Page 56 of He Has Game (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“What fucking plan? You’re not involved—”
“No, she didn’t tell me about it. But so what if I was? She’s trying to help you.”
“So she says. But she’s a devious selfish woman, you don’t know her. Stay away from any scheme she comes up with, you hear me?”
She nods, looking chastised. Maybe she finally gets where the lines are drawn. Maybe it’s hard for her to understand a mother who’s not loving since she obviously has one—a normal mother who cares about her first. Who doesn’t go looking for men in bars to keep her company rather than her own fucking son.
When she starts to move, I grip her wrist, holding her hand on my face.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t say what I’m sorry for because fuck if I can define it, put it into words.
“Trust me,” she says.
I look into those eyes and the emotional confusion untangles, not all the way, but enough for my heart to calm down and ease the tension in my chest. She caresses my back and I take her into a close hug, not caring that I hear doors slamming nearby, other people around.
Without thinking, I say, “I do trust you.” I wonder if she knows how miraculous it is that I admit this. But based on the triumphant smile on her face, followed by the short but deep kiss, of course she knows. She has my number and I’m finding it hard to be concerned. Except for her, for what it’ll do to her when I leave. When this is all over after the playoffs.
“We need to take your mother with us to the Veterans shelter tomorrow,” she says.
Fuck. I’d forgotten all about our commitment to make that visit, but it’s okay because I’m instantly looking forward to it, to stealing some time from the team bubble to spend with Vivvie. There’s so much wrong with that sentiment, but I’m caught up in her warmth and can’t deal with it right now.
“Wait—did you say my mother is coming with us?” I automatically think maybe she wants to pick up an old soldier, knowing it’s an absurd and irrational thought left over from almost ten years ago. Besides, I force myself to acknowledge, she likes them young.
“Yes, and her fiancée is coming with us too.”
“Her fiancée? You mean her latest sugar daddy.”
“No, she’s really engaged. I met him. He’s a veteran and he wants to come along. He’s in from Canada to stay with her until the end of the playoffs.”
It’s a lot to take in. I’m not even sure where my mother is staying or why and how she’s still here. The allowance I’ve been sending her would hardly pay for an extended trip like this now that I think about it for a second. Shit. He is a sugar daddy whoever he is. But I’m not gong to convince Vivvie of this, so I don’t try.
Not that it matters. Once my mother gets a photo taken with me and the Stanley Cup, she’ll disappear. That has to be the reason she’s sticking around, to soak in the second hand celebrity. Although that’s new for her, not something she’s ever done before. Maybe life’s thrills are getting harder to come by as she gets older and she needs this one.
We go out and dinner is stilted although her sugar daddy, Neil Cameron is attentive to my mother, she gives me and Vivvie more attention. She’s using him. I’m convinced. And the poor fucker, who seems to be genuine and decent, doesn’t get it. He also seems to be well off, owns some kind of construction business. And surprise of surprises, he did buy her a diamond and talks openly of wanting to marry my mother.
Good luck to both of them.
When dinner is finally over and we’re out in the parking lot at our cars, my mother stops me. I stiffen because I don’t want to hear whatever she thinks she has to say.
“Finn, look, you don’t need to send me money anymore,” she says.
I’m skeptical as fuck, but I stare her down and her chin goes up. I remember that pride she shows now and then. That’s when I know for sure the engagement is real. That’s when the oddest sensation spreads through me and my head gets clogged with confusing emotions.
Resistance to the idea of her not needing my money overtakes me, as if I need to keep that piece of her, that relationship or sick bond that we have, that I always thought I couldn’t stand, that I didn’t want, that I avoided. And now that it’s about to disappear, the one link I’ve maintained with my mother, that check I hand write to her every month, my gut churns in protest.
