So no, Mom. I’m not staying in some cozy fucking cabin with my cheating ex just because he scored a pity invite to my father’s ceremony. But thanks.
“I blame that floozy for flaunting herself at him when your back was turned.” Mom sniffs like she’s discussing a slightly overcooked pot roast instead of my blown-to-shit marriage. “And you know how he is. I don’t think he was ever happy working for his father.”
“Okay, first of all, he messed up his hockey career by being a lazy, entitled dipshit who thought talent excused effort, which is why his sorry ass came crawling back to town in the first place. And second, as a woman, you should know better than to blame the woman.”
“She was your friend.”
“And he was my husband.”
“No relationship is perfect, sweetie.”
“Mom, stop.”
“Would you have stayed with Dad if he’d hooked up with Evie Quinn?”
“You know I can’t stand that woman! Why would you even say that to me?” Mom snaps, turning to glare daggers at Willow.
“Exactly,” my sister says, cutting straight through Mom’s dramatics. “Stop sticking up for the man, especially when said man is a walking, talking sack of crap.”
I catch Willow’s eye and feel that rush of gratitude I always get around my big sister these days. There’s something about the decade between us that works now—she’s flirting with forty, and I’m closer to thirty than twenty, but we’ve finally found our rhythm. We’re just women now—women, sisters, allies, and, right now, she’s my favorite person on the planet.
“I’m sorry, but I just want to see you happy and settled, especially because… well, you know.”
Because I can’t have kids.
Mom’s greatest fear is that I’ll end up alone, as if my empty uterus is some kind of man repellent. But Mikey proved you can be plenty lonely, even with a ring on your finger.
“Listen, let’s not worry about me and what I’m doing. I’m fine.”
This conversation feels way too heavy when Mariah Carey is demanding her Christmas list in the background like a sugar-high toddler. At least she knows what she wants—all I want for Christmas is a time machine to go back and cockblock myself from ever touching my ex.
“So, is there an invite list, or are the awards people handling that?”
“They’ve asked your father about who he’d like there, and ofcourse, he went through friends, family, and old players. Not that they’ll necessarily come, considering he trained a few that made it to the NHL. I imagine they all have fancy lives now.”
I nearly choke, marshmallows and hot chocolate threatening to shoot out of my nose. “Wait—what? Why is the guest list going that far? I thought this was just family and friends.”
My stomach does that thing where it feels like it’s trying to escape through my throat. Becauseold playerscould mean… No. No way. The universe isn’t that much of a bitch. Except it is, and I know exactly which three “old players” are probably topping that sentimental little list.
“I’m not sure. Your dad handled most of it. He just asked me to look into accommodation for anyone who needs it. Oh, and to help him find something to wear.”
“By help, you mean choose,” Willow says, laughing.
“Yes, you know how he is.”
But I barely hear them because now I’m picturing the past walking back into my present, and all I can think is how emotionally unprepared I am for that.
My father's being awarded for his lifetime achievement in coaching and player development. The fancy plaque will say something about his dedication to building one of the country's most successful collegiate hockey programs, but that doesn't even begin to cover it.
It won't mention the countless midnight phone calls from players spiraling after a bad game, a breakup, or a family crisis, or the way he'd open our home to every kid who needed a couch, a meal, or just someone who wouldn’t give up on them. It won't talk about the dinners Mom would cook for entire teams or how Dad would sit at our kitchen table until ungodly hours, drawing up plays and reviewing game tapes.
He's a hard-ass, always has been. He's the kind of coach who'dmake his players skate suicides until their legs felt like jelly, then turn around and drive them to the emergency room himself if they got hurt. His players either worshipped him or wanted to run him over with the team bus—sometimes both in the same day—but they all respected him. Because beneath that gruff exterior and the endless drills, they knew he'd go to war for any one of them. And now he's finally being recognized for twenty-five years of early morning practices, of molding cocky teenagers into solid men, and building not just a program but a legacy.
I stick around through lunch, working through Mom’s never-ending to-do list. Eventually, Willow and I make our escape, slipping out into the crisp December air before Mom can find another reason to keep us hostage.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my mom, but sometimes she lives in this Hallmark movie version of reality where every problem can be solved with a cup of cocoa and a heart-to-heart. Meanwhile, Willow and I are stuck in the real world, where ex-husbands cheat, and happy endings aren’t guaranteed.
Willow buckles Aaron and Hannah in, shuts the back door with her hip, and leans against the driver’s side.
