Oh no.
“Which game?”
Mom angles herself so her back is to me. “I think she said it was hockey,” she says with false levity. She knows how much I loathe the game.
That’s not true. I loathe the players, not the game. As a sport, hockey is my favorite. But I’ll never admit it out loud. I miss the smell of the ice and the sound of bones crunching against the boards. But I can’t risk running into my ex.
“It’s a Minnesota game. So she said.”
That’s code for “I Googled to make sure your ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be playing so you can go but I’m saying your friend said it so you don’t get upset at me for looking up your ex-boyfriend’s team.”
Mom-child-code is a hugely complex language.
“That so?”
She doesn’t turn toward me. I’m not sure what she’s doing in the kitchen, but it apparently needs her whole attention. “Mmhm. You should think about it.”
The forced upbeat tone in her voice starts to waver. “You need to go out and do something…uh…”
“Normal?” I supply. We have this discussion every now and then. She thinks my childhood was cut short and that I’ve missed out on the typical college experience because I got pregnant.
And while both of these things are true, she also seems to not believe me when I tell her I’m fine. My kid is my whole universe.
For some reason, I think that’s what she’s afraid of. Not sure why. Isn’t that the whole point of parents? To adore their children?
“Please, Victoria? For me?” Something falls into the sink with a clatter. “I’d love to see you go out with Eloise more. Let me spend time with my grandbaby while you go and do regular college kid stuff. She seems like such a sweet girl. Did you know her mom died?”
She turns to me, eyes red-rimmed and welling. “Such a tragedy. I stupidly asked about her parents.” She sniffs. “Didn’t mean to step on an emotional landmine, but she handled it with such grace.”
“You chatted with her?”
Mom nods. “Made her tea and fed her snacks. Thought you might come back early. Such a sweet girl. And beautiful too. When she’s not hiding behind that curtain of hair to cover her scar.”
Eloise’s mom died in the car crash that gave Eloise the scar down her face. I’m determined to convince her to tie her hair up at some point. She has the best cheekbones. People spend hours with a million makeup products to get that look. And she’s hiding it behind her bright pink hair.
“So…is that a yes?”
She’s not going to give up. My phone vibrates on my lap.
Eloise: Have you talked to your mom yet? Please come to the game tonight? Please? I’m nervous and really don’t want to go alone.
I’m kind of out of excuses not to go. I like the sport, I have childcare for Wyatt, and I’d walk through fire for mybestie. Ha. I’d walk through ice for her, too. I can’t let her face the big, bad hockey players all by herself. If someone hurts her, she’ll need help hiding the body.
The sigh that comes out of me is so heavy it’s exhausting.
“Excellent. I think I have your uncle’s old Raccoons jersey in the closet.”
My sigh turns into a groan. “I didn’t say yes.”
“Your sigh of resignation says otherwise.”
“Fine. But no shirt. I need to make sure I like them and want to cheer for them before I drape my precious body in their colors. They gotta earn my support.”
Mom knows not to push. She holds her hands up.
While dinner cooks, I reach out to the moms group for Wyatt’s daycare and ask if anyone has recommendations for a good personal trainer. One who isn’t some bodybuilding lunatic who’s going to yell at me or shame me into working out. I need someone supportive. Someone who listens. Someone who works with super hormone-charged bodies.
A couple hours later, I shuffle through the row of seats and plop down next to Eloise. Despite subtle differences, every rink is kind of the same, right down to the faint smell of popcorn, hotdogs, and beer lingering on the chilled air.
