“You’re playing well this season,” he said at 11:58.
I looked at him.It was the first compliment he’d offered all break.
“Thanks.”
“Harper knows what she’s doing.The team’s got structure.”He paused, jaw working like he was chewing on words he couldn’t quite swallow.“I’m proud of you, Luke.”
The ball dropped.The crowd roared.Dad raised his cider glass, and I raised mine, and we clinked them together in the flickering TV light.
“Happy New Year, son,” he said.
“Happy New Year, Dad.”
It wasn’t enough.It was never enough.But it was something—a crack in the wall he’d built, a glimpse of the father I remembered from before the injury ended his career and turned him into a man made entirely of regret.
I texted Austen at 12:01.
Me:Happy New Year.Dad said he’s proud of me.
Austen:That’s significant.
Me:Maybe.I don’t know what to do with it.
Austen:You don’t have to do anything with it.You can just let it exist.
Me:Oh, is that how feelings work?
Austen:I’m learning that they might.
I smiled at my phone.Across the room, Dad was cleaning up the dip, moving with the careful economy of a man who’d spent his life protecting his body from damage.
“I’m heading to bed,” I said.“Early drive tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Day after.But I want to check the truck, make sure it’s road-ready.”
He nodded.“I’ll look at it with you.In the morning.”
“Okay.”
Another silence.He crossed to the couch and did something he hadn’t done in years—put a hand on my shoulder, brief and heavy, and squeezed.
“Good night,” he said.“And keep your glove up.”
“I will.”
He went upstairs.I stayed on the couch, staring at the TV as the celebrations continued in cities I’d never visit.My phone buzzed.
Austen:The Chens have started singing karaoke.I am hiding in the bathroom.
Me:Coward.
Austen:Strategic retreat.
Me:Same thing.
Austen:Agree to disagree.Happy New Year, Luke.
