Page 23

Hamish

My phone rings.

Mum.

I stare at the phone like it’s a grenade with the pin halfway out.

Amy doesn’t say a word, just... watches.

My thumb hovers. This is a choice. I can ignore it, walk away, let the call ring out like an empty church bell over a battlefield.

Or I can answer.

And end the war.

Every warrior must have this moment. I've never fought in the military and can't begin to think I know what that's like, but I do know that before every match, there's a stretch of time when it feels like going into a battle.

When the future's uncertain, waiting to be written with my hands and feet.

When what happens, by instinct and by choice, will alter the game's destiny.

That's how this feels right now. We can't predict the tipping points in life, but when they come, we need to be present for them.

And trust we'll do right.

I swipe.

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DO YE THINK YE’RE DOIN’, HAMISH MCCORMICK?” Mum’s face erupts onto the screen like a banshee. She’s moved from mildly furious to nuclear to Queen-of-the-Fae-on-meth in the span of ten seconds. “Ye hung up on yer own mother? After all I’ve done fer ye?”

Oh, we’re doing the martyrdom monologue. That's what she's going with. Mum never apologizes, so I didn't expect anything like "I'm sorry" about insulting Amy. At best, we always got apologies in the form of food. Homemade scones. A nice meat pie.

A quiet kindness.

Martyrdom it is, then. At least I know what I'm up against.

“I gave up everything! Yer Da worked night and day wi' the truck so we could get ye ta every match! Yer sisters gave up their rooms fer the scouts! I stitched yer bloody boots together wi’ thread from ma own bra straps!”

“Bra straps, Ma? Really?”

“Aye! Sacrifices, lad! We’re a team , the McCormicks. Yer career was built on community. We all pitched in ta help. Yer no’ a one-man show."

"I ken that. But ye insulted ma future wife. Ye need to apologize."

The world just tilted on its axis.

"APOLOGIZE? Fer what? Fer tellin' the truth? Fer guidin' ye steady all these years? Fer helpin' ye ta be the best ye can? Are ye drunk, son? I've no reason to apologize ta her . If anyone deserves an apology, it's me!"

"You? Why?"

Mum’s eyes are as big as Princess Diana commemorative plates. "I’ll be damned if some... some American girl starts struttin’ around like she runs the bloody club! She thinks she can just waltz in and be yer boss, does she? Come in when all the hard work's been done and live on Easy Street?”

Amy stands, folding her arms and cocking one hip .

Mum doesn’t stop. “She doesna ken you like we do. She doesna ken yer mood before a match, or how ta keep ye from twistin’ yer ankle. Yer head's gone wonky from a good shag and now she's got you wrapped around her little–”

“THAT'S ENOUGH!” I shout.

The gym goes dead quiet. Even the guy curling five hundred pounds of iron grunts to a stop.

Mum freezes, lips still parted.

"What did ye say ta me?" Her demeanor is intimidating as hell and one part of me, the ice-cold, terrified young boy in cracked shin guards and borrowed boots, wants to say whatever it takes to soothe her and calm her down, get everything back to happy.

But Mum will never, ever be happy.

Nothing I do will make her stop henpecking. I could tell her I won the lottery and she'd complain about the taxes. I could tell her I won the Nobel Peace Prize and she'd tell me that's good, but we should have won in physics as well, and berate me for not studying science hard enough.

This is who she is. And if I don't put a stop to her attacking Amy right now, it'll destroy my marriage and I'll be left without her. That's a step too far.

Mum doesn't get to control that.

I lean close to the camera, voice dropping. “That’s enough , Mum. Ye’ve been goin’ on for years, tellin’ me what ta think, how ta feel, who ta be. And I’ve let ye. Because I love ye, and because I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, ye’d believe in me the way Amy does.”

“Hamish—”

“No.” I hold up a hand. “Ye talk, Mum, always. It’s time ye listened .”

She just blinks. That’s new.

“Amy’s no’ a distraction. She’s no’ a gold digger, and she’s no’ an American brat.

She’s the woman I’m marryin’. She'll be the mother of ma children. Yer grandchildren's mother. The one who held me through the worst pain of my life. Who made space in her wee flat for a six-foot-four bag o’ gristle and tears, and never once asked me ta be anyone but me .”

Mum’s mouth opens and closes like a fish debating whether to leap into the boat. I inhale, taking in as much air as I can, because I don't know how much longer her ears will be working before her mouth takes over.

“And ye—ye’re so busy guardin’ me against the wrong kind o’ love, ye can’t see the right kind standin’ right in front o’ ye. I’m no’ a bairn anymore. I’m a man. I make ma own calls, and this is me makin’ one.”

A heavy silence settles across the screen.

“I love ye, Mum. But if ye canna accept Amy, if ye canna support us— really support us—then ye’re the one who’s distractin’ me.”

Mum’s eyes go glassy, but her chin juts out. “I only want what’s best for ye.”

“And Amy is what’s best for me.”

A beat.

Two.

Three.

Mum says nothing. I'm gutted. Her silence is somehow worse than being screamed at. Each second that passes pounds in my navel, my heartbeat now a hammer in my stomach. Amy's off to the side where Mum can't see, but she reaches for my free hand, grasps it, and squeezes.

Then Da’s voice chimes faintly from somewhere next to Mum, cheerful as ever: “So, I guess we’ll be invitin’ Amy ta Hogmanay this year, then?”

Mum ignores him, moving the phone closer to her face until all I see is disappointment and confusion. "So, this is how it is, son? This is how ye’re choosin' ta be?"

"If by that you mean ma own man, who knows what's good for me, then aye. Ye raised me well, Mum. I'm grateful, and I help the family and the neighborhood right back. Ye ken in yer heart that's true. I'm no’ backin' down on this one, Mum.”

"I never realized ye could be sae cruel, Hamish. What happened to ma wee, sweet, happy boy?"

Ouch. Mothers know exactly where all your soft spots are.

But most don't weaponize them.

"I’m still that sweet, happy boy, Mum, but grown up. But I'm unhappy when ye attack the woman I plan to spend the rest o' my life with. We've a wedding comin’ up."

"I ken that! I've spent all this time and energy fightin’ ta give ye a proper weddin’. But ye cast me aside like I'm naught, all fer yer American shiny piece. Ye’re makin' a terrible mistake, Hamish. Dinna let yer todger make permanent decisions."

"And dinna let yer pride get in the way of being ma mither. Dinna make me choose, Mum. Ye willna like the choice."

Mum hurls the phone away with a screech, the screen suddenly pointing up at a crisps aisle.

The call ends.

And I stand there, breathing like I just played two hours of stoppage time in a hurricane.

Amy slips her hand into mine. “You okay?”

I nod. “Aye.”

“Did she really say she stitched your boots with her bra straps?”

“Aye.”

“And you believed her?”

“Of course not,” I counter. “She didna even wear bras in the 2000s.”

Amy laughs ruefully and tugs me into her arms.

This time, when I bury my face in her neck, I don’t feel like a man caught between two different lives. I feel like a man who’s finally claimed his own.

But my lungs are on fire, and not from cardio.

From rage.

"Breathe," Brandi says sharply, her hand on my forearm, the pulse oximeter beeping like mad. "You’re at one sixty-two. Sit."

"I’m fine."

I’m not.

Vince looms over me, a motivational mountain, arms crossed, grinning. "That was a hell of a moment back there, McCormick. You stood up to the mother ship."

Amy squeezes my hand, eyes wide but proud, like she just watched me win a cup final. I get a little glow in the chest.

It offsets the nausea. Barely.

"Ye think?" I pant, still pacing. "I dinna ken if she’ll be callin’ back ta screech more. Or ta hex us."

"Your mother sounds like she could bend metal with her voice," Vince muses. "Impressive."

“D’ye ken what she’s done for me? Raised me.

Drove me ta practice at five in the mornin’ for years.

Massaged ma legs when I pulled a hammy in U12s.

Helped me upstairs when I tore ligaments in secondary school.

Brought homemade shortbread ta every match, even away ones.

Once, she chartered a bus and filled it wi’ cousins ta come yell at an English ref. ”

“Sounds like a dedicated parent,” Vince grunts, arms crossed. “You know, minus the verbal acid bath.”

Brandi taps the monitor. "You’re still spiking. Sit down. Breathe."

But I can’t sit. Not yet.

"Ye ken, Mum always pushed me. Since I was a wee lad. Made me run laps ’round the loch instead o’ playin’ with toys. Said Tonka trucks were fer bairns who had no talent."

"She sounds… ambitious," Brandi says.

"Aye, and then some. She once stitched me into ma footie kit when I refused ta get up for practice. Literally. Sewed me in with a bait needle."

Vince whistles. "Hardcore."

"She’d hide the telly remote unless I did three hundred keepie-uppies. Told me Santa wouldna come unless I scored a hat trick in youth league. She said I wasna allowed ta break bones. I broke ma wrist once and she made me apologize to the wrist."

"You apologized to your own wrist?" Amy asks, incredulous.

"She said it was disappointed in me."

Brandi sits down and puts her head in her hands.

Vince nods solemnly. "I respect that. Old school toughness."

"After I had appendicitis, she made me run laps ’round the hospital car park. Said if the appendix could up and quit, I had ta teach ma body that the rest of it couldna."

Amy covers her mouth, trembling with laughter and horror. "Hamish!"

"That last one’s a joke," I admit. "But ye believed it, didn't ye? I’m just sayin’, she’s a tough woman. Built me into who I am."

"She also just called your fiancée a gold digger," Brandi reminds me.

That deflates me just enough to finally sit down. The rage has turned to something sour in my gut.

"Aye. That she did." I shake my head as Brandi checks my pulse. “She knit me compression socks with the family tartan and slipped a St. Andrew’s medallion in the toe so I’d ‘run wi’ God at my heels.’ I nearly missed a match explainin’ to airport security why I had a suspicious metal object in ma left boot. ”

Vince lets out a low whistle. “She sounds like the CIA in a sensible cardigan.”

“I love her, I do. But she’s too much.”

“No argument there,” Vince says. “But sometimes ‘too much’ raises champions.”

Amy edges closer, her hand finding mine. “And sometimes ‘too much’ becomes a weight you shouldn’t have to carry forever.”

I squeeze her fingers, breath shaky. “I just want ta be enough , ye ken? No’ always tryin’ ta prove I deserve ta wear the name.”

Vince pats my shoulder with the same intensity you use to jumpstart a car. "Sometimes even coaches need a red card. You gave her one today. Sounds like it was about time."

Amy curls into my side. "I’m proud of you."

Her ring presses into my fingers, and I glance at her.

She’s not a distraction. She’s my compass.

And for once, I’m heading the right damn way.

"What do you think she'll do next?" Amy asks me, her tone one of trepidation. "That was... a lot."

"Ye have a mother who's a lot, too. I've seen ye take on Marie."

"Yes, but so have Shannon and Carol. I have role models. You're the oldest kid in your family. I'm the youngest. You had to forge the path, I've just had to walk it." She smiles slightly. "Wow. I owe my sisters big time. But don't tell them I said that! They'll hold it over my head."

"I've seven siblings, Amy. Ye dinna need to explain that, but thank ye. That makes me feel better. I'm helping Darren, Cora, Ian, Matthew, Pookie, Brick, and Maggie have an easier time with Mum.”

Brandi and Vince pull back, Brandi using her fingers to count the siblings as he names them.

Vince lets out a whistle. "Oldest of eight. Football star. Now, a sportscaster. You have a lot on your shoulders."

"Aye, but they're broad shoulders," I agree. "Nice and strong."

My phone buzzes with a text. It's Mum.

I forgive you, Hamish.

Amy reads over my shoulder and gasps. "Your mother has balls! "

Another text comes through:

You’re not in your right mind from your injury. Sportscasting is a good step, but I can see you need more attention. Starting tomorrow, I'll meet with you daily, like we used to do.

"We stopped that seven years ago, Mum,” I groan. Amy's peering at the phone like it's about to emit Ricin gas.

"She's up to something," she whispers. "This smells like a Mom Plot."

And I think you should cancel the wedding.

"WHAT?" Amy and I shout at the same time, drawing stares.

"I think you should cancel your face, Fiona," Amy blurts out.

"Is that some American slang I dinna understand?" I look to Vince for help.

"It means 'fuck you'," he says simply.

And correctly.

"Aye. Now, that I understand. Never thought my future wife would be sayin' those words to ma mither, but I canna say she doesna deserve them."

I type two letters in response.

NO

And hit Send.

God, that felt good.

Amy hugs me, and the feel of her warm, soft body against my sweating, nearly shaking self is a balm. I need sex right now, need it bad. Need to sink into something other than the pit of conflict-ridden misery I embody.

Two Hamishes live inside me: the warrior and the scared little boy. That boy is watching grown-up me, and he's hopeful, so hopeful.

Also terrified.

And that warrior's got a cockstand so powerful, it needs an Amy.

"Let's go home," I whisper in her ear, and the way she cuddles against me says she knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"Vince, Brandi? I need ta stop."

"Of course," Brandi says.

"Pussy," Vince says at the same time. But he's grinning, and the smile tells me it's not an insult.

It's an order.