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“That can absolutely be arranged.” He sounds like he was hoping I’d say that, which I note without examining. “We’ll be in touch about scheduling.”
“Sounds good,” I reply, my chest tight. “Thanks for the call.”
I hang up. I stand outside the athletic complex for a minute with my phone in my hand and the cold air off the practice rink drifting out through the doors. The call I’ve been working toward for three years just got real.
I text Coach from the parking lot: Dan Reiss called. Wants a video conference. Can you be on it?
The reply comes in under two minutes: Absolutely. Well done, Mercer.
I put the phone in my pocket. I get in my car. I sit there for a minute with the engine off, and I think about the Tab on my phone screen, the total that went up on the first of March, and what it’s going to feel like when I can make it zero.
March 6th.
My mom calls at seven-fifteen, before her shift.
She remembers the exact time I was born — seven-oh-three in the morning, she always says, like she’s never going to stop being mildly annoyed that I couldn’t wait another twelve hours. Her voice on the phone is the one she uses when she’s trying to sound normal and also trying not to cry, which is the Laney Mercer birthday voice I’ve known since I was old enough to understand what birthdays were.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Twenty-one.” She exhales. “God.”
“Yeah.”
“You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. Just woke up.”
“Mm.” The nurse’s pause — the one that means she’s assessing without wanting to make it obvious she’s assessing. “Are you eating?”
“Mom.”
“I know, I know. You’re twenty-one now, technically I have to stop asking.” A beat. “I’m not going to stop asking.”
“I know you’re not.”
She laughs, soft. The laugh that sounds like the apartment on Birch Street, like all the Sunday mornings she came home from nights still in her scrubs and made us both coffee anyway. “Tell me about Charleston. You were very vague. A friend, you said.”
“It was a good trip.”
“A friend who needed you to go with her to South Carolina for a whole weekend.”
I look at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“Theo.”
“She’s — it’s good. I’ll tell you more when I see you again. It’s new, and we’re still figuring things out.” Not a lie. Margo asked for time, gave me the logical explanation, and I agreed.
“Okay.” She says it easily, which is how Mom handles most things she’s decided to wait on. She doesn’t push. She logs it and comes back to it when the time is right. “How’s the season?”
“Good. Two wins from conference finals.”
She makes the sound she’s made at every milestone since I was eleven — this specific exhale that means I know what this cost you and I’m proud of you for it. ”And after that?”
“Frozen Four, if we get there.”
“When you get there.” Her voice is firm in the way that allows no argument.
