Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(6)
“Smart man,” I mutter. “Tall, ginger, and handsome was always your speed.”
“I like what I like. Gingers don’t get enough love in this world. Now, talk to me about life, school, the team.” Mama shifts in her bed and tries to hide a grimace. “I feel like I have no clue what’s going on these days.”
I tell her about the pad thai that Rooney tried to make the other night, how it made the whole apartment smell like a rotten fish carcass and the noodles were so hard when I took a bite, I was positive I’d cracked a molar.
Mama laughs until it turns into a coughing fit. A nurse stops in, giving my mom some oxygen while giving me a look that says, Simmer down, Sutter.
Deciding I’ll try not to make her laugh like that anymore for the night, I tell Mama about the upcoming match, the strategy we’re taking to be more offensive than usual. We’ve been playing me as the lone striker, so if they’re smart, our opposition will try to double-team me. We’ll set Rooney on top with me as a fellow forward rather than her typical spot in midfield. If Rooney’s up there, pulling their defense, hopefully, she and I can string together a couple of goals.
“That sounds great,” Mama says. She pops an orange segment in her mouth and smiles. “Scouts will be coming around soon, keeping their eye on you, right?”
I throw back an orange segment, too. “Yep,” I say around my bite. “If I can stay eligible.”
Mama’s faint eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry, Willa Rose, have I missed something? You are a hardworking, dependable student. Your grades have never been in jeopardy before.”
Groaning, I drop sideways until my head is in her lap. Mama’s hands wander to my hair, trying to make order out of chaos. “Tell me, honey.”
It tumbles out. How I naively expected Professor MacCormack to act like every other instructor I’ve had, and when I realized he wasn’t going to, how nervous I got to ask him for what I needed. I don’t get to tell her about the asshole lumberjack before Mama tsks and shakes her head.
“You never have been good at having the tough conversations.” Mama sighs. “Don’t know where you got that. If someone paid me to argue for a living, I would.”
Her hands are so soothing, I let my eyes slide shut and savor the sensation of her fingers, rhythmically sliding through my hair. Once she’s done, my wild hair won’t be half as tangled, but it will be twice as puffy. I don’t mind, though. “You’d have made a great lawyer, Mama. Between you and Rooney, I’m surrounded by pugnacious personalities—”
“That’s it!” Mom reaches for her crossword puzzle, tongue stuck out as she writes in the letters. “Pug-na-cious. Oh, Willa, thank you. Now I can rub it in Dr. B’s face when he next stops in.”
I pick up my head and meet her eyes. “So it’s Dr. B who put you up to crosswords?” She’s been obsessed with them for a few weeks now, texting me all hours of the day and night, when she wants to see if Rooney or I know a word she’s looking for.
“Well, he said if I ate my meals and didn’t drop any more weight on him, he’d let me out for your championship game.”
“Mama, we have to make it through qualifiers and playoffs—”
“Ah. Ah. Ah.” Mama holds up her hand, commanding silence. “What have I taught you?”
I sigh. “I can do anything I set my heart and mind to.”
“That’s right. You want that championship game, Willa, you’ll get it. As I was saying, if I keep my weight up, I get to come, but if I do the New York Times crossword in one day, he’ll take me himself in his fancy sports car.”
I sit upright, abruptly. “But it’s in San Jose this year. Isn’t that dangerous? I mean, the travel will take it out of you, and the outside world is a germ-fest, and—”
“Willa.” Mama interlaces her fingers with mine and smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. He’s a doctor, he knows.”
My shoulders are pinched, worry twisting my stomach. I hate that Mama’s sick enough to need to be in the hospital, but I love that here, I know she’s safe and taken care of. As far as I’m concerned, I want her here, getting the care she needs, for as long as necessary. Thankfully, Grandma Rose left us decent life savings and Mama’s military pension helps. That’s where virtually all of our finances go—her cancer treatment, so she can get better as soon as possible.
Given that, I’m pretty much financially on my own, which I don’t mind. For years each summer, I’ve worked at a local bookstore—that’s where I learn words like tempestuous and pugnacious to add to my vocabulary. An indie bookseller that also serves coffee and baked goods, it experiences a great boost to business during touristy summer months, so I make nice tips, on top of a decent hourly wage. Whatever I earn during the summer is my disposable income for the school year. With my full ride thanks to academic and athletic scholarships, on top of careful budgeting, I squeak by for monthly expenses of groceries and utilities in the apartment I share with Rooney.
The last couple of months, though, Rooney’s “accidentally” paid the rent and full utility bills rather than letting me write a check for half and mailing it off with hers like we used to. I have a nagging suspicion that’s because Rooney’s family is loaded—her dad’s a big-time producer in Hollywood—so it’s nothing to her, and she knows I’m on a shoestring budget. She’d deny it ’til the day she died, but I’m onto her.