Page 63 of Playing it Safe

"Where are you staying this summer?” she asks casually, expecting me to go with the flow. “Pop’s fighting with the doctors about his hip. Patrick is—” She pauses. "Patrick is struggling. With the drinking."

"I know about Patrick."

"I know you send money and you call." She reaches across and touches my hand. "But it would be good to have you here, helping out.”

I look at her hand on mine. Her fingers are rough from work and warm from the mug. She's not manipulating me. She's not performing. She genuinely needs a break.

"I'm thinking about things, Ma."

"What things?"

"A lot of things." I squeeze her hand. "Can we talk about it after Briar’s game?”

She nods. She doesn't push. But I catch a flicker in her eyes — not worry, exactly, but awareness. The first crack in her certainty.

My family rants about traffic as I drive to the arena. Pop grumbles when I spring for valet parking. Davey buys an enormous foam finger from a street vendor, and Patrick shows up with bloodshot eyes, smelling like he’s been sweating tequila.

Ma clutches a hockey-puck rosary she brings whenever Boston plays. I admire her steadfast refusal to root against the home team, no matter who she knows on the opposing team.

Nicky was hanging out with friends and meets us there separately, but I nearly choke when I see her. She's wearing a Team USA jersey. BECKETT across the back.

"Nicky." David sighs. "We are in Boston."

"And Briar is an American hero." Nicky crosses her arms. "I'm supporting my future sister-in-law."

"She's not —" I start.

Nicky spins on her heel and walks into the arena.

Ma pats my arm.

I settle into our seats — this time behind the visitors' bench, surrounded by a hostile crowd. Pop pulls his Celtics cap low like he's in disguise. David waves his Uprising foam finger despite being booed.

The game starts, and Briar is locked in. Fierce. She plays the way I've seen her on film when everything clicks — reading two passes ahead, stick like a scalpel, positioning so clean it looks choreographed. Whatever was off in game 2 is gone. She's all the way back.

"She's incredible," Nicky breathes beside me.

She is. I watch her strip the puck from Boston's top forward and transition up ice in one fluid motion. It’s cake from there. Pittsburgh wins 3-1. We're heading home for game 4. The Uprising could win this whole thing in one more game.

I think about Odin asking me where I feel most at home. Not where I live. Not where I'm from. Where my body settles. Where the noise in my head quiets.

It's not this city. I love this city. I love the Murphy Rink, the Red Line, and the way Massholes curse as a sign of affection. I love my family. I love the porch, the flag, my mother's scones, and my father's disapproval of everything except the union.

But I feel most at home in a narrow townhouse in Pittsburgh where a woman makes me coffee in the morning, and a cat sits in the window and my house — which I’m finally upgrading — is six blocks from a group home in Manchester where a young woman with face gems and uneven braids is waiting for me to bring her to the next game.

Home is the meatball joint and even the whiny misfits I call teammates. And I have no idea what to do with that awareness.

We wait for my girl outside the visitors’ locker room. WAGs and family members from both teams cluster in the hallway. I see the Boston players' wives and guy-friends, subdued, heading for the exits. Pop leans against the wall. Ma clutches her purse. Nicky compulsively refreshes Instagram. I realize I don’t give my family enough VIP experiences. I could be flying them down for games, setting them up in a suite. I never offer unless the Fury play Boston.

Before I can analyze that, the locker room door opens, and players start filtering out. Ducky comes first. She sees me and grins. "Mayhem! Your girl was a beast tonight." She high-fives Nicky, who looks like she might faint.

Tate comes out next, then Joey, then a stream of players I wave to. And then Briar.

She looks tired and triumphant. Her hair is damp, her bag over her shoulder. When she sees the Millers, she smiles — but I've studied her game film. I know her tells. Something behind the smile isn't quite there.

Ma hugs her. Pop squeezes her shoulder. Nicky shows her the jersey. Briar laughs and says the right things, and I watch her perform warmth the way she performs competence — flawlessly, automatically, without anyone noticing it's a performance.

Almost anyone.