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He scoffs. “Bree goes through nannies like they’re diapers.”
“Bree does or you do?”
He glares at me while he stabs his fork into his pasta. “My mom hasn’t liked any of them either. The search is being tabled for the moment. I’ll know the perfect nanny when I meet her. You still seeing your karaoke girl?”
That’s what they’ve decided to call Deanna since I won’t reveal her name. I shake my head.
“Something happen?” EJ asks. He’s brave to ask, but we’ve become a bit of friends. Not to say my teammates aren’t my friends, but we don’t normally hang out if hockey isn’t involved in some way. My mom was a single parent and EJ is raising his daughter with the help of his mother. I’ve offered to babysit. He’s never taken me up on the offer, but he’s invited me over to hang out and his daughter kind of likes me. So, we hang out some, which is why he probably feels he can ask.
“Season started,” I answer.
“So? You don’t fuck during the season?”
“Leave me alone, EJ.” I don’t like talking about this shit and I’m not talking about it with him, especially when so many of my teammates are around. No wonder my friends are few and far between. I keep to myself too much.
“Okay, okay. Want to see the latest picture of Bree that Ma sent me?” He’s already pulling his phone out, and his daughter is a more enjoyable topic of conversation than I am.
Soon, we’re on the ice for a game against Detroit. Our season is off to a hot start, having won four of our five previous games. I try not to think too much about past games or future games. Only the here and now. Only what’s right in front of me.
Right now, the puck is on my stick. We’ve had a few opportunities to score so far, but no one has slipped the puck past either goalie. I want to change that. I don’t have an opening, so I pass to Nathan O’Donnell, who is waiting. He rears his stick back, the puck flies through the air, hits the arm of a player, but still makes it past the goalie.
One to zero.
We work hard, once spending almost two minutes in Detroit’s zone peppering their goalie with shots and keeping them from clearing the zone. It also wouldn’t truly be the start of the season if I didn’t hook one of their players. It’s my first hooking penalty of the season. I don’t know why I have this bad habit or why I can’t seem to rid myself of it, but I hate it. It’s like the same way my muscles are familiar with skating, they’re familiar with reaching out and hooking someone.
I’ve been able to reduce the number of times I do it a season, so there seems to be hope that I can eliminate the habit altogether. My team is able to kill off the penalty with only a few close calls. Once I make it back to the bench, Marco slaps my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“We placed bets on when you’d get your first hooking penalty and a few of us, myself included, had this game.”
“Fuck off.” I shove him away. He’s the exact type of person who can be distracting during a game. That’s fine...if he’s distracting our opponent.
I get onto the ice for my shift, happy to focus on the one thing that matters the most to me. This is all I have and it won’t last forever. I plan to give it two hundred and ten percent, which means I don’t have room for anything, or anyone, else.
“My birthday is coming up.”
I laugh. “Yeah, Mom. I know. I’m shopping for your present today.”
She gasps, but it’s all for dramatic effect. “You’re just now shopping for my present, Brayden?”
“Cut me some slack. I was on the road for the past two weeks.”
“Which is the perfect time to find me something while you’re traveling.”
“Too late for that now. Is there anything in particular you want?” I ask.
“Oh,” she starts and I can picture her waving her hand. “You know I don’t need anything.”
True, but... “Not what I asked.”
She’s quiet for a moment before finally admitting that she would like a new clock for her mantel. That’s my mom; the most exciting thing she can ask her son for is a clock. She doesn’t like asking for anything, though, after having raised me on her own with little help. She’s stubborn, too. When she gives in and tells me what she wants, best believe that’s what she gets.
We talk while I drive, but hang up once it’s time for me to shop. My mom doesn’t ask if there is a woman in my life. She gave that up a few years ago. Should it mean something when a mother doesn’t ask her only son about any potential wives and, by extension, grandchildren? It seems as if she’s given up on that idea. It’s not that it’ll never happen, but it’s not my current focus.
And yet...
