Page 49 of The Groupie

“Have the doctor forward me a full report. You have twelve days. Don’t take another minute, or you’re off the team. And at the end of that time, I want a follow-up visit with the doc and a copy of that report verifying that you’re good to compete.”

“What about my mother?”

“What about her, Rylee? You want to compete in the Olympics or not?” He waves a hand. “She has Suzie. Let Suzie take care of her.”

“Fuck you, Chuck—”

“She’ll be ready,” I say, and now I sweep Rylee away to the garage elevator and my car.

“You had no right to tell him I’d be ready.” Her eyes burn holes in the side of my head while I drive the car.

“You’re not wrong. But no harm, no foul. If you’re ready, then you go to the Olympics. If not, then you tell him in twelve days you’re not going.”

“Shut up, you jerk.” She covers her face with her hands.

“It’s okay, Buttercup. I was trying to look out for you, but it’s not because I don’t think you can take care of yourself.”

“Then why?” she asks, looking at me through her fingers.

I almost laugh but think better of it and look away to hide a grin. “Because you’ve taken some serious blows in the past…however many days…since I’ve known you. And Chuck didn’t seem to care.”

“You are such a jerk. A big fat nice jerk.”

Now, I laugh. “Where to?”

“My house.” She rattles off the address, and I put it in my navigator. It only takes twenty minutes to get there after one wrong turn, where she takes the opportunity to call me out.

When I pull to the curb in front of the ramshackle house, I ask, “Do I get to come in and meet Mamma Cass?”

“No.” She softens the blow with a smile. “There could be crying and drama, and I know how you hate that.”

“Right. How about if I pick you up later?”

“You never know.”

Fuck. I get out of the car and help her out, then walk her to the door, ignoring her protest.

“Don’t worry. I won’t barge in.”

As we reach the door, it opens, and an older woman with gray helmet hair and oversized rhinestone glasses stands there, grinning as she stares at me.

“You must be the handsome hockey hunk I’ve heard tell about. Come right in.”

“You must be the beautiful and kind Mamma Cass,” I say.

“Don’t—” Rylee doesn’t get any further before Mamma shushes her, and I bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from laughing. I help Rylee inside, and Mamma Cass takes me by the hand, pulling me through the cozy living room to an old-fashioned kitchen. It reminds me of my grandma’s house.

She makes Rylee sit in the rocking chair and sits at the table with me after getting us each a drink of something. I don’t ask what.

“Your ankle?” she asks Rylee.

“I’ll live. Probably snowboard.”

“The Olympics?”

“Hell yeah. They’re not going to keep me from that if I have to go to a rogue doctor for a faked report to get it done.”

I smile, though her attitude is on the edge of frightening. Mamma Cass turns to me.

“And what about you, Mr. Hockey Player? What exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?”

Having picked the exact wrong moment to pick up my glass of unknown liquid, I try to swallow it and half choke, half spit it on the table. My eyes water.

“What is that?”