“But you didn’t come back. You went to the professional league. And I—” He stops, jaw working. “I felt rejected. Like what I built wasn’t good enough for you.”
“It wasn’t that?—”
“I know.” He looks up. “Took me too long to figure it out, but I know. You weren’t rejecting me. You were chasing your own dream. Building your own thing. Same as I did when I left my father’s cannery job to start my own operation.”
The parallel lands like a depth charge.
“Levi’s a good kid,” Dad says. “He stepped in when you left. Kept the business running. But he’s not you. And I shouldn’t have needed you to stay to prove you love us.”
My throat closes.
“You didn’t abandon where you came from,” he says. “You just grew past it. And that’s not betrayal. That’s success.”
“Dad.” My voice comes out rough. “You don’t have to?—”
“Yeah, I do.” He stands and crosses to me. “I’m proud of you, son. The hockey, the endorsements, the youth programs you fund. All of it. You built something real. And you did it your way.”
He extends his hand.
I take it, then pull him into a hug—brief, tight, the kind men give when words aren’t enough.
When we pull back, his hand stays on my shoulder. “That girl upstairs, she’s the real deal.”
“I know.”
“Don’t let her get away.”
“Not a chance.”
He nods, satisfied. Then his mouth quirks. “Now go. Your mom’s got dinner in twenty minutes, and she’ll kill us both if we’re late.”
I head for the door, then stop. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He just nods, but there’s something in his eyes—pride, relief, maybe both.
I take the stairs two at a time, Dad’s blessing still warm in my chest.
Don’t let her get away.
The problem is, she was never supposed to stay. This was a deal. A performance. Help each other out and walk away clean.
Except I’m not walking away from anything. I’m falling. Fast. Hard. Completely.
And I have no idea if she’s falling too, or if I’m alone in this freefall.
7
THE BAR AT THE END OF THE WORLD (JOY)
The Harbor Bar smells of cedar smoke, beer, and fried food. Colored lights buzz along the rafters, bleeding red and gold with every pulse of bass. The floor vibrates faintly under my boots. The air hums with laughter, heat, and noise that drowns out words.
Wesley doesn’t talk. He doesn’t have to. His touch says it all—mine.
The DJ drops “Shut Up and Dance,” and the whole town obeys, shouting, spinning, bumping shoulders.
