The moment we land I’m scrambling to deplane. I’m anxious to see my parents, my sister and my niece, Shea. I don’t know who will be here to pick me up and it honestly doesn’t matter because knowing that I’m home is a big stress reliever.
As soon as my feet hit the steps, I see my dad waving. It looks like he’s chatting with the bus drivers that will take the rest of my teammates and all our gear to the hotel the team is staying at. Every bag that was checked when we boarded will be taken to the hotel. I packed extra in a carry-on so I can stay with my parents.
My dad’s arms wrap around my shoulders tightly as we embrace. “So happy you’re home,” he says, patting my back. He has no idea how much I need this hug. I don’t care how old you are, hugs from your parents are a necessity.
“Me too,” I tell him, returning the sentiment. This is the only time they’ll see me play unless they come to Boston or pick up an away game along the way. If I had been drafted by a West Coast team, they’d see me more. I know they miss watching me play, and college spoiled that for them. Being close meant they were at most of my games.
“Is mom still up?’ I ask, knowing it’s late, and she takes care of Shea during the day so my sister can work and not have to worry about daycare.
“She sure is. You know she’d stay up waiting for her baby boy to come home.” My dad ruffles my hair and smiles. It doesn’t matter how old I am, or what my profession is, I’ll always be my mom’s baby boy.
The guys all come over and say hi to my dad, shaking his hand or giving him a hug. Last year, my parents came to Boston and my dad hung out on the field with me. The guys treated him so well.
My dad moves his hands to my shoulders, shakes his head and pulls me into another hug. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He takes my bag and I follow him to the car. It’s the same car we had when I was in high school. I tried to buy them a new one when I signed my contract with the Renegades, but they took the money and started a college fund for Shea, something I was planning to do anyway. My parents won’t take anything from me, and it’s sort of nice, but also a pain in the ass because they’ve done so much for me that I want to help them out and make sure they’re comfortable. They refuse to let me help them though.
The drive to my parents’ house takes about a half hour. Seattle and Boston aren’t all that different when you compare the two. Both are harbor cities, although in Boston it’s called “the harbah”. Both have these amazing waterfronts, along with excellent places to eat and shop. Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market remind me of Pike’s Market, minus the fish throwing. And the weather is similar. I think that is why I love Boston so much; it feels like home and has since the day I arrived.
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until the car shuts off. “Sorry for dozing,” I say to my dad as I come to and reach for the handle. No sooner do I step out of the car and shut the door than I hear my mother squealing. Her arms are flung around me before I have a chance to gather myself and we fall back against the car.
“You’re home,” she says sweetly into my shoulder.
“I am. I wish it were for longer though.” I set my mom down, and she cups my cheeks.
“Promise me you’ll come home this winter.”
“I promise,” I tell her, meaning it. There really isn’t a reason for me to stay in Boston through the winter. The housekeeping service I use can check on my house, or I can sublet it to someone. Coming home will do me some good.