If only my mom would call me back and answer some of my questions. For a woman who said she was worried about me moving to New York, she’s not good at returning my phone calls.
She stayed with me to oversee the renovations, but I haven’t talked to her since.
Fuck.
King leaves, so I pull up her number, and it goes straight to voicemail.
“Mom, this is an emergency. I need you to call me back.” After leaving the message, I stare at my phone, willing it to ring.
I haven’t talked to her for a month. I’ve been so caught up in my own shit; I let the weeks get away from me.
She’d better be okay.
John never pays her any attention, and she might do something stupid. She ended up in rehab after the last stupid thing.
Chapter 11
Jamal King
We’re playing great as individuals, and O’Keefe still acts like he’s trying to rack up his individual stats versus being a team player. I skate over our black-and-purple logo on center ice and focus on the puck.
Tonight’s home crowd keeps us in the game, but we’re trailing by one. Mav passes to Griff, who rounds the goal. I’m in position, getting space from the defender. Griff shoots a rocket past me, and it’s too far out to get my stick on it. The goalie smirks as I chase the errant pass.
But Griff’s shot goes directly to Brant’s stick, and he fires from the blueline so fast I can’t track the puck. Neither can the goalie because it flies over his right shoulder. It’s Brant’s first in-season goal with our team.
We meet for helmet bumps and hugs, then Brant skates to center ice, makes a slow circle, and salutes the crowd. I try to follow his eyes, but I don’t see anyone cheering like he’s talking to them. Our team box is in the vicinity, but no one is visible.
The game’s tied with three minutes left.
As I vault onto the bench, Gray hands me a water bottle.
Mav teases, “I want some of that magic juice.”
“I only spoil you guys with that on special occasions.” Gray grins and hands him water.
“I’d love to be spoiled.” Mav sighs dreamily.
“No, no, no, no.” I stand and watch in horror as Liska’s screened and the other team gets a shot off on his blind side. Skating like a man possessed, O’Keefe swings his stick at the puck, and it connects.
Brant clears the puck to Drake, and Liska helps O’Keefe up.
“Holy shit.” Mav grabs my arm. “O’Keefe saved the game.”
We’re still tied, and I pray for some boyfriend telepathy between Lucky and Drake. Their defenseman makes the mistake of shoving Lucky into the boards because Drake is right there to retaliate, and Ace snags the puck.
They make quick passes back and forth, and I’m positive Ace will shoot, but he passes it to O’Keefe, who smacks it to Drake. It’s hard to see whether Drake hits it or if the puck ricochets off his stick into the goal.
There’s only seven seconds left on the clock, so they do a quick celly and line up for the face-off. Griff, Mav, and I huddle, fisting each other’s jerseys, waiting for the clock to run out.
Drake wins and passes the puck directly to Brant. Brant races toward the goal only to pull up and pass to Lucky, who never takes possession before dishing it off to O’Keefe.
Each second takes an hour to click by. Finally, the buzzer ends the game.
We’ve won our first regular season game. We pile onto the ice to celebrate as the fans cheer wildly.
I meet my parents near the tunnel as usual. From their seats, they can access the front row after the game.
“Great game, son!” My dad leans over the rail to hug me.
