Back To The Oven

Back To The Oven
The bell above the shop door jingled as I pushed it open with my hip, balancing a crate of soda bottles against my chest. The smell of melted cheese and garlic butter wrapped around me like a heavy blanket, thicker and more suffocating than comforting. I had not been here full time in months, not since hockey started, but now the sound of the oven timer and the hiss of the fryer would be my soundtrack again.

Mom looked up from behind the counter, strands of hair sticking to her forehead, and I could see the fatigue in her eyes before she even tried to hide it. She forced a smile, one that did not reach the corners of her mouth, and went back to folding boxes.

“You are here early,” she said.

I set the crate down with a thud, the bottles rattling inside. “I figured you could use the help.”

Her hands stilled for half a second before she went on folding. She did not say thank you. She did not ask why I was not at practice. She just nodded, like she had been waiting for me to come to this decision, like she knew all along that responsibility would pull me back here whether I liked it or not.

The kitchen was already sweltering, ovens glowing hot, dough trays stacked in every corner. I tied on an apron and slipped back into the routine so easily it scared me. My hands remembered the motions without thought: stretching dough, scattering cheese, ladling sauce in practiced circles. It was muscle memory, as ingrained as skating, but without the thrill.

By five o’clock the dinner rush hit, and the small shop filled with the noise of impatient customers and the constant ring of the phone. Mom worked the register, her voice hoarse but steady, while I darted between the oven and the prep station. Every few minutes I caught her rubbing at her wrist, trying to ease the ache that came from years of repetition.

“Mom, sit for a second,” I said, sliding a steaming pizza into a box. “I’ve got this.”

“I cannot sit when the orders are backed up,” she muttered, even as her shoulders slumped.

I wanted to argue, but the timer beeped again and I had to spin back to pull another pie from the oven. The air was thick with heat, sweat soaking the collar of my shirt, and by the time the last customer left, I felt wrung out. My arms ached from carrying trays, my legs from standing in one spot for hours. It was a different kind of exhaustion than skating until my lungs burned. This exhaustion pressed down on me in silence, leaving no adrenaline to balance it out.

When we finally locked the door, Mom slumped into the nearest chair, pulling off her apron with trembling fingers.

“You should not be here every night,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction.

“Neither should you,” I shot back.

She gave a tired laugh, but it carried no humor. “The shop does not run itself, Cass.”

I sat down across from her, the wood of the chair sticky from years of grease. “Then let me help. Full time. At least until things get easier.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, and once they were in the air, there was no taking them back.

Her head lifted sharply. “Full time? What about school? Hockey?”

I stared at the scuffed floor tiles, a knot tightening in my chest. “School I can balance. Hockey… I do not know.”

The silence that followed was louder than the ovens at full blast. She studied me for a long moment, her eyes softening even as her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“You worked too hard for that team,” she said quietly. “Do not throw it away because of me.”

“I am not throwing it away,” I whispered. “I am choosing us.”

The truth of it burned as I said it. Hockey had been my dream, but this shop was reality. Bills did not wait for victories on the ice. Rent did not care about goals or assists. And my mother, bent with exhaustion, was not something I could ignore.

That night I lay awake in my room, the hum of the refrigerator in the next room bleeding through the walls. My muscles ached, but what hurt worse was the emptiness in my chest. I should have been at practice, sweating on the ice, skating drills until my legs gave out. Instead, I had burned my arms reaching into ovens and inhaled grease until it coated my throat.

I told myself it was temporary, that I was only filling in until Mom caught her breath. But part of me knew better. The longer I stayed, the harder it would be to go back.

The next morning I woke early and returned to the shop with her, slipping into the rhythm of chopping vegetables and prepping dough for the day. The regulars greeted me with surprise, some making small jokes about the “pizza girl returning from hockey stardom.” I smiled through it, but inside, the words cut.

Every time I wiped sweat from my forehead, I pictured George’s face on the ice, the way he pushed himself until steam seemed to rise from his body. I wondered if he noticed my absence, or if he was too busy being furious at me for everything else. The thought twisted in my stomach, and I forced it away by focusing on kneading dough.

By mid-afternoon, Mom’s hands were shaking. She reached for a pan and nearly dropped it, catching herself at the last second. I rushed forward, taking it from her.

“You need to go home and rest,” I said firmly.

She tried to wave me off. “There are still—”

“I will close up,” I interrupted. “Please, Mom.”

Her eyes filled with something unreadable, and she finally nodded, gathering her things with slow movements. I watched her leave, the door shutting softly behind her, and felt the full weight of the shop fall on my shoulders.

Hours later, when the final order left and the last chair was stacked, I stood alone in the kitchen, wiping grease off my arms. The air was thick, my throat dry, and for a moment I let myself lean against the counter, closing my eyes.

This was what life would be now. Not ice. Not competition. Not the fire of chasing something bigger than myself. Just ovens, receipts, and a mother who needed me more than I needed my dreams.

The thought left me hollow.

When I stepped outside, the night air was cool against my skin, but it did nothing to clear the heaviness pressing on me. I looked up at the sky, searching for something, maybe a sign, maybe a reason.

Across the street, a group of kids in practice gear passed by, sticks slung over their shoulders, still buzzing with post-game energy. Their laughter echoed down the block, and something inside me cracked. I turned away quickly, blinking hard, the sound fading into the distance.

I told myself again it was temporary. I told myself again it was for Mom. I told myself again I could come back when things settled.

But deep down, I knew every night I stayed here meant one more step away from the rink. And one step closer to losing everything I had fought for.

The oven timer beeped inside, even though there was nothing in it. The sound made me jump, and for a moment it felt like the building itself was mocking me. I shut the door behind me, locked it tight, and pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

Tomorrow would come. And I would be here again.

But what if tomorrow was the day the team decided they did not need me anymore?

The thought echoed, sharp and unshakable.