“Of course.Would they?” he quotes me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I try to swallow, but every criticism, every comparison crawls its way up my throat. Again, Sutton’s text flashes in my head.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be as good as you, but that’s what people want. They don’t want Cooper Carmichael. They expect Ryn Carmichael’s son on the ice, in interviews, and on the street. Teams want—crave. Demand—another you.”
Dad’s quiet for a moment. Body moving ever so slightly as if he’s processing what I’ve said. “Is that what you want? To be me?”
It’s small, but I shake my head no.
“Good, because I’ve never wanted you to be me. Coop, all I’ve ever wanted, or expected, is for you to be yourself.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I hear you, but…” The critic’s words are like a broken stereo. You can’t turn them down or off. I do my best to explain what it’s been like. The exhausting pressure and daunting, unrealistic expectations. Dad’s calm and patient, but from how his knuckles turn white around the remote, and glasses squeeze his temples, he’s an array of emotions. But I don’t hold back.
“I never realized you felt this way. I’m sorry I’ve been blinded to it for all these years,” he says when I finish.
“That’s not your fault, I didn’t want you to.”
“Still. You’re my son. I wish I would have known. About reporters, that’s their job. Analyze players. Create clickbait articles and viral clips. A third of them are probably jealous of you. They’re always going to be a part of your career, but they don’t get to define it. Only you do.”
“I’m learning that. Coach, um, signed me up to work with a sports psychology student.” He tilts his head knowingly. “It’s Sutton. She’s been helping with my burnout and overtraining.”
“Her parents mentioned her study. I’m happy to hear you have her, and that it’s helping.”
“Yeah…yeah, me too.”
“Is there anything different I can do to support you? How can I help?”
“Um—” I’m not sure, I haven’t thought about this. “Can I get back to you on that?”
“Whenever. Nothing they’ve said about you has ever determined how I see or love you. You constantly make me proud, and I’m forever grateful to be your father.”
“I’m proud to be your son, too. What time does open skate end?” Our neighborhood ice rink usually stays open late on the weekends.
He checks the time. “Couple hours, probably.”
“Wanna go skate? Play a pick-up game?”
“I’d love nothing more.”
THIRTY-THREE
SUTTON
I slideinto the plush chair across from Jordan and Elliot the morning after Elliot’s class, tucking my sore legs up underneath me. Elliot rises, going to order another coffee and breakfast. Jordan, Cooper’s little sister, nudges a glass of water in my direction.
“Hey,” she says gently.
“Your hair.” I ignore her tone or what it implies. Jordan is close with Cooper, they’re Irish twins. It wouldn’t surprise me if he had already told her about yesterday.
Jordan runs a hand through the long strands. Unlike her siblings, who have wavy hair when grown out, hers is straight. All three of them had deep, chestnut-brown hair until now. Her hair is blue—a midnight shade with hints of indigo in it.
“It’s blue,” we say in unison. “I love it,” I follow up with.
It fits the olive undertones of her skin and makes her gray eyes lean midnight blue.
“When did you dye it?”
“Three days ago.” Jordan leans back in her chair, relaxed but shoulders and back stiff—she’s always so serious. “Meant to give myself highlights, messed up, and decided to dye it all.” She braids a section of it, eyes flickering with various emotions.
