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Once outside, I hop in my matte black electric ride, toss my suit jacket on the seat, and loosen my perfunctory tie.
I turn on the car and beat the rush out of the players’ lot. As I weave through city traffic, I call my mom. She answers right away and I launch right into the post-game recap like we do after almost every game. “How’d I do?”
“Love a good fake out,” she says proudly. “I taught you well.”
“Yeah, you did.”
She used to play hockey in college and she taught me pretty much everything I know. But there wasn’t a feasible career path for her in the sport, so she became a nail technician, then worked her way up and bought into a nail salon in a strip mall with a couple other ladies.
After we talk shop, we catch up on my little sisters and their upcoming college tours. The twins are applying to school in the fall and it’s pretty much all-consuming at home. “I just want them to get into decent schools, so we need to see a lot,” she says.
“We’ll get them in someplace good, Mom,” I try to reassure her.
“I hope so,” she says, but I can hear the nerves in her voice. Since that’s not her real worry.
The cost is.
But I’ve told her a million times, I’ve got it covered.
She raised three kids on her own. Least I can do is handle the big bills for her now that I can. But sometimes it helps to take other worries off her plate too. “Can I send you dinner, Mom? I know you like that Thai place in the city and it delivers late.”
“It’s late, Hollis. And I already ate. But thank you.”
“Then lunch it is tomorrow.”
She laughs. “You’re relentless.”
“Did you say I’m wonderful?”
“Same thing.”
We say goodbye, and I ask my phone to set a reminder to deliver Mom some lunch tomorrow. Before I know it, I’ve reached the rental cottage the festival organizer set us up with. It’s dark out since it’s nearly eleven, but all the lights on the wraparound porch are on.
Nice.
I appreciate that touch from the property manager.
After I turn off the car in the driveway and park just outside the garage, I grab my duffel from the backseat and toss it over my shoulder, stretching my neck as I go, trudging up the steps. Everything in me aches. Back is sore too. Shoulders are cranky.
I don’t even bother to go in the front door because the hot tub advertised in the property listing has been calling my name since my shoulder sent the I’m fucking sore alert.
I walk across the porch around the side of the cottage, so I can turn on the hot tub before I even go inside.
Why get distracted by anything else?
And damn…
That’s some courtesy for you. The tub is already bubbling, with steam rising into the early February night. It’s like a goddamn invitation. The service here is immaculate.
“I approve,” I say to no one in particular but my beat-up body. I’m always this way after a game. That’s just how it goes with pro sports. You take a pounding every night.
I drop my duffle on the back deck, toe off my shoes, undo my shirt, and peel off my suit pants, socks, and boxer briefs.
As I stride over to the steps leading into the hot tub, the back door swings open. Out of nowhere, a long dog shoots like a bullet across the deck, barking hello.
Wait.
Why is there a dog here? A dog I know.
