Page 25 of Love at Teamsgiving
In cheek-slapping range, out of an abundance of caution, I draw back slightly just to play it safe. “Do you need help?”
“Your help? Definitely not. Then again, I’ve heard you’ve moved around a lot lately. How’s that working out?”
She knows just where my weak spots are—the tender places surrounding my career—and I know hers, too. I’ve always had my target set on her heart.
“The good news is you’ll be there to find out. Why are you moving to Nebraska? It’s almost like you’re following me. I’m surprised you missed me that much.”
“I’m reconsidering the move ... As. We. Speak.”
A stooped woman with white streaks in her dark hair and dressed entirely in black approaches. “Good. I don’t know anything about Nebraska. Naples was home. New York now. Idon’t need anotherN-locationto complete the set. I’ll stay here, thank you very much.” But of course, Mrs. Popovik says all of this in Italian. Which I understand.
Junie replies in English. “Mom, we’ve discussed this. You’re going to like Cobbiton. You’ll be able to walk everywhere and not worry about getting mugged.”
“Mugged? That’s the least of my worries. Now they abduct people. Even little old women like me.”
“Yeah, all those missing old women. Uh huh.” Junie rolls her eyes slightly, but I see worry, too. She lost her father and couldn’t bear any more grief.
If a criminal kidnapped Mrs. Popovik, it wouldn’t result in any harm coming to her. However, one of two things would occur. One, the criminal would find themselves rethinking their life choices and likely end up at a police station, confessing their crimes and wishing they’d never crossed her. Or, they’d wind up in church confession, repenting. Same with my Ma. They’re cut from an identical Italian textile and that’s why they struggle to get along—probably the same goes for Juniper and me.
“So you’re not staying?” I ask, referring to Junie’s earlier comment.
Mrs. Popovik scowls at me. “See? Common criminals running rampant around here.”
“Ciao, Mrs. Popovik,” I say, announcing myself and ignoring the accusation because I know, deep down, she doesn’t mean it. Above all, Guiliana Popovik loves her daughter and wants her to be happy. Junie was when she and I were together.
“How is your mother?” Guiliana asks.
“You spoke to her two days ago.”
She grunts. The women love to hate each other. True frenemies. When they experience a windfall, one of their kids achieves an accomplishment, or when their soccer team loses,they’re the first to call each other to gloat, to rub it in, and to “Dance on the grapes” as it were.
“We’re also moving to Nebraska.” I’m assuming she knows this.
But the surprise that streaks across her wrinkled face reveals that Ma hasn’t mentioned this to heramica/nemica. Probably because Nebraska doesn’t feel like a win. Quite the opposite. But I told her it’s a few steps closer to the California coast, which has a similar climate to back home.
The older woman goes very still as if I just cast a spell and she’s deciding whether to deflect it. “Is that so?”
“I’ll be playing for the Knights.”
She sniffs as if to sayIf it’s not Napoli—the Italian soccer club—it doesn’t matter. Ma roots for Rome or whatever team is beating Naples, which makes zero sense since they’re both Neapolitan.
To our mothers, ice hockey is a strange, foreign concept. Guiliana is a bit more familiar, given her husband’s love for the game. Ma tolerates bundling up to visit the arena. But neither understands the draw to the rink, to the chill, or the sheer roughness of the sport. I think it appeals to the Roman gladiator buried in my DNA—even though historically, ice hockey wasn’t invented yet. We use sticks instead of swords and battle it out with a puck rather than against wild animals or criminals. Still, it’s a sweaty sport, masculine, and in many ways primal when the gloves come off. I think that appeals to a deep part of human nature, as odd as that may sound.
The good thing is that the moment we’re off the ice, guys from opposing teams are the best of friends. Wish I could say the same is true for Junie and me.
Even though boxes fill the apartment and it’s largely packed up, the phantom scent of garlic, herbs, and sauce bubblingon the stove fills the air, along with Juniper’s almond orange blossom scent.
A wave of nostalgia crests—it wasn’t particularly hard for me to leave the city. I was chasing my hockey stardom dreams. But I realize now that because I still had strong ties here, as tenuous and frayed as they were, it wasn’t like I was truly leaving.
Right now feels different.
Junie says, “You asked why we’re moving to Nebraska. Because I thought it would be far enough away to forget you.”
I splay my hand across my chest. “You wound me. You just keep driving the dagger deeper into my heart.”
She squawks a laugh. “Ha! If you had a heart.”
The corner of my lip curls because if a chess match were violent, I’m about to land a fatal blow. “Junie, if what you said is true, that means that you still think about me. That you haven’t forgotten.”
