Page 5 of Love at Teamsgiving
Joey winks. “Say hi to Frederica if you see her.”
I roll my eyes at the reference to his sixth-grade crush. The kid just graduated from high school, so I’m not sure why he’s still thinking about her.
“And Juniper,” Charlie adds with a laugh.
If my ride to the airport didn’t just arrive, I’d double back and knock him sideways.
My mother perks up and launches into a long monologue about how she always knew Juniper and me were meant to be, that she trusts we’ll someday find each other again, and then adds a few choice words about Guiliana Popovik, her would-be in-law, and the aforementioned frenemy.
I throw myself into the backseat of the sleek black sedan before it comes to a complete stop. No need to prolong this discussion.
The problem is, they’re the reason we called off the wedding. Well, partly.
Even though that’s not what I want to be thinking about during the flight from St. Louis to Manhattan, Junie carves up my thoughts like the blade of a skate into the ice.
I shove on my headphones and let my mind wander away from thoughts of Junie Popovik ... the one who got away ... yetwhen one playlist ends and another starts with an Italian classic by the crooner Dean Martin, singing about moons, eyes, and pizza pies, I’m right back where I started.
After touching down and leaving the airport, I swiftly shift back into city-Mikey, recalling the scents of fall on these familiar streets—diesel fuel, sweet and salty roasting nuts, and the particular odor of steam rising from the subway vents.
It feels good to be home. I almost stagger at this thought because I haven’t lived here in three years. I was a late-round pick in the NHL draft, which shocked me. Not that I wasn’t higher in the rankings, but that I was chosen at all.
My older brother, Paulie, said that gave me a complex—not because I feel the need to prove myself, though I do—but that I’m cooler and better than I actually am. Nothing like a big brother to try to knock me down a peg ... or ten.
The sports I grew up on were soccer and football. I wasn’t exactly a prime candidate for playing hockey—the rest of the family are hugefútbolfans.
Tony, my oldest brother, was in a minor soccer league for a while but stopped short of going pro after he and his wife had their third kid in almost as many years.
Charlie got a full scholarship to play soccer in college. He turned it down because he works for the family business—and let’s be real, he’d sooner lug bags of cement up a ladder than be stuck in a class getting lectured about the sub-textual meaning of penguin mating habits as it relates to postmodern relationships.
I went to college and had to write an essay on that very subject. Junie helped me make sense of that and we laughed the entire time.
Pop watches every second of soccer he can—even for teams he’s not a fan of—except when I’m in the room. Then he quickly changes the channel to hockey, as if he wasn’t just cheering for his favorite sport,fútbol.
I consider taking the subway stop that would bring me to my old neighborhood, but there isn’t time before I have to meet Shane.
Anyway, I’d risk running into Junie—the real reason I started playing hockey.
Nothing like trying to impress a girl to lead to a successful career. Am I right?
Actually, that’s not how it began, but that became my fuel.
My mother, Carlotta, and her mother, Guiliana, met in the old country. They found themselves in America at roughly the same time and, for reasons that date back several generations, had a family rivalry. I think it has something to do with a Neapolitan dish calledO Pere e ‘o Musso.
Translation: foot and muzzle
Interpretation: ew
Thankfully, that original culinary dispute morphed into who makes the best meatballs, ragù Napoletano, and so on.
I was born around the same time as Junie and her twin brother, Asher. He and I became friends and even though the two women tried to keep us apart—Ma insisted Asher had smelly feet and he told me that his mother claimed I didn’t wash behind my ears. For the record, I do, and yes, his feet smell. But little boys don’t care about stuff like that.
Thankfully, our friendship toned down the motherly rivalry a degree.
Mr. Popovik was into hockey, so Asher played. Like a good member of the Cruz family, I dutifully learned soccer—dribbling the ball while I was still a dribbling toddler.
Later, given my size, I was better suited to the football team, so I joined in high school, much to my family’s dismay. Our junior varsity team wasn’t great and the cheerleaders often hung out with the opposition after games. Even Junie, our kicker,caught the eye of the rivals, which stirred up a fury in me, and I became known for my penalties rather than my plays.
When Asher told me girls loved hockey players, I was sold. Considering only two things occupied my mind when I was seventeen—girls and sports—I followed him onto the ice. To say I was a virtuoso was an understatement. His dad, Anton, told me he’d never seen anything like it. An Italian-Mexican-American who took to skating the way I did. It didn’t take long for others to notice and college came next with a full ride to play on the Division I team. The rest is history ... almost.
