Penalty Kill

Harper

"Carol knows," Felicia says around a mouthful of popcorn. She's alternating between fistfuls of salty, buttery goodness and the sweet, chocolatey crunch of M&M's. She's as beautiful as ever as she thoroughly enjoys every treat and food option the arena has to offer.

"I dunno, it was pretty dark, and she doesn't see very well," I pause to take a swig of my beer. "Plus I don't think she knew Jake had even hung around after the reading." I try to keep myself cool, calm and collected thinking about what my elderly coworker might've overheard—or potentially even seen—just a few days ago at the library.

But as I swing a piece of red licorice rope into my mouth and start chewing it, I feel my facade slip into what feels more likely to be the reality of the situation.

"She fucking saw, didn't she?" Felicia tips her head back and laughs at my outburst as the ref blows the whistle and gets ready for the face off after the TV commercial break. I punch her in the thigh as she chomps on another mouthful of popcorn and chocolate.

"I'm telling you man, old ladies are like wise old witches. They know all, they see all. They're just unsuspecting as all hell." Felicia continues to chuckle evilly to herself as she munches on her treats, and I'm left to mutter under my breath before I take another sip of beer. 

Carol and I wouldn't share another shift for a few days yet, so I'd have to hope and pray until then that she doesn't take it upon herself to bring anything up to Mariella without at least trying to talk to me first.

The minutes in the third tick by as we watch the puck move up and down and the ice consistently at both ends. The game hasn't been too dramatic or edge-of-the-seat gripping—they're playing an evenly matched team from another division, and the Storm have a fairly comfortable 2-0 lead that's making them focus on playing smart and manage the game until the final buzzer at the end of third.

Glancing up at the game clock, there's only five minutes left before the Storm secure another victory on home ice. Jake's been more than eager to provide tickets to any home game I feel like attending, and when Felicia's available, he has no problem getting two. I've insisted on trying to buy my own tickets outright a few times, but he simply wouldn't hear any of it. The stubborn man-child, I swear to god. 

We do, however, pay for our own snacks, and at the rate we consume both food and beverages at any given game, we're probably close to surpassing the cost of the good seats and then some. The thought sends the sound of my mom's laughter through my head as I'd told her how I'd been spending most of my time recently—either eating copious amounts of food with Felicia at Storm games, or with Jake when he wasn't playing.

I'd finally gotten through to her a few days ago, and to say I was not thrilled by how she sounded on the other side of the line would've been an understatement. Her voice was raspy and quiet, and every word sounded like a struggle to get out through the receiver. She did her damnedest to convince me it was just yet another bad cold, and I'd threatened to move my trip up to this week.

"You don't need to come, Harp. Trust me. It's just a cold. You'll be here for Thanksgiving, that's next week already. Let me get better and I'll be fine, okay honey? Promise me you won't worry, please."

The words echo through my mind as I watch the Storm regroup at their bench during a stoppage of play. Something was going on back at home in Wisconsin, and as much as it filled me with equal parts dread and anxiety to travel back to the place that held so many horrible, painful memories, I owed it to my mom.

Thinking back on all the years she fought me on coming back for holidays, and how I folded so easily because I was genuinely hoping to avoid the trip made heavy guilt surge up in my gut. Clearly there were things going on with my mom that she wasn't telling me about, and I needed to finally go see for myself once and for all.