Page 71 of Pucker Up
“Are you sure? You look pretty green.”
The few short months I’d been a Toronto Tiger had been a roller coaster ride, but Ethan had always been there for me. “It’s not food poisoning.” I put on my shower shoes. “You know that girl I took to Muskoka?”
“The one you were texting the whole time we were in Miami?”
I didn’t realize Ethan had noticed. “Yeah, her.”
“What about her?” Ethan put on his jacket.
“It’s Professor Hot Tits.” I hated referring to her like that, but I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.
Ethan raked his hands through his hair. “Fuck, dude. No way. Is that why you’re not going to the sessions anymore?”
“Yeah.”
He must have picked up on my tone. “What’s the problem?”
My mind was still reeling. Why had she lied to me? Had she even lied? Was that what she wanted to tell me? The sick feeling turned to rage. I clenched my fists and then kicked the trash can as hard as I could. It clattered, and empty bottles of Gatorade rolled around the rubberized dressing room floor.
The coach’s fucking daughter. If I’d known, I never would’ve gotten involved with her. How could she have put me in this position?
“Whoa, Acer.” Ethan picked up the trash can and started collecting the bottles. “What the hell is going on?”
My breaths were coming hard and fast. Kicking the can hadn’t drained the rage from my body. “Professor. Hot. Tits. Is. The. Coach’s. Daughter.”
Ethan paused with an empty bottle in his hands. “Say what now?”
“You heard me.”
“Acer, you can’t fuck the coach’s daughter.”
“I know,” I growled. “Fuck it.” I put my practice clothes back on. The only thing that could get the fury out of my body was to smash more pucks. “I’m going back out there.” I put on my skates.
Ethan set down the bottle. “I’m going with you.”
The two of us spent the next two hours launching pucks against the boards. There was no purpose to it, but the sound of the pucks blasting off the boards was therapeutic. By the time we were done, I was drained. The rage was gone, but had been replaced with something else.
Sadness.
I was a player. I couldn’t date the coach’s daughter.
TWENTY-SEVEN
GOLDIE
Mom came backa few hours later, her Toyota backfiring as she parked in the driveway. I shot up from were I’d been napping on the sofa, my heart racing. I looked around for Morton and then remembered he was with my dad. He wasn’t a guard dog, but he had a scary bark, and I felt safer with him around. I pulled back the curtain to confirm that it was the crappy Camry and not an actual gun that had made the sound.
“Gooooldie.” Mom teetered toward the house, her arms weighed down with grocery bags. I hurried to open the door and let her inside.
“What is all this?” I took a couple of the bags from her and headed to the kitchen. Mom followed and set the groceries on the table. One of her crocheted bags tipped over and apples rolled out onto the counter.
“You need some food. Healthy food, not just chips and moldy salsa.” Fern started putting the groceries away. I held up a bag of tofu. “Who the hell eats this much tofu?”
Mom took it from me and put it in the fridge. “We are not ordering takeout tonight. I’ll make some curried tofu with raisins. You two will love it.”
I helped Mom put away the rest of the groceries. She’d bought lots of weird stuff, but she’d also remembered all of my childhood favorites: strawberry jam, crumpets, and Earl Grey tea. Tears welled in my eyes. “Mom, I’m sorry I was mean to you earlier today.”
She wrapped her arms around me. “Honey, it’s okay. I know you think I’m a weirdo, and it probably feels scary that you’re experiencing some of the same things that I do.” She stepped out of the embrace and rubbed my arms. “You’re your own person. You’re Marigold Swanson, not Fern Lauper. If you decide to work with your gifts, you will still be you.”
