My apartment is in the West 60s, a one-bedroom in a prewar building with high ceilings. I picked it because it's quiet and clean. It’s also fifteen minutes from the arena and an hour from Long Island.
I take the elevator up and unlock my front door. The smell of food hits me before I'm through the doorway.
Mom is in my kitchen.
She's at the counter unpacking a canvas tote bag full of glass containers.
There are already six of them lined up on the counter. Soup, what looks like a pasta bake, grilled chicken portions, and a container of roasted vegetables. The fridge is open, and she's rearranged the shelves.
My protein shakes are on the bottom shelf now instead of the top. The leftover Thai food I ordered two days ago is gone.
“You threw out my Thai food,” I say.
“It was old, Logan. How long was that in there?”
“Two days.”
“That's too long for takeout. You don't know what's in that stuff.” She holds up a glass container of soup. “I made chicken and vegetable. It's good for your joints.”
I set my gym bag down by the door. “You don't have to do this, Mom.”
“I know I don't have to, but I like doing it.” She opens my freezer and starts stacking containers inside. “You looked tired at the game on Wednesday.”
“I always look like that.”
“Are you sleeping?” She asks, ignoring what I just said. “You need at least eight hours during the season. Your father read an article about sleep and recovery in hockey players.”
“I'm sleeping fine.”
She closes the freezer, turns around, and looks at me the way she used to look at me before games when I was twelve, checking if I'd eaten enough and slept enough. I'm twenty-eight years old, and she still does it.
“I also brought groceries,” she continues. “Eggs, whole wheat bread, and those Greek yogurts you like. Oh, and bananas too. You never buy fruit.”
I frown a little. “I buy fruit.”
“You buy apples, and you let them go brown on the counter.” She folds the canvas tote and sets it on the counter. “There. You're set for the week. All you have to do is heat it up.”
“Thank you, Mom.”
I’m itching for her to leave. I want to take my time getting ready for drinks with Jasmine, but Mom doesn’t seem to be a rush. She runs her hand along the counter and adjusts the hand towel hanging from the oven handle.
“The apartment looks nice,” she says. “A little bare, but nice. It doesn't have personality, though. You've lived here for three years, and there's nothing on the walls. No photos or artwork. There’s no sign that says someone lives here.”
I’m not interested in interior décor. All that matters is that I have a place to call home. But I keep my thoughts to myself. If I voice them, it will turn into a conversation about how I should let her help me decorate.
She picks up her purse from the counter and loops it over her arm. “So what are you up to tonight?”
“Nothing much.”
“Stay in? Rest?”
“Probably.”
She nods and buttons her coat. “Good. You need to rest. Dad wants to go over the game film from Wednesday with you on Sunday, so be prepared for that.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Can’t wait.”
“Don't be sarcastic, Logan. He's trying to help.” She stops at the door. “Sunday dinner?”
