“Everythingyouworked for.” Larry leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I made some calls, yeah. But you're the one who made the team. You're the one who keptyour grades up. You're the one who impressed Nieminen enough that he wanted you there.”
I pull my knees to my chest. “Doesn't matter.”
“It matters.” He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Look, I pushed for Crestwood because I saw what you could do on the ice. The way you played after—” He pauses. “You have NHL potential, Ryan. Still do. That's why I called in those favors.”
My throat tightens. “Had.”
“Have. Present tense.” He shifts in the chair, making it creak. “But that doesn't mean you have to keep playing. You want to focus on your accounting degree? We'll make that happen. Gannon's got a good program. So does Mercyhurst. Hell, even Penn State Behrend. And they’ve got great hockey teams if you decide to keep playing.”
I want to argue, to tell him it's not that simple, that I can't just pick up and start over somewhere else. That I'm tired of losing everything.
But he's trying. He's always trying.
“I wanted to make you proud.” The words come out broken.
“Kiddo, you've made me proud every day since you came to live here. College doesn't change that. Hockey doesn't change that.”
I reach for the water bottle, but my gaze lands on the photo of my family. My hand freezes, throat tightening.
Three days.
Three more days until—
“Ryan, breathe. Come on. In. Out. In. Out.”
But I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s all too much. My chest seizes, and the sound that rips out of me is ugly, raw, too loud. My whole body shakes as I wail again. “Dad, it hurts. It hurts so much.”
“Oh, kiddo.” The mattress dips and then Larry’s arms wrap around me, pulling me to his chest. “I got you.”
My fingers clutch his sweatshirt as sobs tear through me.
His hand rubs circles on my back, the same way he did that first night I woke up screaming in this house. The same way he did after every nightmare, every anniversary eve, every time the grief got too big for my body to hold. “Let it out. Just let it all out.”
I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough that the sobs turn to hiccups. Long enough that my ribs ache from crying so hard. And long enough that exhaustion starts winning over grief.
My breathing finally slows, the harsh gasps evening out. Larry's sweatshirt is soaked where I'd been crying against his shoulder. He’s the only person I don’t flinch with. The only person whose touch makes me feel safe.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to callyou—”
“Ryan. Call me whatever feels right to you. Dad, Larry, Coach—doesn't matter to me. We've been over this.”
But it matters. My real dad is buried in Erie Cemetery, has been for eight years. And here I am, calling another man Dad.
“Kiddo, it’s your choice. Always was, always will be. Doesn't change anything between us.”
I nod.
He said the same thing after he asked if I wanted him to adopt me and I told him no. I didn’t want to replace my dad. Never will.
But I see Larry as my dad too. That’s why it slips out sometimes, why the word burns my throat even if it feels right. When I woke up in that hospital bed, all I wanted was Mom, Dad, and Sarah. I kept asking for them until the CPS lady sat down and explained what happened.
Not one member of my extended family came. No one stepped up for me.
Except Larry.
He’d been my hockey coach back then. He got a provisional foster license while I recovered in the hospital. Everyone felt it was in my best interest since I knew him.
I sit back and wipe my eyes. “It’s not that I don’t . . . I mean . . . It’s confusing.”
