Chapter 2 Ruth Miller
two
Ruth Miller
Twenty-five Years Later
“This just in,” the noon news anchor reports from the little black-and-white TV, which hangs above the long diner counter.
The TV has been there since my mother opened this place fifty years ago.
Yes, it’s far from the big screens they have at Red Barn Kabobs, but that TV might very well be the last working black-and-white TV in all of Mapleton.
Despite all the complaints from regulars about the fuzzy lines that scroll up over the picture, I don’t have the heart to get rid of it.
Call me nostalgic, but I love old things.
And yeah, maybe I have a hard time letting go of the past.
So what.
I grab Mrs. Wagner’s breakfast ticket and punch in the total amount in the till.
One of my ears captures all the ways Mrs. Wagner’s tulips are doomed this year because they sprouted too early.
My other ear stays attuned to the news. What I hear makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.
“Billionaire Bill Baker has announced he’s bringing an AHL team right here to Mapleton.
With the team, he’s also announced he’s already started construction on a brand-new arena, estimated to be around fifty million dollars.
The economic boost Mapleton’s set to receive from the construction project alone has the city’s vendors buzzing with excitement.
We can’t wait to welcome this new team, and to top it off, Bill’s announced a nationwide scout-free search to recruit for his team.
For more information on the recruitment process, interested people can go to the website Granite Ice Hockey—”
“What did he say?” I twist my neck until I can zero in on the screen.
I’ve heard the rumors circulating the diner for months.
Mapleton has one of the best gossip mills of any small town, and this little diner is a hub.
The thing is, I didn’t believe the rumors.
It didn’t make sense for anyone to put a professional team in such a small town, but I guess it’s already in motion.
“Granite Ice Hockey,” I read the website that flashes on the screen while my heart ticks up a notch.
This might be the answer to my prayers! All the years of hoping Noah gets a better life than I can offer and has a chance to escape this poverty.
I whip out my pen and pad of paper from my stained server apron and jot it down. My fingers jitter when I reread Granite Ice Hockey. It feels special.
“Oh, that Bill Baker is always up to no good,” Mrs. Wagner grumbles over the counter. “What does Mapleton need with a hockey team, anyway?”
“Well, I can’t say we need a hockey team, but it would be a phenomenal addition.
You know my son Noah has played hockey since he was three.
He’s eighteen now. His dream is to play in the NHL, but his rank isn’t high enough to get signed.
I’m praying for it, but I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault.
Being a single mom, I couldn’t afford a lot of the opportunities most of these kids have now days.
Shoot, half of the time, I couldn’t even pay for him to go to open skate at our indoor rink, and he had to practice on the frozen pond. ”
“I don’t know if it’s your fault.” Her head tilts thoughtfully to the side.
“These kids now days think the world revolves around them. It’s every little boy’s dream to play pro sports.
What most of them need to learn is, they aren’t that special.
It’s better to learn that early, so they can plan on a solid career.
Maybe, tell your son, Noah, to try plumbing.
You know it’s only a two-year program. I hear those guys are always busy.
Have you tried to find a plumber lately?
You can’t hardly get one to call you back.
” She points her knobby knuckled finger at me, wagging it around as if I’m the one who needs a lesson. “That’s a solid income.”
Working at a diner, I’ve heard it all. Living as a single mom, I learned many lessons. Some over and over again. A knot bumbles in my throat as I can’t fathom the audacity this woman has to wag her finger at me. I don’t need to tell my son to abandon his hopes and dreams.
For what?
To help me run this crummy diner?
I gave up all my dreams to help him build a better life.
I’ll be the last person to tell him to give up his dreams.
I take her debit card and close out her ticket. When I hand back her card, I smile as politely as I can. “I’m by no means defending a billionaire, but I’ll always help my son chase his dreams. That means I’m beyond happy we’re getting a hockey team.”
“Ol’ Bill can start it, but mark my words, his team is going to be a laughingstock,” she says with a huff as she stuffs her card back into her pristine leather wallet.
She takes another moment to tuck that perfect leather wallet into her immaculate leather bag and gingerly raises it to her bony shoulder before she turns on her heel and heads out.
My heart pounds so hard, I place my hand over my chest and force myself to take a few deep breaths.
Why did I let her get to me like that? Maybe it’s time I switch to decaf?
My gaze skirts to the side of the counter, where I have my travel mug filled to the brim with coffee.
I haven’t had more than a few sips out of it, as this morning has been insane.
No, it’s not the coffee.
It’s living this life where I feel as if I’m being punished for my past—something I didn’t even choose. Some cards are just dealt. Poverty isn’t for the weak. It’s definitely made me strong. If I know one thing, I don’t want this life for Noah.
Helping Noah pursue his dream doesn’t scare me at all.
What scares me is Noah giving up on his dreams like I did. He has serious talent. He just needs someone to see it and give him a chance.
My gaze drifts back to my pad of paper with the words Granite Ice Hockey on it. I rip the top sheet off, fold it, and slide it in my back pocket. Thanks to that news report, I know exactly who this person is going to be…
The front door to the diner wafts open, and in walks my favorite person.
Noah’s wearing his Mapleton High School Hockey hoodie, which puts a smile on my face.
I haven’t seen it since last Saturday. He’s one of those sweet boys who has a habit of always lending it to a cute girl at a dance, and then it goes missing for weeks.
I wouldn’t mind if those hoodies didn’t cost me a full day’s tips.
I forgo a traditional greeting, and say, “You got your hoodie back.”
“Yeah, I told you Morgan had it.” He pulls out a counter stool and slides one leg over it, while he drops his schoolbag on the empty one next to him.
“And you and Morgan are—”
“Just friends,” he cuts me off with a look that warns me not to ask any more about it.
“How did your history exam go?” I grab a bar towel and wipe the counter in a large arc pattern.
Not because it needs cleaning. I keep a spotless counter.
I have learned Noah tends to open up more if he doesn’t feel like I’m hovering.
I miss the days when he easily spouted out all the events of his days.
I get he must grow up, and it’s only normal for him to want some privacy.
I’m grateful we are still as close as we are.
“I got seventy-nine percent.”
“That’s a C, huh?” He doesn’t need me to tell him what the grading scale is.
My statement is more me thinking through what that percentage will do to his plummeting semester average.
It’s passing. It will keep him on the high school team, but I worry it won’t be enough for college. “Yeah, Cs get degrees, right?”
“Right.”
“I also saw your math test grade when I was cleaning off the kitchen counter this morning,” I say it gently, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders stiffen.
He sighs without looking at me. “I passed.”
“Barely,” I say, sliding onto the barstool next to him.
I don’t usually sit when the diner is open.
It’s important for everything to always look professional.
But when it comes to my son, I make sure he knows I’m here.
He suffers from serious anxiety and, at times, it’s made testing impossible.
We’ve tried so many things over the years to ease the pain he has with his disorder.
Nothing has ever really taken it away, although meds seem to help. I’ve learned not to push.
He gives me that teenage boy shrug. It’s one-half defense and the other half I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it.
I let the silence hang for a moment. If he wants to talk about it, he will.
Clearly, he doesn’t, so I move on. “So..
. I heard something just now on the news. They're bringing in a new hockey team.”
That gets his attention. His gaze rises slowly until it locks on mine.
“They’re hosting scout-free tryouts.” I keep my tone casual but watch him closely.
He gives me an angled look. “Scout free?”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess it’s a part of a big push to find the right guys.”
His brow furrows, and I see the war already waging behind his eyes. “I don’t know if it’s worth it to even try. There’s no way I’d stand out. Besides, if I was good enough, scouts would already be after me.”
I reach out and gently nudge his hand. “No, honey. Not always. Sometimes scouts miss the good guys. You know how it is. It comes down to having the playing time and the right shot. Often, the good people don’t get the chance to play when the scouts are watching.”
He stares at his hands on top of the counter.
I lean in. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy.
” I don’t tell him it might be his only shot out of this poverty cycle.
His grades are terrible. Even if he gets into a community college, I’m not sure he has the attention span to do any better than he did in high school.
Sure, he can do a trade school. I mean, I guess like Mrs. Wagner said, there’s always plumbing, but again, I don’t have any money to help him pay for that. He’ll be saddled with loans.
Man, I hope for his sake, he sees his potential.
“Noah, I’m being completely honest with you. If I didn’t think you had a shot, I wouldn’t encourage you. I would never want to set you up for heartbreak, but this is different. This is hockey. You have just as much drive as anyone else. You should try.”
The air between us thickens, and he glares at me like if I say one more thing he’ll bolt. Then, finally, he lets out a long breath. “So, if I decide to try out, will you come with me?”
I freeze, not from hesitation, but from surprise. My throat tightens because he could’ve asked anyone. He has tons of friends and guys on his high school team, but he’s asking me.
I’m looking at him, but my mind does some weird time warp thing, where all the years fold in on themselves.
Every early morning practice. Every late-night ice time.
Every extra hot cocoa to comfort a bruised knee.
My friends always said, when Noah gets to be a teenager, he won’t want me around, but that’s not the case.
He still wants me here, and it warms my mama heart, making all the sacrifices worth it.
I smile, blinking an extra time as I try not to get sappy.
“Yeah, if that’s what you want. I’ll be there. ”
“Thanks, Mom.” Rolling his bottom lip in, his gaze grows distant for a beat.
I slide off the stool and scan the tables. Most of them are empty, as it’s before the dinner rush. Noah and I eat early, or I don’t get a chance to eat until after I close. “I’m having Margie make me hashbrowns. Should I ask her to make you an omelet?”
“Sure, extra meat for me, please, but don’t you know hashbrowns don’t count as a meal?”
“You know I prefer to snack.” I pull out my pad, scribble out our order and push it through the window. As I turn my focus back to him, his gaze floats above my head. What I wouldn’t do to know what he’s thinking. He’s at the age where he has so many big decisions ahead of him.
So many possibilities.
I want all his dreams to come true.