6. Matt #2
To be fair, I spend most of my time at the rink. Getting a pet would be selfish because I’m rarely here. It would also probably make me spend more time at home, and I can’t possibly sacrifice that when we’re about to start playoffs. But sometimes, it feels a little quiet in here.
I’ve dated before, but it’s been a couple of seasons since I actually went out or hooked up with anyone.
I don’t even know if I fuck right at this point.
But it’s better this way. I spend all my time on hockey and not fucking anyone up mentally because I can’t process my own emotions before I react sometimes.
My phone chimes, tearing me from my thoughts, which I’m thankful for because I could feel the direction they were heading in and a spiral is not something I need right now.
It’s a text from my mom. It’s eleven thirty. She’s usually asleep.
Mom: Can we call quick? I saw you just got home.
Sharing my location with my mother has been both a blessing and a curse. She can see when I’m home or at the rink, so I don’t feel bad when I miss a call or text from her because now she only calls when I’m here.
The bad side is, I think she has notifications set up that alert her to my arrival at home because she’s creepily good at predicting it. Too good.
It’s late. I’m sure my dad is already in bed.
Nighttime is harder on him. His memory worsens, his attitude is more pointed, and his words are sharp.
My mom and I both know he doesn’t mean it when he lashes out.
He’s just tired and confused, and he doesn’t understand.
But that doesn’t make it any easier to live through.
I should visit more. I need to visit more …
but, fuck, seeing him dwindle away guts me completely.
Self-loathing rakes down my back at the guilt for not being there more for my mom and my dad.
It’s not fair to her that she has to handle most of this on her own; she has the caretakers, but that’s not the same as having her son by her side.
I’ll go back soon.
You said that two months ago, my nagging mind reminds me.
I mean it this time. I’ll go back soon to visit.
Quickly, I answer my mom before I can talk myself out of saying yes. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her or my dad, but it feels so heavy sometimes that I can’t handle it. I’d rather ignore it entirely, forget. But that’s not realistic, and it’s not fair to anyone involved.
Yeah. Now’s good.
She FaceTimes me not a second later, her and my dad appearing on the screen.
I answer it with a smile that’s nowhere near my eyes, plopping down on my bed with a grunt and groan. “Hey, guys.”
“Hey, Matty.” My mom’s face lights up, as if a fire illuminates behind her eyes. The way only a mother can look at you.
“What are you doing up so late?”
“Give me the phone. I want to talk to him.”
It takes me a second to recognize my dad’s voice. It’s harsher than I remember, dry and raspy, like he’s parched.
A hand flashes in front of the camera, fingers flailing for the phone, and my mom’s face falls slightly.
“Here, dear. Say hello.”
She lets him take the phone, and he lowers it to an awkward angle, only the top half of his face on the screen, but my mom helps him adjust it so I can see both of their faces fully.
“Hi, son!”
Excitement stretches across his mouth, a wide, oversize grin making my heart jump. There’s always a split second when I wonder if this will finally be the time. The time he doesn’t know who I am.
It’s what I’ve feared the most since his diagnosis. My mom said it hasn’t happened yet. He still has his memories, minus the last few years, which have been fading. Some days are better than others.
“We won our game tonight,” I tell him, watching his smile grow even bigger.
He pumps his fist into the air, nearly dropping the phone, but thankfully, my mom keeps it steady.
“That’s my boy! A winner!” he cheers, the excitement turning to a laugh, then cough.
My mom rubs his back, turning to look at him, and my heart shatters. The love in her eyes is immeasurable. But deep, soul-ripping pain lingers in her blue irises right alongside it.
I can’t fathom spending my entire life with someone, and then one day, they start fading away right in front of you.
It’s a blessing and a curse. Blessing because how lucky are you to have so many years together?
But a curse to lose the person you love while they’re still with you.
It’s like you are forced to mourn them twice, once long and drawn out and once in the blink of an eye, both pain lasting an eternity.
My dad leans away, reaching for something.
“Wait, honey. I’ll get it for you,” my mom says a second before her eyes slam shut and a glass smashes to the ground, the sound of liquid splattering about.
A moment of clarity, more than I’ve seen tonight at least, finds him. “God, I’m sorry! Ugh. I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay, dear. I’ll help.” She smiles at him, a deep sadness in her eyes.
Embarrassment paints his cheeks, and my heart aches. This has to be horrifying for him, too, and so confusing. It’s not fair. He’s spent his entire life putting his health first, making the right choices, just to lose himself at the age of sixty-nine.
My parents weren’t going to have any kids. After years of fertility treatments and throwing the book at the wall, they gave up, but they got pregnant a year later, and here I am. They’ve always called me their miracle baby.
Best goddamn parents in the world.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Matty. I’m going to get him all settled in.” My mom stands up, leaving the camera view. “I love you.”
I can hear it in her voice—a vibration of emotion she doesn’t want anyone to notice. But I always do, and I feel it too.
“I love you guys so much,” I tell them, smiling at the camera with watery eyes.
“Love you, buddy.” He grins big at the screen, like there’s nothing else in the world to see.
I end the call, and a tear runs down my cheek.
The nickname is sweet, but it cuts like a thousand knives because he hasn’t called me buddy since I was in middle school. My mom says he’s doing okay and remembering things well enough, but I can't shake the horrifying itch in the pit of my stomach that either she’s not being honest or she’s wrong.
I swipe out of the FaceTime app and open Instagram, immediately checking my notifications and finding tags from my team, the organization, and a few hockey podcast groups discussing the game tonight.
All of them are praising me, and even though I still feel the weight of the goal I let in pushing down on my chest, I feel a spike of serotonin hit my system. But not as much as I do when I see the next notification come through.
Shay Rooney liked your photo.
No way.
What photo? How old is the post? Was she stalking my page?
Going back to the home page in the app and opening notifications, I’m left dumbfounded. There’s no notification from Shay. It’s vanished.
Am I crazy?
No, no, no. I know I saw that notification. One hundred percent.
She must’ve unliked it. That has to be it.
A laugh bubbles up inside me, and I bite down on my lip. It must have been a ways back for her to unlike it so quickly. Little stalker. She was creeping on my page.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I prop myself up on my elbows and search her name, tapping on her account.
Two can play at this game.
Scrolling hard and down a couple times, I find a picture of her in her Mavericks gear on the ice and double tap. But unlike her, I don’t remove it. Instead, I scroll back up to the top of her page and tap into the messages.
I could say something playful … even though it’s inappropriate for me to do so since she could become my coach. I could say something sweet and flirty, really pushing the boundaries.
Wait … what is that?
I’ve sent her messages before? I don’t remember that at all. What the hell?
My brain is reading them as fast as they can, and the way my body turns inward on itself sends shivers down my spine.
Oh God, I drunk-texted my new coach? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Matt: Shay, you’re a badass and so fuckong beautiful. I’d livr to take you out sometime.
Matt: We coulf go to the aquariub.
Matt: Or to The Penalty Box for a drinl.
Matt: I’m here now, just come here.
Matt: Why wait when I already know we’re soulmates?
Thank God I stopped there. Although I should have stopped at the first message.
Granted, they were from over a year ago, so it’s not so bad, but it doesn’t make the embarrassment any less excruciating. It’s way too late for me to unsend them. I just hope she didn’t see them before, and I pray to God she never opens our messages.
Dammit. She might’ve won this round after all.