Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
GABE
Of course Mom calls me right as I enter the hubbub of the locker room before the crucial game. Of course she does. Usually I’d just ignore it and get back to her later, but, given how the conversation ended on Saturday, the last thing I want to do is snub her now.
I’ve been riddled with guilt these last few days, and almost called them dozens of times. Yesterday I even got as far as my thumb hovering over “Mom” and “Dad” on my phone before I backed off and decided to give them time and let them come to me when they’re ready.
All I’ve wanted to do is punch myself in the head for being so stupid as to confess my Christmas trauma to them. The whole reason I’d kept it bottled up was because I knew it would upset them. And, hey, guess what? They were upset.
After everything they’ve sacrificed for me, it’s not right that I made them feel that way.
Anyway, it seems they’re ready now, three hours before our clash with the New Jersey Ironmen—one of our most anticipated games of the season. Excellent.
I shove in an ear pod and answer the video call. “Hey, Mom.”
From around the locker room a few teammates chuckle and call, “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Mrs. Woods,” one says, peering over my shoulder.
“We’re happy to have your boy back,” shouts another.
“Oh, gosh.” Mom looks stressed. “This is bad timing. I wanted to catch you before the game. But you’re surrounded by people. I’ll go.”
“No, no.” I dump my bag in front of my locker and push my way back out of the room. “Give me one second to find somewhere quieter.”
Fuck knows where that might be. I can hardly talk to her in the echoey hallway amid all the pregame bustle.
Ah, actually, I know.
Two doors down, I step into the laundry room where Frank is folding towels. “Hey, could I borrow the room for a sec?” I waggle my phone.
“Of course,” Frank says. “Good to have you back, bro.”
He pats me on the shoulder and closes the door behind him.
“Okay, this is better,” I say to Mom. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “We’re just about to head up for the early seating of the Italian-night dinner so we can get back in time to watch your game and thought we’d give you a call first to say good luck.”
She leans to the side and my dad comes into the shot. He smiles and waves.
Already just speaking to them and seeing them not looking upset makes me a little lighter inside. “I’m glad you did.”
“And we didn’t want you to go into your first game back worrying about the Christmas thing.”
“Look, I’m really sorry about?—”
The door to the laundry room flies open, and a guy backs in with a woman attached to him at the mouth. One of his hands grips her ass while her hands run up and down his chest and she moans, “Oh yes, oh yes,” between frantic kisses.
“Oh no ,” I shout. “Absolutely fucking no.”
They jump apart, breathless, staring at me, eyes wide.
“Find yourselves a broom closet or something.”
“Sorry, pal.” The guy holds up his hands in surrender. “Mistake. Sorry.”
They back out of the door, the woman tidying her hair. Just before it shuts, she grabs his hand and pulls him away, a lustful grin on her face.
“What on earth was that?” Dad asks.
“Apparently the laundry room is an in-demand make out spot and I never knew.”
“Have you spoken to Natalie since you left?” Mom asks, as if there’s a connection.
I have no intention of addressing that. “Anyway, like I was saying, I’m really sorry about what I said last time. I never meant to upset you.”
“Oh, we know that, darling,” Mom says.
“And we have always said, honesty is the best policy,” Dad says. “I mean, even when I knew it would upset you that I couldn’t drive you to that game in Cleveland because I had to work overtime, I still had to tell you.”
Good God, that was when I was sixteen. Has Dad been hanging on to guilt about that for twelve years?
“Your dad means that we know what it’s like,” Mom says. “It was just a complete surprise, is all. But now that we’ve had time to percolate on it, it’s totally fine. Once we’ve talked about things we can always make them better. Maybe we’ll do every other Christmas. Alternate between spending one together and you having a quiet one on your own. There are lots of ways to figure it out. But whatever happens, we’ll work it out.”
“Yes, we will,” Dad adds with total certainty.
And with that, half the huge weight on my chest is lifted. “That’s great. A big relief. Thank you.”
“Well, now you can get out on that ice with zero worries,” Dad says.
Apart from the worries that make up the other half of the weight—the ones related to my whole dumping-Natalie-by-note thing.
“Thanks, folks,” I say. “And I’m sorry to have to dash off, but I’d better go.”
“Yes, you better had,” Mom says. “There’s probably a line of people desperate to get into the laundry room for a pregame quickie.”
I’m not sure who laughs harder, me or Dad.
When he’s gathered himself, he gives her a peck on the cheek. “All right, let’s go eat our bodyweight in pasta,” he says.
“Take care,” Mom says. “And be careful of your shoulder.”
I wave them off to their Italian feast and head back to the locker room.
The only thing left to deal with is what an absolute jackass I was to Natalie.
But before I can think about that, we have to trounce the Ironmen.