Bridgette: Sounds perfect.
Pocketing my phone, I take a sip of my too- sweet drink and try not to think about the meeting I just had, but all it does is bring me down. I know it should light a fire under my ass. I know I need to be a man of action. But even though I’m the guy in constant motion, right now I feel stagnant. Barb Arnold’s words—and the reality of the situation I put myself in—are weighing me down. I should do something, tell someone. Logically, I know that.
But I also know exactly what’s going to happen when I do because it’s the same thing that’s happened every other time I’ve gotten in a jam. Someone— JT, Coach, my sister—is going to stepin and fix my fuckup. And everybody is going to find out about it, either on purpose or by accident. This will go down in history as just another one of my many fuckups. I might get a lecture or two, but I’ll definitely get at least a dozen pitying looks, and that’s gotta be worse.
I hate being the guy who always screws up, the one nobody can’t count on. I hate that life is always so damn complicated, and that I can’t always trust my brain to just do its fucking job.
I take another drink, but the syrupy beverage is thick and heavy in my mouth. When my phone buzzes with an incoming call, I answer it immediately, which is stupid. It could be fucking spam. Or it could be Academic Affairs with more bad news.
“Hey,” I say, hoping it’s JT or Bridgette. I just might be ready to spill my guts. Maybe I’d feel relief.
“Brannon, honey, I can’t believe you picked up!” My mom’s voice carries through the line so clearly it’s like she’s in the coffee shop with me instead of a few hours away in Jersey.
“Hi, Mom, how’s it going?” I say, bracing myself for the onslaught of family drama she’s definitely about to dump my way. My guess is that she called Bridgette first, and when she got no answer, she decided to give me a call. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom, and I know she loves me and my siblings. But she can be…a lot. I know, I know, that’s ironic coming from me, but it’s true. My mom cares more about social standing thanI care about hockey. She cares about what the neighbors are doing, and if we’re all measuring up. Status is so important to her that you’d think she was a state senator instead of a loan officer at a bank. She’s been driving Bridgette crazy with her expectations since we were kids. Because I’m a guy—and because I was a skinny kid—I never had to deal with any of that first hand, but I did my best to shield Bridgette from it. When I wasn’t threatening to kick the ass of anyone who dared to say shit about my sister’s weight, I was bouncing off the walls and generally causing mischief. Thatdidn’t stress Mom out as much as Bridgette’s dress size did, but it did get me relegated to the backyard or the hockey rink to burn off my excess energy.
“You know, I never thought they should have gotten married in the first place. I said that from the beginning, but did anyone listen? Of course not.”
I make a noncommittal sound to let my mom know I’m still here, even though I have no clue what—or who— she’s talking about. It could be my cousin who just got married last fall, or it could be an aunt or uncle or coworker who’s been married for decades. I’ve learned from experience not to ask. It’s easier this way.
“So, of course,” she continues, “because things are up in the air, I have no idea how many people are coming for Christmas, or what this will do to the Secret Santa, but whatever it is, I’ll deal with it. That’s all I can do.”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I really want to point out that it’s March, so this probably isn’t the emergency my mom thinks it is, but there’s no way that conversation will end well. And really, what else can I say? I mean, I could explain how my day is going, and tell her that I’ve basically derailed my future and my college education and I’ll more than likely end up living in her basement in the next few years, but…nah. Since Christmas is clearly already ruined, I’ll save my terrible news for the holidays that are nine months away.
“Sweetie, we’re so excited to see you and Dutton play in a few weeks. Dad’s making all the travel arrangements. Of course, Las Vegas is too far from Grammie and Pop-pop, but they’ll be there for the celebration at Bainbridge.”
I wince at my mom’s words. Yeah, it’s great that my grandparents are coming to support me, but she’s taking it for granted that we’re going to win it all and bring home a title, like we did last year. And have a big celebration back here at schoolfor the players and staff and their families. That’s the goal, obviously, but you don't just go blurting it out. Having raised a hockey player, you think my mom would know we’re notoriously superstitious.
I don’t bother correcting her, though, because that will keep us on the phone longer, and since I have a bad habit of blurting out whatever’s on my mind, this needs to be a quick conversation.
“Hey, Mom, I better get to practice,” I say, because it’s true. I do have practice. In an hour. About three minutes away from where I’m currently sitting.
“I’ll let you go, honey,” she says, and then, without even taking a breath, she just keeps talking. “You know Janice Palumbo? You went to school with her son, Daniel. And she’s remarried to the dentist whose office is on Little Big Spring Road. Anyway, she just had carpal tunnel surgery, and I had to run her over to her therapy appointment on Tuesday. Oh, Brannon, this place is nice. Very clean, very professional. They do rehab for all sorts of surgeries. I asked the receptionist if they ever have interns, and she said they work with a lot of the local colleges. You should give them a call. You could work there over the summer. Wouldn’t that be better than that pizza shop?”
“I’ll think about it, Mom. Give Dad and Brody hugs from me.” I wait until she says goodbye before I hit the little red button on my phone, but when I do, I press so hard I nearly stub my finger. And that makes me an asshole. My mom’s not that bad, and she means well. But an internship at a rehab center? I mean, I guess that’s a totally normal thing…if you’re actually an exercise science major and you have any interest in pursuing a career in your field.
But since neither of those things applies to me, I think I get to be unreasonably annoyed.
“You good?”
My frown deepens at Viv’s question. “Yep.”
“Practice go okay?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask, because it wasn’t terrible. My reaction time was for shit, and Ollie asked the trainers to check and see if my head was up my ass, but that’s nothing new.
“Uh, because you got home two minutes ago, and you look like you want to murder someone,” she answers. “And there are kittens wrestling in the bedsheets, and you haven’t even noticed them. Maybe I should take your temperature.”
I let out a sigh as I walk toward the bed to give the kittens—Jen and Stacy this time—some love. “Sorry I’m grumpy. It was a long day.”
“I get that,” Viv says, crawling up on the mattress to sit next to me. We’re each petting a kitten, but since they're in such a playful mood, they’re nipping and biting like we’re basically in a fight to the death.
It makes me crack a smile. And it makes me realize that even though my day was less than stellar, life’s still pretty fucking good. I’ve got Doug, the greatest feline bestie a guy could ask for, and I’ve got his offspring, the sweetest cutest little furballs in the world. And…I’ve got Viv. It may not be real, and she may not actually be mine, but she’s here right now, and I’m not going to waste a second of our time together stressing over the future.
What wisdom did the guys give me in the locker room the other day? Something about going with the flow? That I should just keep doing what I’m doing and that’s how I’ll prove to Viv that I’m not like those other assholes. I’m not going to break her heart, I’m going to cherish the hell out of it.
“You feel like getting dinner?” I ask, figuring now is as good a time as any to start my love campaign.
“Uh, didn’t you eat with the guys?” Viv asks.
