Page 61 of He Has Pluck

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say reflexively, but I’m smiling, for real, the kind of smile I can feel deep down in my chest. We remain standing with the entire crowd in the arena as the clock ticks down to zero and the Brawlers win. We’ve come back from the brink of elimination to face a game seven show-down that will, thankfully, be played in Boston.

After the game, Jason talks to the media while I film him; his excitement at winning is subdued, making me tense, dammit, forcing my guilt to rise like a volcanic eruption, poisonous and irrepressible. I’m filming him in the crowded hallway around the locker room, trying not to empathize, marveling at his cool when I know he fell apart not long ago. Trying not to think about consoling him and begging his forgiveness, I’m seriously considering tossing my camera aside and going to the hospital with him and then back to his room to spend the night. Then my camera catches a woman on the fringes of the crowd, beyond the media, the TV cameras and family and friends.

The focus of my lens shifts to the shiny blond woman, wearing a fancy overly-adorned hat and polished to perfection as if she’s attending a state dinner. Only one woman I know would wear a hat like that—and carry it off.

My mother is here. Fuck.

Panic strikes, making my overworked heart speed up and pound like a drum solo. My automatic reaction is anger. She owns the switch to my rage, and seeing her flips it on to the highest setting. She left Dad and me for a fucking professional water skier. How dare she come here now?

The last time I saw her was at dad’s funeral. I was heartbroken, but I seized on the opportunity to let my rage at her take over and ease my pain. Funny, it didn’t bother me at the time when I lashed out, but the distinct prick of guilt, now becoming a familiar companion, hits me. I rebel and force myself to remember every bad thing she ever did.

But as she winds through the crowd in my direction, rage melts because she has that same beautiful smile she always had for me, welcoming and loving, and my heart is so goddamn needy right now, I can’t keep up my boundary. My wall of ice is a puddle.

“Juliette.” Her voice cuts through everything, all the turmoil, all the baggage, and hits me in the knees. She’s Mom, and she’s here. I look around, and whatever happens, whether it’s a happy or angry scene, I know the potential for a scene and bottle up my emotions again as they spill over.

“Mom,” I say through a tight smile. I take her elbow when she would have hugged me and steer her back to the fringe, out of earshot of everyone I know, which is just about everyone here. Because this is the place I’ve practically lived for a month.

I lower my voice anyway. “What are you doing here?” I control myself, keep my language clean when I want to swear at her. I can’t be like her, shallow and easily impressed with superficial things like men with muscles. A bad taste fills me. Aren’t my career and my goals more important than a fling with a man like Jason?

It should be. But I feel like a disloyal hypocrite no matter which side I’m on.

Either I betray my father and everything he stood for, or I betray Jason, his decency and no-holds-barred passion for what he wants.

“I wanted to see you,” she says, her smile sure even in the shadow of my hostility. Did I forget that she’s a sweet woman? More importantly, did I forget that sweetness is not the same as weakness?

“You should have called. This isn’t a good time.” I take a breath. “I’m fine. I’m working.”

“I know this isn’t the ideal time, but there never is, sweetheart. I needed to see for myself how you are.” Genuine worry tests her smile.

“Why bother worrying now?” I scoff. “I didn’t see you running after me when I was in Yemen or Columbia—”

“No. I’ve been worried about you for a long time. I’ve wanted to see you for a long time, but you’re hard to keep up with.”

She doesn’t accuse me of avoiding her, but she doesn’t need to. My guilt picks up where her non-confrontational sensibilities leave off. I wave a hand, and I’m about to dismiss her when she puts a hand on my arm.

“Please, Jule, let’s talk. It’s long overdue. Don’t you think?”

“No. I don’t. Talk is cheap, Mom. You chose to leave—”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that.” My jaw clenches, and I can feel my eyes spitting flames at her as my heart speeds up, and I can’t contain all the hurt and anger, bypassing all sense and reason.

Then I feel a presence, a sturdy body at my side, and an arm wrapping around my shoulder as if to keep me in place. I should flinch or shove him away, but I turn and look up at him. His chiseled jaw strikes at my heart and calms me, extinguishing all the negative crazy fire in me, leaving only the sense of connection. Shit.

“Hello, you must be Juliette’s mom. I’m Jason Tansem.” He puts out a hand, and my mother takes it, looking between us, her smile losing the tension and worry.

“So nice to meet you. I’m sorry about your teammate.”

“Thank you. Injuries are part of the game, but that was…” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “About as bad as it gets.”

“Jason is the subject of the documentary I’m doing,” I say. He squeezes me against him.

“I’m also your daughter’s lover.”

My mouth opens, and my heart stops as my head snaps around to stare at him before I remember my poise, an increasingly unfamiliar asset. He gives me a knowing smile, a deep understanding in his eyes as they crinkle at the corners and his eyes penetrate my soul. It’s the kind of smile that reinforces his abandonment of any pretense of a professional relationship.

“He may be exaggerating,” I say.