Page 49 of Play Along With Me
But there's no time to dwell on that now. Game day routine calls—pre-game meal, nap, stretching, visualization exercises. Even as a backup, the ritual is important. You never know when your moment might come.
Tomorrow, my parents will be there with their excessive enthusiasm and embarrassing signs. I'll endure my mom's social media barrage because behind it is genuine love and support that got me here.
And somewhere in Section 104, Audrey will be watching hockey with absolutely no idea what's happening, probably making jokes about the "flat stick guys."
Not a bad way to start my NHL career.
My parents texted that they landed safely and are already checked into their hotel. We're meeting for a late dinner, and despite my earlier reservations about their enthusiasm, I'm looking forward to seeing them.
As I approach the restaurant—a cozy Italian place near the Garden—I spot them waiting outside. My dad, still broad-shouldered but grayer than I remember from my last visit home, and my mom, already waving excitedly even though I'm still half a block away.
"There he is!" she calls out, loud enough for several passersby to turn and look. "My NHL son!"
I quicken my pace, hoping to minimize the public spectacle. "Hi Mom, Dad," I say, giving them each a hug. "Good flight?"
"Who cares about the flight?" my dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. "We saw the game on TV at the airport bar. You looked good on that bench, son!"
I laugh despite myself. "Thanks, Dad. Top-notch bench-sitting skills."
"The way you handed Ambroz his water bottle in the third period? Perfection," my mom adds, completely serious. "I got a picture! Posted it already. Twenty-seven likes!"
I mutter, "Let's head inside. I'm starving."
"Of course, of course," my mom nods. "Our table should be ready. I made reservations for four, just in case you wanted to bring someone."
"It'll just be us three, Mom. I told you that."
A strange look passes between my parents. The kind of look that immediately sets off alarm bells in my head.
"About that," my dad begins.
"We have a little surprise," my mom continues, with forced brightness.
"What kind of surprise?" I ask warily.
"Table for four?" the hostess interrupts, appearing at the door. "Marshall party?"
"That's us!" my mom says, too enthusiastically. "All four of us!"
"Four?" I repeat, looking around in confusion.
And then I see her, standing slightly behind my parents with an awkward wave.
"Hi Jake," says Jessica, my ex-girlfriend from college. "Surprise?"
Time seems to stop as my brain struggles to process what's happening. Jessica. Here. With my parents. At dinner in Boston.
Jessica, who I dated for three years at BU. Jessica, who broke up with me when I got drafted because she "couldn't do the hockey wife thing" and "needed to focus on med school." Jessica, who I haven't spoken to in five years.
That Jessica.
"What... how..." I stammer, unable to form a coherent sentence.
"Isn't it wonderful?" my mom gushes, ushering us all inside as the hostess leads us to our table. "We ran into Jessica's parents at the grocery store back home, and when they heard you were playing for Boston now, well, it just seemed like fate! Jessica's doing her residency at Mass General! Right here in Boston!"
"Surgical residency," Jessica clarifies quietly, looking nearly as uncomfortable as I feel. "Third year."
"And when we mentioned we were coming to see you play, she said she'd love to catch up!" my dad adds, completely oblivious to the tension.
