Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
“Listen, if you expect Chicago to renew your contract, you need to be in top form. Rehab the shoulder, get back on the ice, and do what you’re paid to do—fucking score goals, not get in fights!”
I hung up on him, too angry to reply, knowing I didn’t really have a good argument anyway. I hadn’t expected my agent to be warm and fuzzy about it. His job was to get me the best deal possible, and I’d just made that harder.
Mabel called Tuesday afternoon, too. She’d also texted and called late Monday night, leaving panicked messages asking if I was okay, begging me to call her back when I could, saying how sorry she was and that she was worried about me. I’d been too mad at myself to call her right back—it was almost like a punishment, denying myself any of the sweet things I knew she’d say, her care and concern.
But I answered her call now.
“Hello?”
“Joe! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” But I wasn’t.
“What happened? I’ve been so worried!”
“Sorry I didn’t call you back. I was traveling today, and I’m on some strong pain meds, so I slept a lot.”
“That’s okay, I just didn’t know what happened. I was so scared.”
I felt even worse for frightening her. “Sorry,” I said again. The word felt inadequate, but what else could I offer her besides an apology?
Mabel was silent for a moment. “What’s wrong, Joe?”
Everything, I wanted to say. “I’m mad at myself. I should have just played my game.”
“That guy deserved it.”
Her comment, delivered with a venomous tone I rarely heard from her, made me smile a little. “Yeah. He did.”
“What’s the news on your shoulder?”
“I’m out for at least two weeks. I have to miss the All Star game.”
She gasped. “Oh no! I’m so sorry.”
“The biggest problem right now is my contract. Being old is hard enough. Being old and injured is two strikes against me.”
“Come on, this is just an unlucky streak. Your season got off to such a great start—you’ll find that groove again.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m past my prime.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Maybe I’m just fucking tired.” I kept thinking about what Tessier had said about moving to Canada and buying land, watching his kids grow up in the country. Something about that sounded so fucking good. I imagined sitting on a back porch, Mabel on my lap, Nicky running around with a dog or a buddy or a little sibling.
Was I crazy?
“You sound so sad,” Mabel said. “I wish I was there to watch The Sandlot with you and cheer you up.”
“That would definitely cheer me up.” I recalled sharing this couch with her the night she’d ended up in my bed, how closely I’d held her, how I’d felt my son moving beneath my palm. God, I wanted that again, and I’d never have it. She was never going to be mine again, not like that.
The pain in my shoulder moved into my chest.
“So the baby’s room is coming along,” she said with a new energy to her voice, probably because I was depressing her and she wanted to change the subject. “We painted, and the carpet is in. I’ll have to send you pictures.”
“I’d like that. How are you feeling?”
“Great. Officially in the third trimester.”
I glanced at the pregnancy book on the coffee table. I hadn’t looked at it much lately, because it just made me feel worse about everything I was missing. “Twenty-eight weeks, right?”
“Right. What’s the fruit this week?”
“I’m not sure. Sorry.” I closed my eyes.
“Oh. That’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot going on.” The disappointment in her voice was obvious.
Don’t excuse me, Mabel. Stop being so sweet. “I’ll look as soon as we hang up,” I promised.
“Don’t worry about it. I just want you to get better, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you soon. Bye, Joe.”
“Bye.”
After ending the call, I checked the website with the fruit chart. At twenty-eight weeks, the baby was the size of an eggplant. Setting my phone aside, I picked up From Dude to Dad and caught up on the last couple weeks.
The baby was fifteen to sixteen inches long and weighed between two and three pounds. I tried to imagine carrying around a three pound eggplant in my belly and quickly shoved the thought from my brain. The book said Mabel’s stomach was getting cramped, and the baby’s movements probably felt less like sharp kicks and jabs and more like softer pokes and rolls.
The author talked about not letting his wife lift anything heavy or climb any ladders to change lightbulbs—he insisted on taking over any and all projects. He mentioned that his wife experienced sciatica at this time, and how he’d help her stretch and give her massages. He described painting the nursery and shopping for a rocking chair together, so that when she was exhausted, he could help get the baby back to sleep at three a.m.