My jaw clenches so hard I might crack a tooth. Of course he did.
“But we need it settled before we can release him.”
My father is standing now, unsteady on his feet. “Brody, son, please. It’s just bad luck. It happens. You understand?—”
“No.” The word comes out cold. Hard. “I don’t understand.”
“Your mother would have?—”
“Don’t.” I step closer. Lower my voice. “Don’t you dare bring her into this. Mom would have wanted you to get help. Real help. Not enablement.”
He flinches like I hit him. “I’m trying. You don’t know?—”
“I know you’re drunk. I know you’re gambling. I know you used my name to open credit you can’t pay back.” I’m shaking. From anger or hurt or exhaustion, I don’t know anymore. “I know you called me here to clean up your mess. Again.”
“I’m your father?—”
“Then act like it.” The words explode out. Louder than I intended. A few people at nearby tables turn to look. “Act like a father instead of a disaster I have to manage. Act like someone who cares about something other than the next bet.”
The silence that follows is thick enough to suffocate in. The slot machines keep chiming. Someone at another table whoops with excitement. The world keeps spinning, moving faster and faster, but mine has stopped, leaving me dizzy. Sick.
“Mr. Kane,” Michael says quietly. “Can we settle this?”
I pull out my wallet. Hand over my credit card. Watch Michael walk away to process the payment that will drain another significant chunk of my savings. Money I was planning to use for—what? What was I planning? A future? With Chloe? After the contract ends?
Doesn’t matter now.
My father sits back down at the table, defeated. That gleam in his eye, that manic glint he gets at the table, is gone now. And he’s somehow smaller. Older. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, son.”
“You always are.”
“I’ll pay you back?—”
“No, you won’t. We both know you won’t.” I’m so tired. Bone-deep tired. “I’m done, Dad.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“I’m done. Cleaning up your messes. Bailing you out. Pretending this is normal.” I crouch down so we’re eye level. “You want help? Real help? Call me when you’re ready for treatment. Otherwise, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Brody, please?—”
“This is it. This is the last time.” I stand. My legs feel unsteady. “Get yourself home. Don’t call me unless you’re really ready to change.”
“You think you’re better than me?” His voice rises, anger replacing the pleading. Heads turn again, a few looks of recognition flickering across their faces. “Mr. Perfect? Hockey star? You’re just like me. Running from everything that matters. Hiding behind that fake smile and perfect image. You’re just a liar, like your old man.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Maybe,” I say, swallowing the ache in my throat. “But at least I’m trying to change. Are you?”
I stand and walk away, leaving him there, calling after me. I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
It’s after midnight by the time I get back to the resort. The lobby is dark except for emergency lighting and the glow from the dying fireplace. My footsteps echo on the hardwood floors, too loud in the silence.
My key card beeps against the lock as I enter the honeymoon suite as quietly as possible.
The lights are low. Just the fireplace, burned down to embers that cast barely any light. The room smells like the lavender candles someone keeps lighting and the faint scent of Chloe’s shampoo—something floral and clean.
I stop.
