44. Jamie
Jamie
After our day on the beach, the team and I make our way into Benchmark Arena to watch the Maryland-Arizona game, meeting Coach Winchester and the rest of the coaches at the door.
Danielle came to watch her brother play, her and some of the girls sitting in the crowd with her parents.
Maya isn’t here, though. She got a call from her mom asking to meet for dinner while she’s nearby.
Her mom picked her up from the beach before the rest of us had to Uber back to the hotel in time for tonight’s game.
I haven’t heard a whole lot about Maya’s mother other than she’s crazy judgmental and Maya avoids talking to her as much as possible. But she agreed to dinner tonight because she said her mom was pretty well-behaved at Christmas, so she decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
Taking our seats a few rows up from the glass, I find myself sandwiched between Drew and Colt, with Coach Winchester directly in front of me.
“Jay, can I use your phone? I didn’t charge mine when we got back from the beach. I want to text Nana and make sure things at home are going good,” Drew asks.
“Yeah, for sure,” I say, passing him my phone. Drew’s Nana is one of the sweetest people on the planet, and I know he worries about her taking care of his grandfather all by herself when he’s gone for long stretches like this.
Hearing our conversation, Coach turns his head slightly, looking at me from the row below. “Got yourself another new nickname, Captain?” he asks after a moment. His voice is light, but the unspoken question veiled below his superficial curiosity sits heavily between us.
“Yeah, I guess I did,” I answer, guarded. Coach nods once, then turns back to face the ice without another word.
The game is absolute madness. Maryland plays as dirty as ever—only Kingston seems to be toning down his violence for once, and I can’t help but think it’s because he knows we’re watching, and doesn’t want to give us any more reason to hate him before he transfers.
By the end of the second period, two Maryland players and one Arizona player have been ejected for fighting.
In the end, though, Maryland wins anyway. Maryland wins, and every word of the speech I gave last night in the locker rooms fades from my teammates heads as they realize we have to play them one last time.
The walk back to the hotel is somber; soft murmurs of anxiety and hands in pockets spread through our ranks like a disease.
In the lobby, everyone goes their separate ways after Coach’s attempt to rally. We’re to be back at the rink bright and early for warm up, but nothing too strenuous before game-time. We’ve got the advantage of being well rested, unlike Maryland, who’ll be playing back-to-back games.
“Maya back from her mom’s yet?” Drew asks softly as we walk behind everyone else toward the elevators.
“I don’t know; let me ask,” I say, shooting Maya a quick text to which she responds almost immediately saying she’s about ten minutes away from the hotel. “She says she’s almost here. I’m going to stay down here and wait for her, I think. Make sure she gets in okay.”
“Alright. I’m going to grab a quick shower and go over to Chloe and Dani’s room,” he replies.
“You really don’t have to do that, man. I promise, we’re fine. We’d both rather you get a good night’s sleep before the game.”
“And I’d rather you shut up and be grateful for your amazing best friend and wingman,” he shoots back with a grin. “Remember who you’re talking to, Cap. I could sleep on a hardwood floor with a brick as a pillow.”
I roll my eyes but acknowledge that he’s right; the man can literally sleep anywhere. “Fine. Thanks, Drewski. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He bumps the back of his fist against mine before catching the elevator and heading up.
Wandering around the ornate lobby, I find myself in a dimly lit ballroom with marble floors and gold chandeliers, a grand piano off to one side. Stopping in front of it, I play a couple chords, pleased to find it in tune.
It’s been a long time since I played a piano—the one instrument I didn’t learn entirely from my father.
My mother loved listening to classical music, orchestral music, but she also simply loved music full of emotion.
She called it “feeling” music. Music so passionate and raw it gave you goosebumps, with or without lyrics.
She’d taught herself to play the piano, though in our small apartment, we only had a little electric keyboard.
She taught me to play a bit, too, though I was too young to take it seriously. I couldn’t even read sheet music, but she taught me where to place my fingers and how to play certain chords, and I would play a few melodies from her favorite songs by ear.
When I went to live with Ross, he got me into music lessons, which I didn’t hate. I learned to sing, learned to play the base and guitar, and learned to play the piano properly.
As if in a trance, I take a seat on the bench and play a few more notes until the sounds morph into the opening tune of “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol—the song I remember her playing most often.
Lost in the music, I play through the entire melody from memory, and I’m transported back to being six years old, sitting on her lap, trying to stretch my little fingers out to reach the keys.
The song ends and my fingers still, the silence around me suddenly deafening in the large empty room. Softly, footsteps fall across the floor behind me, and I turn to see a halo of golden curls; my very own angel on earth.
“That was beautiful,” she whispers, taking a seat on the bench beside me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, dodging her comment, needing to come back down from the unexpected high of emotion I just took myself on before I can talk about my mom aloud. “I was going to wait for you in the lobby, but I got distracted.”
“That’s alright. I’m glad I found you in here. I was in a shit mood, but hearing you play made me forget all about it.”
Turning so that I can face her properly, I see that she looks exhausted. “What happened?”
“My mom… She just always has to throw around comments and critiques like they aren’t hurtful.
” She huffs out a heavy sigh before continuing.
“We went to the mall before dinner; it was supposed to be a fun little shopping trip, but instead she spent the entire time making remarks about how unflattering the things I picked up would look.
Like, I saw this really cute green dress I thought about getting to wear to your graduation, but then she commented about how maybe I should find something less ‘form fitting’ and I just wanted to scream.
“Then at dinner, I ordered salmon and rice and a salad, and apparently that was just too much food for one person—even though I picked the healthy option when I really wanted pasta!”
I frown at the tears of frustration brimming in her eyes, pulling her to my chest. Maya is strong and fierce and outgoing. Most of the time, her confidence is contagious. The way her mother has the ability to take all of those traits from her kills me.
“Hey, shh, baby, it’s alright. I’m sorry she hurt you.”
Maya nestles her face into me, letting me hold her close as she lets out her vulnerable side—a side I don’t see very often because she’s always trying to be strong for me.
“I…I go back and forth all the time. I’m happy the way I am.
I love the way I look: my hair, my tattoos, my piercings.
I’ve created an image I like seeing in the mirror.
But then, some days, I wake up and I can’t stand what I see.
Her voice is in my head, and suddenly my body isn’t strong, it’s fat.
My hair isn’t curly, it’s a rats’ nest. And then I get angry with myself for letting her get to me! ”
I pull back enough to kiss the top of her head. “I know me saying it right now may sound like I’m just trying to make you feel better—and I am, but that doesn’t make it any less true. You are beautiful, Maya Winchester. Your hair, your eyes, your body, your brain. I love everything about you.”
Rubbing a gentle hand up and down her back, I try to convey the sincerity of my words with my touch.
“I just wish I could block out the intrusive thought’s all the time, you know?
Like I said, it’s not all the time. Mostly, I’ve gotten good at loving myself.
But that small fragment of doubt sneaks in every once in a while, and I just…
” she trails off, unsure how to finish her thought, but I understand nonetheless.
“I’ll do whatever I can’t to help chase those thoughts away.
You tell me when you’re feeling upset, and I’ll worship you until the doubt is gone.
” Deciding a different tactic to try to cheer her up, I add, “Seeing you on the beach earlier and not being able to touch you drove me insane. I want to see you in that red swimsuit every day just so I can take it off of your gorgeous body with my teeth.”
Maya buries her face in her hands, her cheeks going red as she laughs at my candor. “Stop!”
“No, I’m going to keep going until you believe me.
I love the way you scrunch your nose when you’re deep in thought.
I love the way you smile like no one is watching when I can promise you have the attention of the entire room.
I love the way your waist curves out into your hip and ass when you’re bent over for me. ”
“Okay, okay! I believe you! Jameson Booker loves me, thanks for sharing,” she quips, putting her palm over my mouth to stop me from continuing, and I can’t help but laugh behind her hand.
Gently taking her wrist, I pull her hand away. “I do. And you need to love you, too. Because you deserve to love yourself, Maya. You’re perfect, everything about you.”
She leans in, brushing her lips against mine. “Thank you,” she whispers softly. We sit in silence for a few moments, foreheads resting together.
“If your mom really makes you feel that way, you can tell her. She will either understand, and hopefully stop with the comments. Or, at the very least, you’ll have set a boundary, and you don’t have to see her if she continues to cross it.”
“I know. She’s not like that all the time, though. It’s like she has her own bad days, and she has to take everyone else down with her.”
“Then she needs to go to therapy. That’s not an excuse.”
“No, it’s not. Speaking of therapy, how’s yours going?” she asks, segueing into a topic I’ve been avoiding recently—not that therapy is going bad, but I’ve only been going a few weeks I’m still getting used to the open vulnerability.
“Good, I think. I haven’t gotten into talking about my dad with her yet. But we’ve talked about my mom, and we talk about you a lot.” Maya laughs softly at my honesty.
“I’m glad it’s going well, Jamie. I’m proud of you.” Warmth pours into my chest and stomach as I accept the sincerity in her voice. I went so long without having anyone say those words to me, it’s almost uncomfortable to force myself to accept them as truth.
“I remember your mom playing that song,” Maya says, turning back to the piano and changing the topic when she notices me start to fidget. “Will you teach me?”
My thoughts start to settle as I pull her into my lap, her back against my front, and rest my chin on her shoulder. I take her hands in mine, showing her which fingers to place on which keys to make each chord.
A peace like I’ve never known settles in my veins as I hold the love of my life—surrounded by the sound of my mother’s memory.