Page 47 of Play Along With Me
"Perfect! I already made reservations for four!"
"Four?" I ask, suddenly alarmed.
"You, me, your father, and whoever you want to bring! A teammate? Or maybe a special someone?" She raises her eyebrows suggestively.
"Mom, I just got here. I don't have a 'special someone' in Boston."
"Well, a mother can hope. You're not getting any younger, Jake. Thirty is just around the corner."
"I'm twenty-seven," I remind her. "And focused on hockey right now."
"Speaking of which," she pivots, "I joined three Saints fan groups online and told them all about you. Did you know they have stats on every goalie prospect in the system? Someone named HockeyDad617 says you should be starting over Ambroz based on your save percentage against left-handed shooters!"
This is exactly why I've limited sharing details of my career with my parents. Everything becomes fodder for her social media presence as "Hockey Mom Extraordinaire." Last year she got into a Facebook argument with another player's mother about whose son had better blocker-side technique.
"Mom, please don't argue with fans online. Or tell them you're my mother. Or post my baby pictures. Or—"
"Too late on the baby pictures!" she says cheerfully. "That one of you in your first pair of skates got over a hundred likes!"
I sigh in defeat. "I've gotta go, Mom. Pre-game nap routine."
"Of course, of course. Rest up! We'll see you tomorrow night. I'm SO PROUD OF YOU!" she practically yells this last part, as if volume correlates with the intensity of her pride.
After we hang up, I flop onto my temporary couch. I love my parents. They've sacrificed everything for my career—early morning practices, expensive equipment, hockey camps, driving me to tournaments across the Midwest. My dad worked double shifts to pay for goalie coaches. My mom learned to repair equipment to save money.
They deserve to celebrate this milestone. If only they could do it a little more... quietly.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Knock knock
I stare at it, confused, then suddenly remember Audrey's parting words at Collin's party. A smile spreads across my face as I type back:
Me: Who's there?
Unknown: Someone who finally came up with a better joke
Me: Someone who finally came up with a better joke who?
Unknown: Someone who finally came up with a better joke than pretending their cat has diabetes. This is Audrey by the way. In case the knock knock opener wasn't obvious enough.
I save her number in my contacts, oddly pleased that she followed through on texting me.
Me: I don't know, the diabetic cat was pretty memorable. How's Mr. Darcy's imaginary insulin regimen going?
Audrey: He's in remission. Turns out all he needed was to stop eating ice cream straight from the container, a lesson his owner should probably learn as well.
Me: Ice cream is a perfectly acceptable meal when eaten directly from the container. This is scientifically proven.
Audrey: By what scientist? Dr. Ben? Dr. Jerry? Their credentials are suspicious at best.
I laugh out loud, something I rarely do at text messages.
Me: I can't argue with that logic. Though I maintain that post-practice ice cream has restorative properties not recognized by conventional medicine.
Audrey: Ah, athlete superstitions. Let me guess, you also have lucky socks and don't step on the lines, right?
Me: Actually, it's a lucky tie and I never touch the logo on the floor of the locker room. Hockey players aren't superstitious at all...
