Page 43 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“What did you do then?” Her voice is a whisper full of caring and sadness and yet the admiration is still there. I meet her eyes. Her tears have stopped.
“I went to my room and threw everything I could fit into a bag—not that I had much. Took my dad’s service medal, a photo of him and me, a photo of my grandparents, and my clothes. I took all the money stashed in the jar in the kitchen and the car keys and walked out the back door. My mother ran after me, in a robe, yelling for me to come back, to grow up, and how could I walk in on her, that it was my own fault. I didn’t look at her, let alone talk.”
“Where did you go?”
“I drove to Coach’s house. Told him I could never go home again but refused to tell him why. He said I could stay with him and I said the only way I would is if I worked for my room and board, so he gave me weekly chores. I took over his grown daughter’s room and didn’t complain that it was pink and overpopulated with pillows and frills. His wife was kind and matronly. They were older than my mother by a dozen years.
“One day I came home to find my mom waiting for me, insisting that I come home. I said no. She said I had no choice, that I belonged to her. I said I’d applied for emancipation and would get it any day. She turned white and shut up. Coach and his wife were surprised about the emancipation announcement.
“I’d found out about the emancipation from my best friend, who was fucking brilliant—class valedictorian. I hadn’t applied yet because I’d need an attorney and I didn’t have the money, but Mom didn’t know that. She cried and carried on, but I didn’t give in.
“When she got mean, and made threats, I threatened her right back. ‘I wonder what the prison sentence is for child molesters,’ I said.
Vivvie claps one hand to her mouth and the other to her heart as if she’s protecting her tender heart from evil. Or maybe I shocked her. Either way, I intend to finish my story to the bitter ending.
“Mom went deadly silent then and my coach’s wife slapped her hands to her mouth and almost keeled over, Coach turned white and went to his wife. Then he quietly but firmly told my mother to leave and never come back.
“After that Coach insisted on getting his cousin the lawyer to help me apply for emancipation, so I did. And that’s the whole story. No one else knows it. My fifteen-year old teammate, who shall remain nameless, knows part of the story. We never spoke about it. He was ashamed and confused and mortified. Coach knew part of it, but I never told him it wasn’t me she molested because I didn’t want to call out my teammate. Figured he was having a hard enough time coming to terms. I should have talked to him, had him see a counselor. But I was a confused kid only a year older than him and didn’t know better at the time.
“Besides, he was in it for the sex and that’s what he got.
“Then there’s Mom. She knows her side of the story—whatever that is. She doesn’t know I bluffed her on the emancipation—at least temporarily.
“I drove by her house once. Saw a shiny new pickup in the drive and the grass was overgrown. About what I expected.”
“What about now? Did you ever try reconciliation or getting her some counseling?”
“We talked when I left for junior hockey. Coach insisted. He knew I wasn’t in danger of molestation at that point. I probably should have cleared up the story with him, let him know she never touched me.”
“It’s not too late—”
I look at her, overwhelming sadness settling on me in a smothering layer like soot in the aftermath of an explosion.
“Finn—no, is he?”
“Dead. Passed away not long after I left. I send his wife a Christmas card every year.” She was a kind woman. Reminded me of my grandma.”
“Just a Christmas card?” A skeptical crease lines her forehead.
“Okay, so I put a check in the card. I owe her for rent and chocolate cream pie.”
Vivvie leans in and wraps her arm around me, snuggling close, molding her body to mine like she’s made of Jell-O. The sexiest Jell-O ever made.
“What happened when you went to see your mom?”
“Not much. I gave her a number to call in an emergency. She told me she was sorry. Said she wasn’t drinking anymore. Said that was the root of her problem.”
“Do you think it was?”
I shrug. “I’m no shrink, but it’s a chicken and egg thing if you ask me. Alcohol didn’t help, that’s for damn sure.”
I take a deep breath and admit I’d seen her before that, but only from a distance. “She came to every last one of my games. Even the away ones. Usually alone.” It’s hard for me to admit I noticed, admitting that it meant something to me is a step too far, but I feel it. Know I should acknowledge it. Know I should give her a chance. Maybe.
But I don’t trust her.
Don’t have a tendency to trust women in general. Above all the lessons my mother taught me was to watch out for women who are looking to use me. And that covers just about every one of them when you’re a pro athlete. I don’t tell Vivvie this. Somehow she’s exempt from my mistrust. She shouldn’t be. Vivvie jumped at the chance to be my fiancée like a little opportunist and admitted as much. But she’s about the most nonthreatening person I’ve met since I left home.
“You have no choice, you know.” She’s right. I have to face her.
Fuck.
