Page 55 of Pucking Matt
I shrug. “Grind Stone chick put the sticker on my truck.”
Harvey says, “And you haven’t removed it.”
“Okay, fuckheads. Let’s do this!” I shout.
As we dive into our drills, a small part of me wonders if there might be some truth to their teasing. Not that I'd ever admit it, of course. After all, I've got a reputation to maintain.
And if I happen to be looking forward to my next shift with Amber? Well, that's just because I can't wait to see what will happen next. Yeah, that's definitely it.
I'm heading out of the locker room, still riding the high from our extra practice when my phone buzzes.
Great, a voicemail from my mom. Because that's exactly what I need right now.
I hit play, bracing myself for the inevitable guilt trip.
Here she goes.
“Matthew, you cannot continue to ignore your mother. I know you said you're busy, but you will be meeting me for dinner tomorrow. No ands, ifs, or buts. You will make the time for dinner tomorrow at our favorite Italian place, Victor’s, at 5 pm.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. Looks like I’ll be meeting her new man after all. I’ve been trying to get out of it, but now that she’s made a reservation, she’s going to be pissed if I don’t make it.
The next day, I'm dialing Jen's number faster than you can sayfamily drama.
“Hello?” Jen answers.
Perfect. I say, “What’s up, Jen? Any chance you can cover my shift tonight?”
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Something came up.”
“Okay, no problem. I can’t wait to work with Amber. I miss her.”
“Thanks, Jen. I’ll see you at the party.”
“No problem. See you later.”
After slogging through classes and homework, I find myself standing outside Victor's, our "favorite" Italian place. My mom's favorite, not mine. I'd rather be eating raisins and serving sandwiches with Amber right now if I'm being honest.
I step inside, and there she is. My mom, looking like she's dressed for a red carpet instead of a family dinner, and her new boy toy, James. He's got "mortgage loan officer" written all over him, from his pressed khakis to his carefully gelled hair.
“Matthew, darling!” my mom trills, her voice hitting that pitch that always makes me want to run and hide. “I’m so glad you could make it. This is James Holmes.”
I nod, shaking James’s hand. His grip is about as firm as overcooked pasta. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Please call me James.”
“James,” I correct myself.
We sit down, and James immediately launches into Twenty Questions: Hockey Player Edition. “So, Matthew, how's the team doing this season? Any scouts showing interest yet?”
I answer on autopilot, my attention split between James's interrogation and my mom's behavior. She's laughing at everything James says, but it's that laugh – the one that's about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. I've heard it too many times not to recognize it.
“Oh, James,” she giggles, touching his arm in a way that's probably supposed to look affectionate but just comes off as calculated.
I watch as she accidentally knocks her napkin to the floor, giving James the perfect opportunity to pick it up and show off his chivalry. It's like watching a performance, and not a very good one at that.
“Matthew, honey, did I tell you about the new car James bought me?” my mom asks, her eyes sparkling with materialistic glee. “It's a Mercedes, absolutely divine to drive.” She turns to James. “My son has good taste just like his mom. He would appreciate the Mercedes.”
