your aging Mom.”
“You’re fifty, Mom. Pretty sure you’re a few years off needing a full-time carer.”
With a gasp, she pulls back and glares. “Are you trying to curse me? What if I fell down the stairs and broke my head tomorrow? Would you care for me then?”
“Yes, Mom. Should you fall down the stairs and break your head, I promise I will care for you. Or pay someone a shit-load to do it for me.”
In the same breath, I’m rebuked with a slap to the side of my head, and rewarded by her releasing me from her death-grip. Growling, she rushes off into the kitchen only to return a second later with a glass of OJ, a serve of potato chips and three way sandwich so loaded with roast beef, cheese, mayonnaise, and barbecue sauce that it’s dripping from the plate onto the step.
I’m still digesting the gas station snacks. There’s not one part of me that wants to eat this, but I do, ‘cause she’s my mom, and she made it for me.
Eager as I am to leave, the woman raised me and Cherry alone while my dad ran around the country chasing get-rich-quick schemes, and anything in a short skirt. His only contribution to our upbringing, was the occasional chunk of cash deposited into her bank account. Now she fusses over me and cares for Billie while Cherry works. She’s the best.
Watching me chew, her smile grows with every bite I take. “Cherry will be home for dinner, and I’m making your favorite, mac and cheese.” The sandwich curdles in my stomach.
“Mac and cheese? Mom, it’s almost six. I can’t eat this now,andmac and cheese in an hour.”
“Nonsense, you eat that much all the time.”
“Yeah, after a day of school and practice, or a game. Besides, I’m heading to O’Reilly’s.”
“Out. You’re going out? I’ve been alone for weeks. Pacing the halls, cleaning your room over and over—” Oh, shit—“Waiting everyday for your calls, and you’re going out five minutes after walking in the door. Screw the old folks home, Cory. Why don’t I save us all some time and money and die now.”
With a sigh, I drop my sandwich onto the chipped plate and sit it on the coffee table. Reminding Mom she’s rarely alone because she lives with my sister and her grandbaby is pointless. This is a contested puck I’m never winning.
“Trust me Mom, I’d love to stay with you so we can crochet and watch SVU reruns all night… But I’m the captain now and it was the first practice today. I missed it, so I have to make an appearance. The team needs to b–”
“Bond, yes I know. What about me, though? How about you make some time to bond with the walking vagina, your massive head ruined with an eighteen hour labor.”
It’s right as Mom drops the vagina bomb, that Cherry walks through the door, Billie babbling as she sucks on her hair. “Jesus Christ, Deidre, what are you guilting the kid into now? Let me guess.” She slams the door, and barrels into me like we spent two years, not two weeks apart. “You have to go out and she’s complaining that she’s been all alone without you.”
“Got it in one, sis.” As I affectionately kiss the top of her head, then Billie’s rosy cheeks, I have a flashback to the locker room. To that guy’s cousins, brother, sister-wife or whoever it was, she told about Cubby, take Billie from her and push her away. “Oh, by the way. Thanks for telling whoever you told about my stupid nickname. One place, Cherry. All I wanted was one place I could just be me. Just Cory.”
“Cubby’s not stupid. It’s cute and snuggly, like you. Also, when you’re a famous NHL player, you should totally have a cologne named Just Cory.”
Exasperated, my glasses fog. “I am not cute. Cute and snuggly doesn’t do what I did with a team mate in the hotel closet—sorry Mom. Also, there will be no cologne.”
“I dunno, kid. You are pretty cute.” Pop, Mom’s dad who may as well live here too, nods to me in greeting then smiles to Mom. “Remember when the store had to special order his widdle skates , as they had none to fit his teeny widdle footsies.”
The room erupts into laughter and I’ve had enough. “You know what. I am sick of being the butt of the joke. You can all go get fuc–” Mom raises a single finger. “Freaked. I’ll be in my room napping, then I’m going to join my friends who appreciate me.”
Ignoring their continuing giggles that follow me upstairs and into my room, I draw the blinds, flop onto my bed and sulk with posters of Canadian hockey greats staring back at me.
I know they are joking, my family, not the posters—and I know they love me. But God dammit. I expect this at the rink. Chirping is part of hockey. With my contacts in and cocky attitude on, I can take it on the chin, and bro it up with the best of them—for the most part. Outside of that, I need a break. Luckily, as they did for Clark Kent, my glasses, a backwards cap or hoodie afford me one. It’s disturbing how well it works. The same sycophants that hang off me at games and the bar, walk straight by me without so much as a glance. People really do see what they want.
I’m so successful at my dual life, Coach Harris once called me ‘the boy who disappears.’ “All these other clowns are causing me grief at frat parties or shirtless all over TilTak, or whatever the hell you call it. And then there’s you, Malkovich. Hell. I wouldn’t even know you went here if you weren’t the best little winger I’ve got.”
Now that I think about it, even in his praise, my height gets brought into it. Fuck.
There is only one place I’ll ever play up to the size thing—dating apps. The whole nerdy-twink thing does surprisingly well, especially when it comes to my favorite big boy bottoms.
Speaking of which.
