Page 42 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Do you know anything about your dad? Tell me about him.”
Her request is a command I can’t deny, like she has me on truth serum, like sheistruth serum with her honesty and openness a compelling example.
“My dad was a big man. I take after him. Or so I was told a hundred times by my mother. He was a super athlete and somewhat older than my mother. She never said how much older. She met him when she spent the summer with her cousins in Seattle. He was stationed there and she got pregnant. They were married by a JP and they spentthree blissful years togetheraccording to Mom, but Grandma always rolled her eyes at that part of the story.”
“What happened after three years?”
“He was deployed to the Middle East and was killed a month later.” I can say this without emotion showing. I never even knew him, but the loss hurts, the visceral understanding that I missed out on something vital. “According to Mom, she adored him.”
“You must take after him. Your mom adores you too.”
My jaw clenches and I shake my head. I don’t know if I refuse to believe it or don’t want to believe it because my mother’s the opposite of decent. The opposite of Vivvie.
“His name was Larson Reed. She claims she was the love of his life, though others speculate that she trapped him into getting married. She claims they were crazy about each other, that he adored her as much as she adored him. I’m skeptical based on her behavior since.”
Vivvie leans in, moving her hand to caress my face. I clamp down on my emotions, on that part of me that wants to lean into her warmth, accept her caring. But I know it’s not unconditional, that I would owe her if I take what she wants to give me.
She says, “She can’t be that bad—"
“She’s done nothing but use men for her own gain, never bothered to find a loving relationship like my grandparents had. We lost Grandpa when I was fourteen and then Grandma passed two years later. And then my mother really went downhill.”
“Of course she did,” Vivvie says. “She was still young and dependent on them and it’s always traumatic to lose your parents no matter what.”
“I suppose.” I don’t mention my theory that my mother missed her parents’ money more than their caring or company. “She had a right to feel the loss, but she also had me. Instead of getting through the sorrow together, she left me alone, drank and caroused even more than usual, asking for and taking gifts like a whore.”
“Finn. Don’t say that.”
“Not even if it’s true?”
“No. You know there’s always another side to things. Your mother lost the love of her life and her parents and she was lonely—”
“Don’t make excuses for her yet. I haven’t told you the worst part.”
“The reason for your emancipation?”
Everything in me stills. No one knows about that except my mother and two other people.
“What the fuck? How do you know about that?” I’m too stunned to bother worrying about my language for once. Not that it matters. For all her naïveté and fresh innocence, Vivvie is a tough cookie and no more than superficially fazed by anything I’ve thrown at her.Yet.
“It was in your personnel packet. I got it when—”
“Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m not worried about you. I had no idea the team had that information.” But now that I think about it, Ham told me they do a thorough background investigation when they contract with a player.
“Are you sure?”
I snicker. “Positive. Darlin, having the team or you know about my emancipation is nothing.”
“There’s more to your issue with your mother?”
Without preamble, because let’s face it, there’s no way to soften up what I’m going to tell her and if she’s going to have to deal with my mother, I need her to know what kind of woman she’s dealing with. I don’t want Vivvie blindsided by the selfish, self-centered bitch.
“I was sixteen and got out of practice early one day. I walked in on her.” I keep my eyes averted so I can say what I have to and stay aloof, removed from any emotion, but I hear her intake of breath. Forcing myself to go on is harder than I expect, but I do.
“I saw my friend’s car in the driveway and assumed he was there to visit me, so I went inside. The living room and kitchen were empty, but I heard my mother loud and clear, as if she wanted me to find her. I probably shouldn’t have, but my good sense was disconnected, paralyzed by outrage and confusion at the time, so I crashed through her bedroom door and saw her riding my friend.” I pause, still not looking at her, not hearing anything, not even breathing, but I can feel the tension surrounding us like a living thing.
I finally look at her. Her face is pale and stunned and she has her hand over her heart. But what kills me are the teardrops falling, slow and melancholy. She’s the picture of tragic and I know it’s a reflection of me. But the last fucking thing I want to be is tragic. It’s not who I am. I’m a survivor, so I continue.
“I was sixteen, but my friend, a teammate of mine was younger, barely fifteen. She saw me and she didn’t stop. She kept going, yelling and finishing out her orgasm in a wild frenzy, making my friend go off, as I stood there. When it was over, before either of them had a chance to talk, I slammed the door closed.” I pause, remembering the moment, my hands fisting as the rage wells up, but I let it go. It’s in the past, dead and buried.
