Page 93 of Behind the Bench

Mom’s hands find mine and she holds them tight as she looks up at me in awe. “Hello, my amazing daughter. Seeing you on TV doesn’t hold a candle to seeing you in person. I swear you’ve gotten even more beautiful.”

The compliment should warm my heart, but instead it makes me feel guilty. How could I keep this woman at a distance when she is very clearly so proud of me?

I give her hands a squeeze before letting go and nodding at the table. “Let’s eat.”

Dad brings the food to the table and the three of us eat our first meal together as a family in months. For once, we don’t talk about hockey. Instead, we talk about what else is going on outside of the rink. I tell them all about Sadie, how she’s still struggling to find her footing in Green Bay. They tell me about the new swimming class they’re taking together at the athletics center. We fall into simple conversations that may seem surface level, but to me mean the world.

Being here with them, not worrying about if I’m letting them down, simply enjoying each other’s company, is something I didn’t know I was missing.

When my phone buzzes on the table in front of me, I turn it over to see that it’s Lincoln.

Lincoln

Just made it to Chicago. Miss me yet?

Quickly, I type out a text back.

Says the man who stalked my flight last night.

The three dots appear on my screen when I hear my dad clear his throat. I look up to see both my parents staring at me with smiles on their faces.

My eyes bounce between the two of them. “What?”

They both laugh and shake their heads. My mom is sitting with her elbows on the table, hands clasped under her chin. She nods at my phone. “Who’s making you smile this early in the morning?”

“I’m not smiling.” I put my phone face down before I’ve even had the chance to read Lincoln’s reply.

Dad scoots his chair back from the table and grabs my plate from in front of me. “Nice try, kid. But you’re smiling so hard I can see the dimple on your left cheek.”

Instinctively, I wipe my cheek, as if I can wipe the dimple away. My mom reaches out and grabs my other hand. “I’d love to hear about him whenever you’re ready to tell me.”

Mom’s words are kind, but for some reason they feel like a dagger to the heart. She’s trying to open up a dialogue. She’s always tried to talk to me. It’s only now that I’m realizing I was always the one to shut down. She’s been trying the whole time. She’s never given up on me.

Instead of shutting down and pushing her away, I put my other hand on top of hers and look her in the eyes. “I’d like that. How about a game of cribbage while I tell you all about him?”

Her eyes light up. My dad walks behind her to grab her plate. He gives her shoulder a squeeze and smiles at me before walking back toward the sink.

There are tears in her eyes when she responds, “Cribbage sounds great.”

I throw my cards on the table in defeat. “You’re about to skunk me again, Mom!”

We’re on our second game of cribbage and she’s kicking my ass. Again. She just got another sixteen points in her crib, while I’m over here getting four points each hand.

“Why don’t you tell me about who has you checking your phone every five minutes before I embarrass you again?”

The conversation between us has been surprisingly easy. That’s probably because we haven’t really talked about much of anything besides how lucky her cards have been. I grab the cards from the board and start shuffling them. Nervous energy has made itself present, and instead of pacing, I choose to excessively shuffle the cards before diving into all things Lincoln.

My mom sits patiently, her cheek resting in her hand, as I continue to shuffle the cards. “Well, I’m sure you know who Lincoln is…” I trail off, wondering how exactly I’m supposed to explain what’s happening between us.

She nods. “I do. I seem to remember you hating him as a kid. I’m guessing things have changed?”

There’s no sarcasm or judgement in her voice. It’s a simple question. Only, I can’t seem to find a simple answer. My hands continue to shuffle the cards and they go flying across the table. I cuss under my breath and begin cleaning them up. I’m reaching for the jack of spades when my mom’s hand stops me.

“Why don’t you leave the cards and tell me about him?”

The maternal kindness in her voice is like a soothing caress that eases some of my worries. I take a deep breath and let it all out.

“Well, I did hate him. I still do sometimes. Actually, that’s not true. He drives me crazy, but I think I kind of like that about him? He’s kind and thoughtful, but also infuriating and sarcastic. He believes in me just as much as I believe in myself. He’s never once questioned my coaching abilities. I actuallythink he makes me a better coach. We work well together behind the bench. And we realized we might work well together outside of the rink too. I’m not sure exactly what you’d call us, but I want to spend all of my free time with him and he wants to spend all of his free time with me.”

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