“Fuck you, Sully.”
My father, who used alcohol to escape his responsibilities. Who I watched hit my mother in a drunken rage. Those memories haunt every relationship I've ever had.
"I'm nothing like him. He was selfish. I'm trying to protect people I care about."
"Are you?" Sully's eyes are unrelenting. "Or are you protecting yourself from having to do some scary shit like admitting that you need her?"
I stand abruptly, walking to the window. "You don't get it. Jessica is using my relationship against me. She's painting me as unstable, as a bad influence because of Reese. If I want any chance with Tyler?—"
“Look” he says, “I raised two kids on my own while playing hockey. I know what it costs to keep a family together."
He stands, walks over next to me at the window. "Your old man chose the bottle over connection. You're choosing fear. Different poison, same result."
"I don't know how to fix this," I admit.
"Yes, you do." Sully's voice softens slightly. "You're just afraid of what happens if you try and fail."
Fuck. He's right. I feel it. I'm scared.
"What if I can't be what they need?" The question emerges before I can stop it, raw and honest in a way I haven't allowed myself to be in weeks.
"You already are," Sully says simply. "You just have to believe it and live it."
He drains the last of his beer, and sets the empty bottle on the counter.
He looks me in the eyes and says, "The team needs their captain. Not just his body—his heart, his focus, his leadership."
I swallow hard.
He walks to the elevator. He gets on and nods goodbye.
I'm alone again, but I'm not spiraling.
I walk back to the window and I notice my legs don't feel as heavy.
The apartment feels different after Sully leaves, his words won’t leave me alone.”Different poison, same result.”
I sink onto the couch, my busted up hand throbbing in time with my pulse. As it starts to fade, my phone lights up on the coffee table. A FaceTime call from Jessica’s number. My heart lurches.
I glance at the time—9:17 PM and answer.
Tyler's face fills my screen, too close as always. He's in his bed. His hair is a mess. God, I love this kid.
It’s way past his bedtime. Jessica must not know he's calling. I take a deep breath, composing my features into something resembling normal before answering.
"Hey, buddy." I force warmth into my voice.
"Hi, Daddy." His voice is smaller than usual.
"Shouldn't you be asleep?" I ask gently, already noting the subtle signs that something's wrong—the slight downturn of his mouth, the way his fingers fidget with the edge of his blanket.
"Mommy said I could call you before bed." He shifts, sitting up a little straighter. "I wanted to say good night."
"I'm glad you did. I miss you."
"Miss you too." His eyes dart away, then back to the screen. "Are you coming to get me this weekend?"
The question stabs at me. Our usual rhythm—my parenting time, our weekends together—disrupted by the custody battle. "I hope so, buddy. I'm trying to work things out with your Mom."
