And that right there shocks me. I’m not sure there are many people in my life I can truly say that about. That I care about them enough and respect them even more to give them serious, devoted, and focused time.
I manage to relax and lay my head on the pillow. “You’re welcome,” I say. “You can tell me anything, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, her eyes warm and the barest of smiles on her face.
We just stare at each other a moment, then her hand comes up to touch the right side of my forehead, near the hairline. Her finger traces a scar that takes up a few centimeters of skin before disappearing into my hair. It’s faint from a distance, but up close it’s noticeable. It’s just one of many scars I have as a hockey player.
“How did you get this one?” she asks.
This is not the first time I’ve answered that question. She’s let her hands roam my body before gently tracing the puckered skin of each one of my scars and asking that question over and over again.
Right knee: meniscus surgery. Took a bad fall playing pond hockey.Right thigh: gash from jumping a fence. Cut through the wrong neighbor’s yard one night trying to make curfew, and then had to escape a Rottie.Upper lip: hockey puck. Didn’t duck fast enough.Left knuckles: a really good fight. The other guy got it worse.Bottom of my chin: chin met a really hard upper cut. I got it worse than the other guy.But despite all the other scars she’s asked about, this is the first time she’s asked about the one on my forehead. It’s the most obvious—besides the one on my chin—since I wear my hair brushed back off my face. “Sledding down Granger Hill when I was eight,” I tell her. “I wasn’t the best at steering and I had a bit of a run-in with a tree.”
Brooke winces as she twists her hand slightly to bring her thumb over it and brushes it softly. “You could have been killed.”
“That’s exactly what my mom said while they were stitching me up.”
Brooke gives me a stern look. It’s the same look my mom also gave me.
Speaking of which…
“My mom is coming in next week for a visit,” I tell her.
Brooke smiles, tucking her hands under her cheek. “That’s awesome. How long is she staying?”
“She’s going to fly in Wednesday for the home game we have that night and stay through to watch the next home game on Saturday. She’ll fly back home on Sunday morning.”
“What are you going to tell her?” Brooke asks. She’s aware that so far I’ve not told my mom a thing about Brooke because it wasn’t necessary.
Not necessary, but doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted to tell my mom. I want to very much, but to do that, I have to tell her about the lies first.
“I need to tell her the truth,” I say.
“Of course,” she readily agrees. “I’d never want you to lie to her.”
My eyes roam over Brooke’s face. I see her open expression, the tiny bit of concern she has for me, and some remaining guilt that she put me in this position. I roll so my face gets closer to hers. “I’m really glad you’re going to meet my mom. You’ll love her.”
Brooke’s eyes widen as she comprehends one important truth in this moment. This is the first, absolutely real acknowledgment by either of us that what we have isn’t all exactly a lie.
“I can’t wait to meet her either,” she murmurs. “It will be nice that it’s not under false pretenses.”
“My mom will stay at a hotel,” I tell her. “She always does, as it gives her a quiet place to work during the day. She won’t be leaving work totally behind. But I figure maybe we can all do something together. Like maybe the botanical gardens one day. Are you game?”
“Of course,” she says, then immediately backtracks. “If I can get the time off work. We can’t do it Saturday, as you have a game.”
I nod, hating that I can’t just have Brooke when I want. The days between games are precious. While there’s usually a light practice and a workout, I’m pretty much free afterward, and I love the flexibility of that life. It sucks that I want Brooke with me this week to take my mom to the gardens, but she’s shackled by an eight-to-five job.
“And then there’s Nanette,” Brooke continues, her voice turning glum. “If I can get the time off, should we invite her?”
I don’t want to, but we probably should. It’s the polite thing to do.
Before I can say that, though, Brooke’s phone starts ringing and she cringes.
“Speak of the devil,” she mutters as she looks at me almost helplessly.
I didn’t need her to tell me that. Given her ringtone for Nanette is “Smack My Bitch Up” by The Prodigy, I knew exactly who was calling.