Page 69 of Taking It To Overtime

And I missed it for an entire week.

“Mom?”

“I’m just worried about you, honey. Someday, if you have your own babies, you’ll understand how scary it is to see your daughter put herself second to a boy, no matter how wonderful he is.”

“Mom.”

She turns to look at me with wide eyes.

“How old do you think I am?”

She shakes her head, clucking her tongue.

“I know you think you’re grown, honey, but sixteen isn’t old enough to make these kinds of decisions. I don’t want to see you throw away your future because of first love.”

“Mom!” I don’t mean to raise my voice, but my heart is thundering through my chest. My head spins. I need my Dad to come home right now. I need to call Robbie, call an ambulance. Could this be a stroke? Isn’t there only a brief window of time to get help? She finally turns to look at me. ”I’m thirty-two, Mom. I graduated years ago. Robbie plays for the Arctic. I was on the cover of Vogue.”

“Vera Aster.” Mom frowns. “You don’t need to exaggerate to get your way. That’s a great dream, but you need to finish school first and if Robbie’s the one, he’ll still be there for you when you’ve gotten everything you want.”

She’s not listening. I grab my phone from my back pocket. I‘ll excuse myself to the bathroom and call Dad. We’ll take her to the ER. Maybe she slipped in the shower this morning and banged her head.

“Don’t forget to spray the pan, honey.” Mom holds up an aerosol canister and aims it at the pan I completely forgot is still on the stove. It doesn’t look like the cooking spray I’m used to, but maybe it’s a new brand? Except I lean closer and it’s not cooking spray at all. It’s furniture polish.

“Mom, stop!” I yell the words as she presses down on the top of the canister, droplets splashing into the nonstick pan, which immediately starts smoking. The alarm blares, the sound drumming into my ears and pulsing behind my eyeballs. I turn the burner off and shove the pan into the oven, slamming the door.

“What happened?” Mom asks, standing in the Smokey mess she made, blinking at me like a switch just flipped on in her brain.

“Something’s wrong with you, Mom. You think I’m a kid again. You just put something toxic in the frying pan. You set off the smoke alarm. I’m going to call Dad and we’ll—”

“No.” My mother’s voice is firm, brooking no argument, but I’m not the child she thinks I am. This is no longer up for debate. Maybe it’s a goddamn tumor. Whatever is going on here, it’s not normal and there’s a pain in my chest, my breathing turning to panting. “I don’t like the sass Vera,” she says as I reach for her.

I must move too quickly, surprising her or something, because Mom rears back to get away from me. I watch in horror as she steps on the small rug in front of the sink and it slides out from under her foot. Her fall feels like it happens in slow motion, and my mother slams her head on the counter as she crumples to the floor.

We’re done with warmups,and the starting lines for the red and green team are getting ready for the puck drop when the watch on my wrist buzzes with an incoming call. I recognize my mom’s number, but let it go to voicemail. She knows how big a deal today is for these kids. I’ll call her back after the first mini period.

My watch stops, then the buzz starts again. And again.

“Spags.” I wave over my teammate, eyes glued to the small square screen on my wrist, waiting for her to text me with some context. It never comes.

“Yeah Dad?”

I roll my eyes at the nickname, but point to my watch. “Do me a favor and grab my phone? Mom keeps calling.”

“Mom as in Vera? Or Mom as in—”

“My mom,” I snarl the words, but the kid just laughs and shrugs.

“It was a legit question.”

No, it wasn’t. It was crafted just to annoy me, but my watch is buzzing again and I don’t want to argue with the kid. I point off the ice and Spags gives a little salute before hightailing it past the players’ bench. Normally we’d do these scrimmages one at a time in a sort of round robin tournament, but with coach Brad gone, it’s me and Spags mostly holding down the fort.

The mini teams aren’t using coaches, anyway. They came up with their own lines; they make their own calls about shift changes, and they’re calling the shots. The other assistants and I are here to act as referees and linesmen. The whole point is to give these kids a chance to take initiative, show off their leadership potential.

The two centers meet me at the blue line and shake hands. They lower their sticks and watch me as I test the weight of the puck in my hands.

“We’ve got this,” Marlowe says to his opponent and the other kid nods.

I back pedal out of the way as the puck hits the ice and both kids lunge for it. The snick of their sticks is a familiar sound in my ears. Not familiar is the look of worry on Spags’ face as he jogs back toward the bench. My phone pressed to his ear.

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