Page 32 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
I can’t help grinning back at her. Making her happy makes me happy. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
“Aww.” She swats playfully at my arm. “Such a gentleman.”
She’s been practically bouncing with excitement since I picked her up earlier, talking about the Mariners’ record so far this season, how they stack up against the team they’re playing tonight, and I’m once again baffled that anyone would try to steal even the tiniest spark of that joy. Why wouldn’t you want the person you’re with to be happy? Even if you think baseball is boring—and I’ll be honest, it’s not nearly as exciting to watch as hockey or basketball—if taking your wife to a baseball game makes her this happy, why wouldn’t you do it just for the joy of that?
The only answer is because you’re a miserable asshole who’s determined to make everyone else miserable too, I guess. I have experience with that kind of person myself.
My dad, as “supportive” as he’s always been of my career, is that type of man. He’s a miserable old jerk, and I’m old enough now to see him for what he is, even if it took me well into my twenties to finally figure it out. And even though I know that, some part of me still wants to make him proud and is still disappointed every time he turns up and tells me all the things I need to do to be better without ever acknowledging the things I did well.
And with all this bullshit after that hit piece by Savage? I haven’t even answered his calls. I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I don’t need his advice. And I don’t need him to make me feel worse over an already shitty situation.
I can only imagine what he’ll say when he sees me linked in the papers with Maggie. He’s always been of the opinion that women are a distraction, and that hookups were only okay if being totally celibate was more distraction than one-night-stands. So me going out with a woman consistently, even if it is the off-season, would have him blowing a gasket.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see who’s calling. Speak of the devil …
Once again, I press the button to make the vibration stop but not send him immediately to voicemail. I’ll have to deal with him soon, but now is definitely not the time.
He’s the reason that I want so badly to give Maggie whatever she wants—all the things she’s been missing while someone else was stealing her joy and sucking all the life out of her. My mom was the one who did that for me. She celebrated every win,congratulated me for playing hard even when we didn’t win, made sure I had friends and a life and got to be a kid when all my dad wanted was to have me running drills every waking minute I wasn’t in school or in practice anyway.
Mom put her foot down about that, saying that overtraining had negative consequences and throwing example after example of teenagers being pushed so hard they were injured in high school and never got to pursue professional careers. That was the only thing that made Dad back down. Mom always knew how to outmaneuver him.
The situation with Maggie is different, of course. For one thing, no one’s trying to make her into the next Wayne Gretzky.
But the way she acted so lost when confronted with a free evening? That was relatable. Too relatable. That’s the same situation I found myself in, after all. Without hockey, without partying, what was I supposed to do with myself?
For her it was being without her kid leaving her at a loose end. The difference is, hockey is the main thing I’ve always wanted to do. I work out to stay in shape in the off-season, but I know that I need to give my body a break so it can recover and be in good shape for next season.
I know that working for an asshole like Brock Savage isn’t her dream job, even if she’d normally enjoy social media management. She’s damn good at her job—I’ve spent far too much of my free time than I’d like to admit stalking Brock’s show’s socials as well as her ex’s show, scrolling back to when I know she was still working with him. It’s obvious, though, if you know what you’re looking for. Whoever took over after she left doesn’t have the same instinct for what will perform well for the algorithm that she does. Or doesn’t understand the data. I’m notsure all the ins and outs, I just know that her content is much more entertaining and holds my attention better than the more recent stuff on her ex’s show’s accounts.
Imagine what she could do for the Emeralds? Our social media’s fine, but it’s not amazing. Molly’d shit herself if she had someone like Maggie on her team.
I glance over at Maggie, who has a notebook open on her lap, writing things down every time a pitch is thrown, whether it’s a strike, a ball, or a hit.
Honestly, she’d probably be happiest working for a baseball team. I don’t have any pull with baseball teams, though. Not that I have a lot of pull in the front office of the Emeralds, but I at least know people there.
Next time I talk to Molly, I might see if she’d be interested in hiring a new social media person. I know Maggie hasn’t said anything about looking for a new job, but with a boss like Brock, no way she wouldn’t be happy to kick his ass to the curb.
The crack of the bat draws my attention back to the game, then Maggie stands up beside me, cheering and clapping. Grinning, I stand too.
I can’t really do much about her work situation, but I can do one thing—keep taking her to things that put that smile on her face.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Maggie
“That was so much fun,”I tell Jack as we get to my place. “Thank you again for getting those tickets.” I shoot him a grin over my shoulder as I set my things in their places—putting my keys in their bowl, emptying the clear tote bag I used as a purse and folding it up, throwing away random bits of trash that didn’t make it into a trash can at the game, then setting the clear bag and the game program that I kept score in on the “stuff” side of the dining room table.
Facing Jack, I give him another wide smile. I’m so happy right now, I could burst. “Do you want a drink or anything?” I wrinkle my nose and look at the fridge. “I don’t have any beer or wine, but I can offer you water or milk or …” I hold up a finger. “Oh! I think we still have a few cans of soda left from pizza night.”
He chuckles, closing the distance between us. “I should probably head home. It’s getting kinda late.”
“It’s only a little after ten. We usually stay out later than this.” I poke out my lower lip in a fake pout.
“Awww, unfair.” He makes a T with his hands in a time out signal. “You can’t give me that face.”
Laughing, I stick my hands in my back pockets and shake my head. “What? Why not? I’m not allowed to be sad that you’re calling it a night early? What if I’m not ready to be stuck all alone in my apartment?”
He steps closer until he’s standing right in front of me, and I poke my lower lip out again, though it’s hard to maintain with my smile fighting to come out.
