The train rolls into the station around nine o’clock, and since it’s actually not raining this morning I decide to walk home instead of Uber’ing it. I breathe in the crisp spring air, inhaling the familiar scent of salt and fish and seaweed. Gloucester is a fishing town, the country’s oldest seaport, which means you can’t walk five steps without seeing a lighthouse, a boat, or something nautical. I pass three consecutive houses with decorative anchors hanging over the front doors.
The two-story house where I grew up resembles most of the other homes lining the narrow streets. It has white siding, a sloped roof, and a pretty front garden that Mom tends to religiously. The garden in the backyard is even more impressive, a testament to her green thumb. The house is small, but it’s just the three of us, so we’ve always had more than enough room.
My phone rings as I’m approaching the porch. It’s Hazel. I stop to answer the call, because she’s supposed to show up this afternoon for the game. “Hey,” I greet her. “You still coming to Cambridge later?”
“Never. I’d die before betraying my school.”
“Oh shut up. You don’t even like hockey. You’re coming as a friend, not a fan.”
“Sorry, yes, of course I’m coming. It’s just fun to pretend we have a massive rivalry. You know, a forbidden relationship. Well, friendship,” she amends.
“There’s nothing forbidden about our friendship. Everybody knows you’re my best friend and nobody cares.”
There’s a slight pause. “True. So, what are you up to right now? If you want, I can drive up early and chill with you until the game.”
“I’m about to walk into my folks’ house. Mom’s cooking up a special game-day breakfast.”
“Aw, I wish you’d told me. I would’ve joined you.”
“Yeah right. That would have required you waking up before eight o’clock. On a Saturday.”
“I totally would’ve done that,” she protests.
“‘The world doesn’t exist before nine a.m.’ That’s a direct quote from you, Hazel.” I chuckle.
“What are we doing to celebrate after you win today? Oooh, how about a fancy dinner?”
“Maybe? I’m sure the boys will want to go out partying, though. Oh, and I’ve got somewhere to be around ten. You can come with if you want.”
“Depends what it is.”
“Remember Danny Novak? His band’s playing in the city tonight. It’s their first gig, so I promised I’d be there.” Danny was a teammate of mine in high school. One of the best stick handlers I’ve ever seen, and that dexterity with his hands serves him well as a guitarist, too. He never could choose what he loved more, hockey or music.
“What kind of music do they play?”
“Metal.”
“Ugh. Kill me now.” Hazel sighs. “I’ll let you know later, but right now it’s a tentative no from me, dawg.”
I snicker. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Yup. Tell your parents I said hi.”
“Will do.”
I hang up and walk through the unlocked front door. In the small entryway, I toss my hockey jacket on one of the iron coat hooks, which are shaped like—what else—anchors. “Mom?” I call as I unlace my boots.
“Hi, baby! I’m in here!” Her greeting wafts out from the kitchen, along with the most enticing aroma.
My stomach growls like a grumpy bear. I’ve been looking forward to this breakfast all week. Some guys don’t like to pig out on game days, but I’m the opposite. If I don’t eat a huge breakfast, I feel sluggish and off.
In the kitchen, I find Mom at the stove, a plastic red spatula in hand. The hunger pangs intensify. Fuck yeah. She’s making French toast. And bacon. And is that sausage?
“Hey. That smells fantastic.” I saunter over and plant a kiss on her cheek. Then I raise my eyebrows. “Nice earrings. Are those new?”
With her free hand, she rolls the shiny pearl on her right earlobe between her thumb and index finger. “Aren’t they pretty? Your father surprised me with them the other day! I’ve never owned pearls this big before.”
“Dad did good.” Rory Connelly knows the secret to a healthy marriage. Happy wife equals happy life. And nothing makes my mother happier than shiny baubles.
She turns to face me. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cheeks flushed from the stove, she appears way younger than fifty-six. My folks had me when they were in their mid-thirties, so she’s constantly referring to herself as an “old mom.” She definitely doesn’t look it, though.
“Hazel says hi, by the way. I just got off the phone with her.”
Mom claps happily. “Oh, tell her I miss her. When is she coming home for a visit? She wasn’t here for the holidays.”
“No, she was at her mom’s this year.” Hazel’s parents got divorced a few years ago. Her dad still lives in Gloucester, but her mom is in Vermont now, so she alternates holidays with them. “She’ll be at the game today. Are you guys coming?”
“I’m afraid not. Your dad won’t be home in time, and you know I don’t like driving on the freeway alone.”
I hide my disappointment. My parents have never been too invested in my hockey career. Dad was always too busy with work to attend any of my games, and Mom just plain wasn’t interested. When I was little, it hurt my feelings. I’d see all my friends’ families in the stands, mine would be nowhere in sight, and envy would flood my chest.
But whatever. It is what is. That’s my attitude about most things. Can’t change the past, don’t cry over the present, don’t stress about the future. It’s all pointless, especially regret.
“Well, try to make it to the finals if we’re playing in them, okay?” I say lightly.
“Of course. Now stop looming over me and go have a seat, superstar. I’ll take care of everything.”
“At least let me set the table,” I argue, trying to grab plates from the cupboard.
She swats my hands away. “No. Sit down,” she orders. “This might be the last time I’ll be able to serve you before you have your own staff waiting on you hand and foot.”
“Nah, that’s not gonna happen.”
“You’ll be a professional hockey player this fall, honey. That means you’ll be famous, and famous people employ household staff.”
I made the mistake of showing my folks the paperwork for my NHL contract, and when they saw how much money I’ll be earning soon (not to mention all the performance incentives my agent persuaded the club to include) their eyes nearly bugged out of their heads. I can’t predict the actual amount I’ll end up bringing in, but the value of my contract is around two million, which is definitely on the high end for a rookie.
According to my agent, that’s what they give the “projected superstars.” Damned if my ego didn’t inflate hearing that. My mother liked it too, because that’s all she calls me now. Superstar.
“I don’t want household staff.” But I chuckle and sit down anyway, because if she wants to spoil me today, why not? She’s partly right. Next year I’ll be in Edmonton, freezing my balls off in the Canadian winters. I’m going to miss Saturdays in Gloucester with my folks.
“Where is Dad, anyway?”
“He’s at the job site,” Mom answers as she turns off the burner.
“On Saturday?” And yet I’m not surprised. My dad is a superintendent for a construction company that specializes in bridges and tunnels, usually handling city contracts. And city contracts mean tight deadlines and a lot of red tape, which in turn means Dad is always under tremendous stress.
It’s the kind of job that gives you heart attacks—literally. He went into cardiac arrest at a bridge site a few years ago, scaring the shit out of Mom and me. I’m surprised she actually let him go back to work, but I suppose he didn’t have a choice. He’s nowhere near retirement age.
“There was a problem there yesterday,” Mom explains. “Don’t ask me what, you know I tune him out when he blabbers on about his bridges. All I know is that it’s crunch time, they need to finish before the winter, and they’re in danger of falling behind because some of the crew are acting like, and I quote, motherfucking morons.”
I bark out a laugh. My father has a way with words. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assure her. “Dad’s good at yelling at people. And he enjoys it, so win-win.”
Mom starts carrying serving plates to the large cedar table that my dad and I built one summer when I was a kid. I try to stab a piece of French toast with my fork and she swats at my hand again. “Wait until I bring everything. And, truth be told, I don’t know if ordering the crew around is bringing your father much pleasure anymore. He’s tired, honey. He’s been doing this job for so long.”
She places a stack of buttered rye toast on the tabletop. “But tell me about you! Are you going to bring home a you-know-what one of these days?”
I play dumb. “A you-know-what? Like, a puppy? A car?”
“A girlfriend, Jake. You need a girlfriend,” she huffs.
“Oh, I do, do I?” I can’t help but tease. My parents have been on my case for a while now about my bachelor status.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “You do. You need a nice, supportive girlfriend. Like Hazel—I still don’t understand why you won’t date Hazel. She’s perfect for you!”
Hazel is always the first candidate whose hat Mom throws into the ring. “I’m not going to date Hazel,” I say, as I’ve said about a dozen times prior. “I’m not interested in her that way.”
“Fine, then go out with someone.”