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That first season with the Renegades I remained a free agent while they watched and studied my every move. It was as if they were certain I’d drop dead at any second. The commentators had a field day.
I didn’t die.
Henegan retired after his knee surgery, it was time. I got called up. Gia transferred the remainder of her classes online. At the time, she was only a couple of semesters from graduating. We made the move to California on a hope and a prayer. We didn’t have anything.
No risk, no reward.
The risk paid off. I guess it was finally my time. Our time.
Astria and Camden picked up, like there was never any time missed between them, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. I’ll allow it. But the minute we start talking about kissing, that shit is over. I’ll lock her in her room with baby dolls and tell her bedtime stories until she reverts back to being my little girl.
“What are you doing in here, anyway, Astria? Don’t you need to get your gear together for practice or do homework or…something?” Gia asks.
Astria opens the refrigerator and snags a bottle of water.
“My, um, my muscles are hurting again.” I don’t miss the way Astria’s eyes dart to the floor quickly, before shooting back up to us again.
I get a gnawing feeling in my gut that I’ve missed something.
I look from Astria to Gia before I ask, “Growing pains?”
“Yeah, I think so. My head hurts too. I feel nauseous. Like last time.” Astria shrugs as if it’s no big deal.
Gia moves from where I’ve been holding her against the kitchen island and walks to our designated family medicine cabinet.
“Okay, let me give you something for it.” She looks through the medication we keep on hand, and pulls out a bottle of over-the-counter pain reliever, opening it. “How about we lay low tonight for practice?” She suggests, handing her the medicine.
Astria takes the pill and swallows it down with the water without a second thought. It seems like yesterday she was taking liquid Tylenol in a miniature shot glass.
“And let the boys have another reason to say I can’t be on the co-ed hockey team? I think not. I’ll play through the pain. It’s fine.” She turns to leave, but Gia stops her before I do. This conversation isn’t over.
She walks around Astria and stands in front of her, putting her hands on her hips.
“It’s not fine, Astria. Your health comes first.”
I have to wonder to myself how long this has been going on and I haven’t known about it.
“I want to play, Mom. Tell her, Dad. Tell her I need to practice.” Astria glances over her shoulder, looking for backup.
I’m not taking heat for this. Mother-daughter relationships are tricky ones and I refuse to get in the middle of it.
She’s trying to pull me into their argument, but I’m not falling for it. “I’m not going to argue with your mother, Astria. She’s right. Your health always comes first.”
The words taste all wrong. They make me feel like a hypocrite. I play every day with risk. Sure, I’m medically clear, and I’m constantly running through a list of checkups and appointments that continue to verify it’s safe for me to play, but there’s still risk involved. There will always be a risk. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. This is different.
Astria huffs, “This isn’t fair! I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” Her words are laced with defiance that I won’t tolerate. This is something we need to discuss further, but first Gia and I clearly need to have a private conversation.
I step in, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, and she winces when I touch her. That’s not normal. “Astria, watch your tone when you talk to your mother.”
I remove my hand, not wanting to cause her any pain. Worry swarms in my chest like angry bees ready to take flight.
“Time out. All of you. Astria, go to your room and let me talk to your dad.” Astria and I both snap to attention when Gia speaks. She’s using the voice, and it’s obvious we both know that you do not argue with the voice.
Astria ducks around Gia and heads straight for her room. Lucky for her she doesn’t slam the door. That’d guarantee her no hockey practice, and she knows it.
Gia walks back to the kitchen island and places her hands on the countertop, leaning against the polished concrete, her shoulders sink forward. I walk behind her and wrap my arms around her.
“You think it’s a migraine? Is she too young for migraines?” I ask quietly. I feel lost. I feel like I’m missing pieces of a puzzle, and I don’t like it.
