“I don’t want to be singular!”I shouted.
The silence rang in the hotel room.
“I don’t want to be you,” I said, quieter now.“I don’t want to sit in a big empty house with a trophy case and no one to talk to.I don’t want to look at my stats and realize they’re the only thing that loves me back.”
Dad’s face turned a mottled red.“Now listen here, you little shit.”
The back of his hand slammed into my face, violent and heavy, snapping my neck back so hard I felt something pop.The room spun.I had to grab the dresser just to stay upright.
“I gave you everything.I built this path for you.”
“You built it for yourself,” I corrected.“You had an injury and it took you out of the game forever.But I’m not your second chance, Dad.”
Walking to the coffee table, I looked at the contract—Minnesota Wild logo at the top, thick paper, life-changing money.
“I’m staying at Northern Ridge,” I said, my voice steady for the first time in my life.“I’m finishing my degree.I’m playing my senior year here.If Minnesota still wants me after that, they can callme.Not you.”
“You’re throwing it away,” Dad hissed, stepping into my space.“You walk out that door, you’re on your own.You are cut off.No stipend.No rent.No support.You’ll starve.”
I looked at him.Really looked at him.I didn’t see a safety net.I saw a cage.
I thought about the empty dorm room.I thought about the beige apartment with the maple tree Austen and I had looked at.I thought about the ledger sheets and the frozen peas and the way the quiet burned inside me when we lay together—not a terrifying silence, but a stabilized one.
“I don’t need your stipend,” I said.
I turned around and walked to the door.
“Luke!”Dad yelled, desperation cracking his voice.“Don’t be an idiot!You’re nothing without this!”
I opened the door; just turned the handle.
“No,” I said, looking back one last time.He looked small standing there, red-faced and shaking, but I didn’t feel the old fear.Just exhaustion.“I’m just done being your investment.”
I stepped out and pulled the door shut.It clicked into place—a soft, final sound.
I didn’t bother with the elevator.I raced down the ten flights of stairs, cutting off my dad’s string of curses behind me.When I hit ground level, I exited a side door, catching my breath in the biting wind.
My truck was parked in the back row.I reached for the door handle, but my hands were shaking so violently the keys slipped through my fingers.They hit a pile of dirty slush and skittered underneath the chassis.
“Come on,” I hissed, dropping to my knees.The freezing wet soaked through my.
I swept my hand blindly through the muck until my fingers brushed cold metal.I snatched the keys up, wiped them on my hoodie, and threw the door open.I fell into the driver’s seat, jamming the key into the ignition before the door was even closed.
The engine roared to life—a rough, familiar rumble that usually calmed me.Not tonight.I gripped the steering wheel, squeezing until my knuckles turned white, trying to force the tremors to stop.The adrenaline crash—the physical cost of telling Rick Carter “no” for the first time in twenty-one years.My chest heaved, lungs burning as if I’d played a triple-overtime period.
I pulled out of the parking lot, tires spinning on a patch of black ice before gripping the pavement.
I didn’t go back to the dorm.The dorm was a dead end.
I drove toward the bridge.
The windshield wipers slapped back and forth, clearing a fresh layer of wet, heavy snow.The heater blasted air that smelled like burned dust, but I couldn’t stop shivering.
What do I say?
I rehearsed the opening line a dozen times as I sped down Route 9.
I’m sorry.No, too small.
