Midwesterners can turn just about anything into a salad—I don’t know how cottage cheese, Jell-O, and a can of fruit constitutes a salad, but the Midwest says it is. Salads, tenderloin, and Maid-Rite, those are my top three.
Still remember the first time I took the de la Peñas to Maid-Rite, a Midwestern institution. They’re from the Dominican Republic, and while they loathed Taco Bell—probably because their family owns anactualMexican restaurant—theylovedMaid-Rite.
We come here at least once a week as a team. Or as many of us who can make it. It gets rowdy, and most of us order the same thing to the point the nice folks at the counter know what we’re having before we do.
It’s part of the routine. Same day, same place, same food,same seats. No one says it out loud, but it definitely feels like a superstition.
The only reason people miss Maid-Rite Mondays (MRM) is if they’re sick, or if they have something better to do than ensuring the Raccoons win their next game.
If someone misses MRM and we lose a game, the loss is firmly on their shoulders, and they’re shamed for all eternity.
It’s a heavy burden to carry. But it is what it is if you fuck with MRM.
The Cheese-Rite is the only way to go. “A perfectly seasoned ground beef loose meat sandwich served on a warm bun, then choose your cheese.”
Depending on who’s working behind the counter, the amount of cheese on my sandwich varies. If Jaden’s working, it’s almost equal parts meat and cheese—he’s my favorite. Most of the time I get a basket with cheese curds, or rings, or sweet potato fries. Okay, the sides are the hardest part to figure out because they’re just so damn good, and I generally want them all.
So when I walk past a table, clutching my precious MRM meal on a tray on my way to the hockey table, and spy someone eating a chicken salad and drinking a water—in Maid-Rite—I almost grind to a halt.
Someone behind me grunts as their tray jabs them in the stomach, so I keep moving. Can’t risk my root beer float hitting the deck. But as soon as I sit down, I examine the poor soul who doesn’t know how to Maid-Rite right.
Holy shit, it’s her. The girl who dumped a drink on my head at the bar.
My eyes don’t linger on her chicken salad for much longer. Her hair’s pulled onto her head in a messy top-knot thing, it looks on-purpose messy, not straggly. I learned the hard way that the distinction is an important one for some women.
She doesn’t have a trace of makeup on her face, and she’s smiling down at…
Jesus fucking Christ, it’s me.
I mean, it’s not me, because, well, I’m me, but it’s a tiny version of me. He has the same button nose, his hair slicks up in the front like in the millions of photos Mom has of me as a kid.
His hair is red like his mom’s, but everything else about the kid is me. The shape of his face, the slope of his nose, the cheeky grin with adorable dimples. He’s like a mini me. I must be hallucinating. It’s not one of the symptoms of concussion, but maybe something’s playing with my brain right now.
I need air. Pushing to my feet, I mutter that I’m going to take a leak and beeline for the bathroom. Leaning over the sinks, I stare at myself in the mirror. I can’t have seen what I thought I saw, right?
I’d know if I had a child. Especially one that’s walking, talking, and eating a Kids-Rite like a badass.
I splash water on my face, as cold as I can get it, dry off, and do it again. There’s no way I have a kid, pretty sure I’d remember if I conceived a fucking child. For a long moment I stare at the ink on my arm, tracing over the numbers etched into my skin under the firecracker tattoo. Is that his birthday?
Math could fit, but how can I not remember my own child?
They’re gone by the time I get back to the table, and my food’s gone too. That’s what I get for leaving it unattended around these assholes.
My stomach’s queasy though, and I don’t even want my half-empty float. The background noise of the restaurant is suddenly deafening. Every fork clinking against a plate, every glass being placed on the table, every time the front door opens—it’s all magnified. My head throbs.
There’s a nagging at the back of my brainthat what I saw is what I fucking saw. But I don’t know the first thing about reaching out and contacting her. If I did, what would I say? Oh, hey, is that my kid? She’d probably dump another glass of something on my head.
I have no idea what the hell to do. If he’s my kid, I want to step up, be his dad, but taking on a kid while I’m in college trying to get a break and get into the NHL… Fuck. That’s a lot.
It’s more than a lot.
There’s a chance I’m overreacting, seeing things I want to see. Maybe there’s some day-dreaming analyst who can tell me what it means to see yourself in the face of another woman’s kid.
On the other hand, there’s a chance he’s really mine, in which case, I at least need to have a conversation with his mom. And while I have no clue where I could find her, there’s at least one person on the team who could help me.
“Hey, Ares?”
Our goaltender slurps the last of his milkshake before meeting my stare.
