Page 7 of Goal Line
“I think you’ll have to ask the nutritionist and personal chef you hired, since they keep track of that.” I try to make my reply sound less irritated than I feel, but Mom’s lowhmmmindicates that I’ve failed.
My personal chef works with my nutritionist to plan all my meals and snacks. Whether I’m home in Los Angeles, or competing somewhere else, the meals are always delivered perfectly proportioned, ready to heat and eat.
Mom claims it’s because I hate to cook, but how would I know? I’ve never been given the opportunity. Since I was ateenager, my food has been selected for me, without regard to what I feel like eating. For the first few years after I moved out on my own, I didn’t mind it—not having to think about what to eat or make something for myself gave me more time to focus on skating.
But eight years later, I’m tired of this life. Tired of every decision being madeforme. I’m about to become a mom, and I don’t even have any agency over my own life.
I know Mom making things easy for me wherever she can is her way of showing that she cares. And I’d never want her to think I don’t appreciate everything she and Dad are doing to help me achieve this dream.
“I’ll do that,” she says, flicking her blinker on with a bit more force than necessary as she slows to turn into our driveway. And like it always does when I arrive home after being away for so long, the scene in front of me takes my breath away.
The moon shines brightly, illuminating the white cottage where it sits on the cliff with nothing beyond it but the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s a cloudless night and the stars are just starting to appear, but the moonlight is already making the waves sparkle.
My parents’ small house is in an idyllic setting, far enough from the winding road that we seldom hear the cars headed to the beach, and with an expansive and unencumbered ocean view. The cliffs behind the house are too steep to access the private neighborhood beach below, but they protect us from storms, and we can follow a winding path down the hillside at the end of the street to get to the water.
“Will Dad be home in the morning?” I ask, wishing I was walking into his comforting hug.
“No, the team’s not leaving St. Louis until tomorrow,” Mom says as she pulls into the garage. “I’m sure they’d hoped to be celebrating tonight. He’ll be home sometime in the afternoon.”
“What do you have going on tomorrow?” I ask her.
“Some riding lessons in the morning, and then I need to go see about a horse in the afternoon,” she says. Mom is forever going “to see about a horse.” Buying and training show horses is a huge part of how she’s helped Luke’s mom, Elise Hartmann, build a world-class equestrian center and show park at their home here in Newbury Falls. Elise owns the center, but my mom is the lead trainer. “Want to grab lunch somewhere? You can come see the horse with me afterward if you want?”
“I’m not sure I’ll feel up to it,” I say, and a look of disappointment crosses my mom’s face. Horses are her first love—even ahead of her family—but I never developed the same passion she did. She loves the outdoors and the wind on her face as she rides. I love the crisp air of the rink and the sound of my skates carving across the ice. “Lunch sounds good, though.”
Does it? I used to do this thing growing up where I’d keep track of how many times a day I did or said something in pursuit of keeping my mom happy. As a kid, I thought the higher the daily tally, the better a daughter I was. It wasn’t until I grew up and moved away that I realized monitoring my behavior like that actually made me feel worse, not better.
My mom isn’t negative, per se; it’s just her nature to search for ways to improve. She wants to motivate me, but sometimes I just feel like I can never live up to her increasinglyrising expectations. Honestly, at this point, I’m not even sure an Olympic medal would result in a “Good job, I’m so proud of you,” without an additional comment on how my performance could have been better.
She helps me unload my bags from the back of the car, and as we carry them through the breezeway into the mudroom, I glance toward the oval window on the far wall. It’s too small and high up to showcase the entire view from the house, but as a kid, I loved to stand on the bench beneath it and look out at the water, pretending it was the window in a castle tower I was trapped in.
It’s amazing how returning home every summer dredges up memories I haven’t thought about in forever—both the good and the bad.
Mom hangs her purse on a wall hook and kicks her flats beneath the window bench.
“Let me help you get these to your room,” she says, picking up a suitcase in one hand and swinging a large duffle bag over the other shoulder. She’s used to maneuvering fifteen-hundred-pound horses, so her strength never surprises me.
Iamsurprised, however, when she sets my bags in my room and tells me she’ll give me some space to unpack and get some sleep, before leaving me standing there alone. It’s late, and she probably just wants to head to bed after her unplanned trip to New York. And living by myself in LA, I’m used to having my own space. So why do I suddenly feel so lonely?
As if the universe knows I need a lifeline to quell my erratic emotions, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see that my best friend has finally responded.
Luke
Yeah, not a game to be proud of, for sure.
I’m relieved you’re okay. Are you around tomorrow night?
Eva
Yeah, want to do something?
Luke
With you? No thanks.
Eva
You’re an ass.
