Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jack
“Sorry it’s a little messy,” Maggie says as she steps inside.
Her front door opens right into her eat-in kitchen where there’s a small light wood dining table half covered in papers and stray toys.
The other half has a blue plastic cup sitting on one of the placemats, and that’s clearly the side they eat on.
A baseball bat and mitt lean against the wall in the corner, and a small bookshelf overflows with paper and markers and other craft supplies.
“Do you want water or anything?” she asks, hanging her purse on a hook just inside the door and setting her keys in a little bowl on a shelf next to the hooks.
“Yeah, sure, water would be nice.” I stand in front of the closed front door, hands in my pockets, looking around and taking everything in.
There’s another hook in the hall that I assume leads to the living room where a cluster of child-sized coats hang, a backpack sitting on the floor, and a couple pairs of shoes neatly lined up against the wall next to it.
There’s framed artwork on the walls, both professional and kid drawings. There’s also a signed baseball program in the mix, and a closer look reveals that some of what I initially clocked as watercolor landscapes are actually iconic baseball fields—Wrigley and Fenway from the looks of it.
I knew she was a baseball fan, but I think it goes deeper than she first let on.
I can’t help wondering if that’s because of her ex and his overt dismissal of her as a person and therefore of her interests, or if she’s worried she might offend my hockey player sensibilities by admitting she has such a deep and abiding love of another sport.
Or maybe it’s wrapped up in her professional life?
She can’t let on that she cares more about one sport over another if she’s working in sports media?
Regardless of why she hasn’t made her love of baseball more obvious, I make a mental note to get tickets to the next home game. She mentioned a baseball game before, but I didn’t realize how big of a deal it’d be for her.
“Those are cool prints,” I say, nodding at the watercolors as she brings me a glass of water.
A huge grin spreads across her face as she looks at them, the kind of expression someone only gets when they really love something. “Thank you! I really like them.”
“Have you been to either of those place?”
Swallowing her water, she nods. “I’ve been to Wrigley when I was about twelve or so. My parents and I took a trip to visit family in southern Illinois, but they made sure we went at a time where we could go to a Cubs game and a White Sox game.”
Even though she’s still looking at the paintings, I’m watching her, loving the way her gaze gets soft at the memory. “That sounds like a great trip.”
“It was. I got to spend a bunch of time playing with my cousins, who I didn’t see often but always had fun with.
My grandma had a kitchen full of cookies and other treats that I didn’t get very often.
And I got to go to two baseball games with my parents.
” She shrugs, finally looking at me. “It was about the best trip I could’ve asked for at the time. ”
“And now? What would be a perfect trip for you now?”
Screwing up her face in thought, she sips her water and turns, leading the way into the living room.
There’s a crocheted afghan folded and draped over the back of the brown couch sitting against the wall across from a bookshelf-turned-TV stand.
A dark green comfy-looking chair sits against the adjacent wall, a small end table holding a dated lamp in the corner between them.
Another end table with a mismatched lamp sits on the other end of the couch.
There are a couple of bookshelves flanking the picture window, books on most of the shelves, but a few decorative knickknacks here and there.
A vase of fake flowers sits on top of one and a collection of decorative boxes on top of the other.
Framed photos hang on the wall, school pictures of her son, photos of Maggie holding a baby—I’m assuming also her son—an older couple standing in front of a lake with a mountain in the background. Her parents, I’m guessing.
“I’d like to take Liam more places,” she says at length. “Further down the coast, maybe, then more inland.” She shakes her head. “I haven’t really given it much thought, so I don’t have a good answer. Travel isn’t really in the budget right now, so …” Another shrug.
I don’t know if it’s just that I’m in this mode where I’m trying to make sure she gets to do all things she wants to but doesn’t get to normally, or if it’s more than just that, but I’m seized with the desire to tell her to start planning her dream trip and not to worry about the cost. I keep my mouth shut, though, sipping my water instead.
“What about you?” she asks. “Any dream trip you’d like to take but haven’t gotten to yet.”
Leaning back against the couch, I consider that. “You know? Not really. I travel so much during hockey season that I like staying in one place on my time off.”
“Really?” she sounds genuinely shocked by that statement. “But it’s different, isn’t it? Or it would be. It’s not like you have time for sight seeing when you’re traveling for hockey, do you?”
I shrug. “Not really. I’ve lived a bunch of different places, though, and when I’ve been picked for the Olympics or other international exhibition teams, they always make sure we have some time for sight seeing and exploring the local area.” She just blinks at me, and I can’t help laughing. “What?”
“I, uh, I guess I didn’t realize you’d been to the Olympics. Go USA!” She pumps her arm in the air, making me laugh again.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Canada. I grew up in Ontario.”
Her eyes go wide again. “Wow. Okay. That’s cool. I had no idea.”
I chuckle. “Didn’t bother to Google me, huh?”
She shakes her head, smiling now. “Nah. I didn’t feel like I needed to run a background check on you or anything.” She cocks her head and gives me side eye. “Wait. Should I have?”
Grinning as well, I shake my head, holding up my free hand in a gesture of surrender. “Obviously you can if you want to. I won’t be offended. But I’m an open book. Ask me anything you want to know.”
Her smile fades as she purses her lips, studying me, obviously considering what she wants to ask. “How old were you when you left Ontario?”
“Eighteen. I was traded to a team in Saskatchewan. Before that, I was able to stay pretty local, which was nice. Made it easier to see both my parents.”
“Do your parents still live in Ontario?”
I dip my chin in a nod. “Not in the same city. I grew up in Kitchener, a city a little bit west of Toronto. My mom still lives there, but my dad moved to the Toronto area when I started playing for the CHL team in Brampton. He’s bounced around the greater Toronto area since then.”
She settles into the couch, setting her glass on the end table closest to her and turning to face me, warming up to this line of questioning.
We’ve mostly swapped stories about our lives in Seattle.
She’s made a few allusions to her marriage but doesn’t seem to like to talk about her ex much, not that I can blame her based on what I know about him.
She hasn’t really mentioned her life growing up—a couple stories about her and her friends when she was a teenager, and a few about college, but that’s it about her more distant past. I know she’s an only child, but not much else about her family.
I didn’t realize her grandparents lived in Illinois before today.
If she gets to ask me a bunch of questions, do I get to do the same soon?
“I remember you saying your parents got divorced when you were a kid. How old were you?”
“They split up when I was in grade eight, so I would’ve been fourteen. And my little brother was almost eleven.”
She nods, her face solemn. “Was that difficult for you?” Her voice is quiet, like she’s almost afraid to voice the question aloud.
Hooking my mouth to the side, I lift one shoulder.
“I guess? It wasn’t great. I remember Chris having a really hard time with it.
I sat in his room with him while he cried a bunch of times.
I remember being glad I didn’t have to listen to them fighting anymore, though.
Or somehow worse, the cold silence when Dad’d do something that pissed Mom off, but she knew that talking to him about it wouldn’t help.
I’m pretty sure she was planning to leave for at least a year before she did.
That year was probably the worst. So it was almost a relief when they split.
Mom was so much calmer, and she worked really hard to make everything okay for us.
For Chris especially. He was still in grade five, and it seemed to hit him harder than anyone else.
Or at least it surprised him. I remember feeling a little …
I dunno.” I pause, scratching my cheek as I think back to that time.
“I guess surprised is the best word. Like, I wasn’t expecting it.
Not really. But after that initial shock wore off and I had time to think about it, it made sense. ”
I glance at Maggie, and she nods, her brows knitted together.
“Did your son have a hard time with your divorce?”