“They called this morning,” she says. “Apparently, they reserve a few funded positions each cycle for strong candidates. Your father qualifies.” She’s crying now, happy tears, overwhelmed crying, and it has tears prickling in my eyes too. “They want him in Munich by next month.”
Jesus Christ.
I press my fist to my mouth, eyes slamming shut. My dad finally has a chance.
“He’s right here,” Mom says, voice wobbling. “He wants to talk to you.”
There’s a shuffle, then—“Son?”
It’s barely a whisper. My father doesn’t cry, but right now his voice is thick with it. The last time he got this emotional was when I was drafted into the NHL.
“I—I don’t know how this happened,” he says. “But your mother said to stop arguing and accept the damn blessing, so…”
I laugh a little, except it comes out broken with my own emotions. “Dad. This is, this is everything. This… it’s a chance. Please tell me you’re going to take it.”
“I know. And I am. I’m going to take it,” His breath shudders. “I wish I could see the look on your face right now.”
If he could, he’d see me with my hand pressed over my eyes, trying not to entirely lose it. Trying to imagine him walking again, even if it’s with a cane or a walker… anything at this point would be a win. Imagine him standing next to my mom in their kitchen, rather than rolling up beside her, brings more emotion clogging my throat.
“Dad,” I choke out. “You deserve this. More than anyone I know.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, it’s soft. “Thank you, son.”
When the call ends, I rest on the side of the bed for a long time, phone in both hands, trying to breathe through the sudden, dizzying relief.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I text the one person I want to tell this news to more than anyone on this planet.
Me:Just thought you might care. My pops got a spot in the trials.
I stare at the screen, stupidly hopeful.
One second passes, then two, then five, until my phone dings, half surprising me. I open it so fast I almost drop it.
KitKat:Tell him I say congratulations. He deserves it. You both do.
That’s it. Maybe I wished for more. Like, “I’m proud of him,” or “I’m happy for you. Or, “I miss you.”
I type something, and then erase it. Then type again, and erase that too.
She doesn’t want to talk. Not to me, or Luka, or even the girls who she’s become close with. She shut us all out, and I have no idea why. If she no longer wants me, fine… but what about everyone else? Are we so easy to forget?
I toss the phone onto the bed and press both palms into my eyes.
I don’t know what I expected. That she’d suddenly realize she made a mistake and come running back to me? That my father getting into the trials change anything between her big break in New York?
I’m an idiot.
A loud knock at my door jerks me out of it. “Scottie.” Luka’s voice.
I open the door. He looks stressed, hair damp from rain or sweat, jaw tense.
“I’ve been trying to get into the penthouse,” he says, still panting as if he ran here. “My grandmother’s bodyguard wouldn’t let me in to see my own damn sister. They slammed the door in my face.”
My stomach drops.
“It’s been almost a week,” Luka continues. “She hasn’t answered my calls or texts. The girls can’t reach her. Irina finally talked to her, but she’s not in New York yet, and she seemed closed-lipped about telling me anything she knows.”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I gathered.”
