Page 39 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
“Of course!” I give him a bright smile, trying not to let on that it kinda guts me that he’d rather call his dad first before spending time with me when I’m right here offering to play with him right now. On the other hand, having a little downtime when I get home will be nice too. Plus it’ll give me time to change into clothes for playing basketball.
Once we’re inside, Liam drops his stuff, yells, “I’m gonna pee and then call Dad!” and nearly slams the door to the bathroom shut.
I glance at the time, wondering if Kyle will even be available. I’ve learned, though, that it’s easier to let Liam figure that outwithout me. If I suggest waiting, he mopes the whole time, and on too many occasions, Kyle would’ve been free when I suggested waiting, and then Liam’s mad at me for not letting him call when he wanted. It’s a crap shoot every time, so I just say okay unless there’s a specific reason to say no—like we’re eating dinner in five minutes or we have to leave in ten minutes kind of specific. If we have no set schedule or plans, he gets to call his dad when he wants and if Kyle’s available, great. If he’s not … usually Liam bounces back from that disappointment faster than if I’m the one saying no or to wait a little while.
I’m still sorting mail in the kitchen when I hear the bathroom door open followed by Liam’s bedroom door closing a second later. “Did you wash your hands?” I yell down the hall.
“Yes!” he calls back, and I go to the bathroom to see if the sink’s wet. It is. So I believe he probably at least ran his hands under the water.
Sighing, I shake my head. “Did you use soap?”
“Yes!”
“This is why you get sick almost as soon as school starts every year,” I mutter, going to my bedroom to change for playing basketball. Cocking my head toward the door as I pass his room, I hear Liam chattering away, so I’m assuming his dad answered. That’s good. Though I’m sure Liam will tell me about some new drill his dad says he should work on once we get to the basketball hoops at the nearby park. Anytime Liam brings up basketball, Kyle’s full of tips and pointers, though it’s not like he has any idea what Liam needs to work on. He came to one of his games during the winter. And even though I filmed Liam playing in nearly every other game and sent Liam the videos for him to share with his dad at Liam’s request, there’s no telling ifKyle actually watched them, or if he did, studied them enough to make helpful recommendations.
His coach—who coaches high school basketball here and is the dad of one of Liam’s classmates, so they always end up on the same team—gave out a list of drills to work on at the end of their last season. I try to work some of those in when I can, but I always have to either just start doing them to see if he’ll join me or suggest it as some kind of game or competition. If I mention it directly, that’s too much like it being my idea, so it’s an automatic veto.
Even with all the frustration of dealing with Kyle, his inconsistency, and Liam’s unwarranted hero worship, parenting Liam is easier on my own than it was with his dad’s constant interference.
As I’m pulling on my workout tank, my phone vibrates with an alert. Apprehensive, I pick it up. Sometimes Kyle texts me while he’s on a call with Liam asking me to come up with an excuse that Liam needs to leave, making me the bad guy when he has things to do or just doesn’t feel like talking to his son for very long.
But it’s not Kyle. It’s Jack.
Jack
Where are we going for lunch tomorrow?
Grinning, I send him back the name of a spot I like to go when I can that has the added benefit of secluded booths that should give us some privacy from the people who like to snap and submit pics of celebrities to gossip sites. Since we’ve apparentlybeen spotted together enough to warrant mentioning, it seems wise.
As soon as I hit send, Liam’s knocking on my door. “Mom! I’m off the call with Dad. You ready to play basketball?”
Opening the door, I drop a kiss on the top of his head. “Almost. Just let me get my socks and shoes on. Why don’t you fill our water bottles and grab your basketball while I do that?”
“Okay!” He runs down the hall to the kitchen, and a few seconds later I hear the water turning on and off as he fills our bottles.
God, I love that kid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jack
I gruntin annoyance at the sight of my dad’s name and number showing up on my phone. I just sat down at a booth in the restaurant Maggie picked for lunch today, having ordered for both of us. I convinced her to send me her order ahead of time so we wouldn’t have to waste time waiting in line, and I was just picking up my phone to text her where I’m sitting when my dad called.
Sighing, I wait. If I send him to voicemail, he’ll know I have my phone in my hand, and that’ll just make him call back instead of leaving a voicemail. I don’t really want to talk to him in general, but I especially don’t want to talk to him right now.
After what feels like forever, it finally sends him to voicemail and I can text Maggie. As soon as I’m done, an alert pops up with a garbled transcription of his message. The phone transcription doesn’t work well with his slightly Francophone accent. He swears up and down that he doesn’t speak French anymore, but I know he grew up speaking it as a child. When he was around six,my grandfather took a job that meant moving to the Anglophone part of Toronto, so he grew up speaking English too. One day, the story goes, he decided to answer in English anytime they spoke to him in French, and he hasn’t spoken French since. His accent isn’t particularly obvious, but there are a few words that definitely have a French flavor to them, and the automatic transcription on phones always does funny things with those.
Of course, the gist of the message is clear, even with the incorrect word here and there. “What’s this about you dating a woman? Why am I learning about it from people talking on the internet? Don’t you have enough respect for your father to tell me yourself? Why do you think you need to date anyway? Women are nothing but …”
God, I don’t even want to read the rest of that, much less listen to it.
I knew this day would come, but I’ve been putting it off for as long as possible. Soon, I’ll have to call and deal with my father’s ire.
What does he care anyway? Like Connor reminded me, I’ve already achieved the major dreams I had. Sure, I want to win a Stanley Cup and win gold at the Olympics. But I’m a professional hockey player. I don’t need to worry about a girlfriend distracting me so much that I can’t play. I’ve made it. I’m playing.
And so what if I’ve let myself get so wrapped up in … whatever I’ve been doing with Maggie that I haven’t told anyone? That was before …
Before we kissed. Before it started turning into more than just for show. Before there was really anything to tell.
