Page 15 of The Slapshot and the Single Mom
The paint and sip last night pops into my head, and I can’t help smiling at the memory, both of the event and the horrible artwork I produced. Could I do something like that with Liam? Not the full blown thing like that, but maybe we could go to the art store and pick up some supplies and find a video online walking us through how to do something?
But I discard that idea as soon as it takes shape. Liam likes drawing, but I don’t think he’d be into that. Maybe I’ll just see if he wants to go shoot hoops. He’s convinced he’ll earn hisdad’s love and attention if he can play basketball well enough. I know that’s not possible—or reasonable—but playing makes him happy, at least. And then maybe we can go out for ice cream after? That might work.
Problem solved—as much as I can, at least—I set it aside for now, focusing on work, pointing out that I’m not his assistant to Brock for the thousandth time and dropping another pile of resumes I printed off on his desk. “Find someone. Interview them. You have until next week, then I’ll start scheduling interviews with people I think are good.”
It’s the same threat I’ve been making for weeks, but I haven’t given him a timeline.
“Would you really?” he answers, surprising me. “That’d be amazing. See? You’re practically acting like my assistant anyway!”
Suppressing a growl, but unable to stop my nostrils from flaring, I pick up the stack of resumes and take them with me. “I’m leaving!” I call over my shoulder.
“Wait!” he shouts, then follows me out of his office. “I have someone coming in half an hour for an interview. You can’t leavenow.”
Turning, I face him with my hand on my hip. “Brock, I am your social media manager. Not your assistant. If you wanted an assistant to be here to bring you drinks and fawn all over you while you give an interview, you should’ve hired one already. Or better yet, not fired Kaedie! Just so you know,” I add, ducking into my office and gathering my things, “I’m only setting up interviews for the assistant position with men. If for no other reason than to save you from a lawsuit.” At least an employmentrelated one. “And can you stick to the plan with this interview please? No need to go off script and try to ruin another athlete’s life.”
He scoffs. “Are you still hung up on that Bouchard thing? What’s it to you, anyway? It’s not like you even like hockey.”
“I don’t have a problem with hockey. I have a problem with slandering athletes. You could get sued for that too, you know.”
Another scoff. “Please. All publicity is good publicity. Everyone’s watching Bouchard right now because of me. He should be grateful.”
I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath, remembering how angry Jack was when we had drinks that first time, and how he mentioned his sponsorships possibly falling through because of it.
“And anyway,” Brock adds, “it’s probably notthatfar from the truth. Dude parties harder than I do.”
“Okay, well, I’m leaving anyway. Good luck with your interview. If you want to get picked up by a network, pending lawsuits for defamation won’t be attractive is all I’m saying.”
“Whatever, Mags. Just leave then. I see how it is.”
“Do you?Finally. That’s a relief. So tomorrow I’ll start setting up interviews for you, and that’s the last thing I’m doing for you that doesn’t fall under my job description.”
“I could just fire you, you know,” he threatens.
I roll my eyes. “And then where will you be, Brock? You need me, and you know it.”
He scowls, and I worry I might’ve pushed him too far. He’s an asshole, and he knows it. I think he thinks I’m almost flirting with him when I talk back like I do, but pointing out that he’d sink on his own pricks his ego.
But before he can say anything, I wave and push my way out the door. I have an actual child I need to comfort. That man-child can handle his own feelings. That is definitelynotpart of my job description.
Liam’s glum when I get home and won’t take his eyes off the video game he’s playing on the TV.
“Thanks for hanging out with him today, Mom.” I’d given her a head’s up that I might need her today, so it wasn’t a complete surprise.
She gives me a hug. “You know I’m happy to help.” Lips compressed, she shakes her head. “When are you taking that deadbeat back to court?” she whispers, glancing over her shoulder at Liam, who gives every appearance of paying zero attention to us, but we both know that looks can be deceiving where that’s concerned.
Sparing him a quick glance, I tug her into the kitchen. “I called my attorney, but she’s on vacation, so I have to wait a couple weeks. I have months of documentation of him ducking his time and doing things like this, though.”
“Good,” Mom says, a little too loud, and I make shushing motions. “Good,” she repeats in a whisper. “He’s an asshole.He’s strung you on long enough. I hope a judge throws his ass in jail.”
Snickering at my mom’s reaction, I shake my head. “Being a deadbeat dad isn’t a criminal matter.”
Mom sniffs. “So? He’s flakier than a croissant. He could very easily miss the hearing, thinking it’s not important, and be held in contempt.”
“I still don’t think they’d put him in jail for missing a hearing. The judge would definitely rule in my favor, though.”
“Maybe so,” she concedes, “but he deserves to spend a few nights in jail for how he’s breaking that poor little boy’s heart. He’s been moping all day. I’ve tried my best to cheer him up, but he won’t talk, barely ate lunch, and has spent all day either staring out the window or sitting on his bed throwing a tennis ball at the wall and catching it again until I let him play a video game an hour ago. And he’s been glued to that ever since.” She shakes her head, her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to hold herself together in the face of Liam’s sadness and hurt. “He’s getting too big for making cookies with Grandma to be enough to cheer him up like it used to when he was younger. Honestly, and I know you don’t want me to just buy him things every time I see him, I almost offered to buy him a new video game if he hadn’t decided to play one he has.”
“I know why you want do to that, Mom?—”
