Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Dino nuggets!”
“Long chicken nuggets,” I suggest, though it’s not a suggestion. We don’t even have dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in the freezer, but I do have an entire bag of frozen chicken strips, a.k.a. long nuggets. If there’s one thing moms are good at, it’s reframing the unacceptable into the acceptable by any means necessary, and obviously chicken strips are disgusting while long nuggets are the best things ever.
“With honey mustard?” he asks hopefully. My son’s half hockey player, half debate champion.
“Deal.” I hold my fist out for a bump, but as Harley reaches out to bump me, I quickly switch to an open hand, wiggling my fingers. “Turkey feathers.”
He groans and rolls his eyes. “You’ve already done that one, Mom.”
I shrug, unbothered. “Still got a grin so I’m calling that a win for me, and the game was a win for you, no matter what the scoreboard said.” To be fair, the score was 4–1, with Harley’s team taking the L. But I’m focusing on the positives, staying in the sweet spots, and enjoying the good stuff the day has brought. “Go hop in the shower, and dinner will be ready by the time you’re out.”
“Okay!”
Just like that, my smiling, happy little boy is back. He’s just trapped in an ever-growing doubt-filled shell. In the few minutes it takes me to toss those long nuggets on a pan, a very questionable idea hits me. I should second- and maybe even third-guess myself, but I don’t. Like Harley needs to do, I trust my instincts.
Were you serious about helping Harley?
I half expect an instantaneous response as though Dominic was staring at his phone, waiting for me to text. When that doesn’t happen, I begin to stress clean the kitchen, taking out my doubts on crumbs that spilled out of the toaster this morning.
I’d all but written off Dominic’s offer to help my son. He hadn’t been all that responsive after my initial thank-you text, and I didn’t hear from him after that, so I decided it’d been 1) a polite, albeit meaningless, gesture or 2) a failed attempt at getting in my pants. Either had me moving on to one of the other dozen things on my always too-full to-do list.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’ll make a fool out of myself anytime for my son. Still, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Texting Dominic Lee for hockey help? What world am I living in?
Ding.
Absolutely.
The single-word response is glaringly similar to his previous text, the bubble on the left side of the screen barely a blip.
Great! He could use some help. When are you available?
That sounds like I’m scheduling a haircut, but this isn’t too far off from that. It’s not like it’s a date or anything.
Tomorrow at 6pm?
Perfect. I’ll make us a reservation at the rink.
“If this is a joke, I’m never gonna forgive you,” Harley informs me as he throws his gear bag over his shoulder. It’s nearly as big as he is, so it makes him wobbly on his feet as he looks from me to the rink door with the hope he’s scared to have blooming in his eyes.
He knows disappointment. Unfortunately, he’s learned it firsthand . . . from his father.
I’ve done my best to never say a single negative word about Tyler, but he is who he is, and he’s disappointed Harley enough on his own over the years to make our son not trust something good until it’s actually happening.
I send a silent prayer up to the sunshine-filled, blue sky, Please let Dominic be behind those rink doors. Please.
“Let’s go see,” I tell Harley with a plastered-on smile.
There’s only a handful of people on the ice, so it doesn’t take me long to find Dominic skating a slow loop around the boards. And though his back is to us, it’s like he’s watching the door for our arrival because his eyes find mine within seconds of our entry. The smile that steals across his face should be illegal considering it makes my heart race in my chest, pounding on my ribs.
“He’s here, Mom! He’s really here!” Harley shouts. His eyes are wide, his smile even wider as he looks at Dominic as though he’s a fictional character magically come to life.
“I told you he was coming,” I say with an implied sigh of no biggie, even though I had my own doubts. Tyler left scars on me, too, emotional not physical, though sometimes they feel equally deep.
Dominic exits the ice and immediately squats on the rubber mats outside the boards, holding his hand out. “Hey there. You must be Harley. I’m Dominic. Nice to meet you.”
My son, the one who huffs and puffs about the most minor of big boy responsibilities, stands taller, pulls his shoulders back, and shakes Dominic’s hand like he’s a full-grown man meeting another man. “My name is Harley Johns. It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you for helping me.”