Page 26 of The Pucking Date
She steps into the hospital room and pulls me into a hug, smelling of cinnamon and stress.
“Sugar, you should’ve called from the airport, I’d have had a plate waitin’ for you,” she says, patting my chest like she’s checking I’m real. “You missed the boys, they had to go down early. They were wrecked.”
I nod, glancing toward the hallway outside the room. My mother keeps moving, tucking the blanket around my dad’s legs, smoothing the wrinkle in the curtain, adjusting the volume of the TV even though it’s not too loud.
Busy with the little things. The kind of quiet fussing thatkeeps her hands full when her heart’s too heavy to hold still. The kind people do when they need to feel like they candosomething. When the hard parts sit between you, thick as grief and equally quiet.
With Dad, she’s patient. Gentle. She dabs his mouth when he forgets to swallow. Finishes his sentences when he loses track. Never lets the sadness creep into her voice.
With me, she’s fierce. Loving, but firm. The glue that kept things together when everything went sideways. The reason Aoife made it through high school without hating the world, and the reason I didn’t walk away completely.
My mom helps him into bed and smooths the blanket up over his chest now. Her voice stays light, but I know the rhythm, it’s the same one she used when I was thirteen and trying to lie about a busted taillight on my bike.
“So,” she says, fussing with the edge of his bed. “You came. Just for the weekend?”
“Couple days.”
She hums, like that tells her everything and nothing. “I heard the Vipers made an offer.”
I don’t ask how she knows. This town breathes gossip faster than weather.
“They did.”
“And?”
I glance at him, at my father staring out the window, smile painted on like a half-remembered habit. He hasn’t said a word since I sat down.
“I’m not taking it,” I say quietly.
“Shame,” she murmurs. “You’d be close. The boys would love having you around. Aoife too.”
“Yeah.”
We both look at him. He blinks, smiling, eyes distant. Like he’s watching something we can’t see.
“You think he knows?” I ask.
She takes a breath. “I think…sometimes he does. I think there are days he remembers more than he lets on. But it’s hard. Watching him disappear piece by piece.”
She pats his leg gently, then moves to pour a glass of water.
“And your team?” she asks, back to her rhythm. “Any movement on the contract?”
“Nothing locked yet.”
“You holding out for something better?”
“Maybe.”
She turns, arms crossed. “You still boxing?”
I smile faintly. “Yeah. When it doesn’t mess with my training.” She lifts an eyebrow. “You know how strict it gets mid-season. They track everything—heart rate, recovery time, even sleep. Boxing’s not exactly coach-approved cardio. Too much risk.”
“But you still do it.”
“When I can,” I say. “When I need it.” She tilts her head. “It keeps my head clear. The noise quiet. I’m not the guy punching walls, I’m the guy hitting bags so I don’t.”
She nods once, satisfied, then walks over and sits on the edge of the visitor’s chair beside me.
