“From what? Being happy?”
“From ruining your life!” He turns on me then, voice booming off the walls. “You think this world’sgonna be kind to you? You think people are gonna forget that picture? You’ll lose everything, Todd. Everything I worked to help you build.”
I shake my head, chest heaving. “You mean everythingyouwanted. Not me.”
The words are a lie. I want the NHL, too. Ididwork hard to get here.
But his fear is that I won’t be drafted because of this—because ofwho I am.
And mine is that I’ll be draftedbecauseof it and not because of my skills.
Those things are not the same.
He stares at me for a long moment—just stares—before his expression hardens into something cold. “You should go.”
The words gut me. He wants me to leave. I swallow. He really can’t accept me for who I am, everything I was afraid of is coming true.
“What?”
He grabs a paper towel, wipes his hand, avoids my eyes. “Go cool off. Take a few days. Think about what you’re doing. Maybe by Christmas you’ll be thinking clearly.”
“Dad—”
“Go,” he says again, quieter this time. “We’ll talk when you get your head on straight.”
My throat burns. I wait for him to look at me, to realize what he’s saying. But he doesn’t.
So I nod once, even though my whole body feels like it’s splintering apart. I turn toward the door on wooden legs.
The floor creaks beneath my steps. The only sound after that is the faint hiss of air when he opens another beer.
I step outside into the cold morning air. The rain has started again—thin, relentless. It soaks through my hoodie asI walk to the car. My hands are shaking as I pull my keys from my pocket to unlock it. I fumble with them, and they clatter onto the wet cement.
I finally get the door open and climb inside, chest tight, eyes burning. I don’t start the engine right away. I just sit there, staring at the house through the windshield until it blurs into nothing but shapes and water.
With one last breath, I start the car and pull out of the driveway. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t stay.
The wipers drag across the glass, smearing the world into motionless lines. My phone buzzes once in the cup holder—probably Logan—but I can’t bring myself to look. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Headlights slice through the rain as I merge onto the highway, the tires hissing over wet asphalt. Every mile puts more distance between me and the house, but it doesn’t feel like escape. It feels like free-fall.
By the time the town lights fade in my rearview mirror, my hands are still trembling on the wheel. I tell myself I’ll figure it out when I get there—whereverthereends up being.
But the truth is, I don’t know if I’m running away from him… or from myself.
THIRTY-ONE
LOGAN
The front doordidn’t slam behind him.
That’s almost worse.
It clicked shut soft as the secret we used to have, and then there’s just the hum of the fridge and the rain sliding down the window. My mom’s puttering in the kitchen, pretending not to hear what happened. She’s kind like that—knows when silence hurts too much to fill.
I stay in the entryway for a long time, staring at the space Todd just walked out of. His smell still lingers. Traces of his cologne and the smell of my shampoo he used last night. The kind of scent that sticks to the air long after someone’s gone.
He didn’t say goodbye.
