Mom texted that they’re meeting me at Emilio’s, Dad’s favorite Italian restaurant. Of course. The site of countless post-game dissections, where my father would carve into his buttered lobster pasta with the same precision he used to dissect my performance on the ice.
The restaurant hasn’t changed—same dark wood paneling, same oversized leather booths, same photos of local sports heroes adorning the walls. There’s even one of me from my rookie year, grinning like a moron after my first hat trick. I look impossibly young, unburdened by injury or the weight of my career possibly ending.
My parents are already seated when I arrive, my mother rising to embrace me with the desperate hug of someone who’s missed their son. My father remains seated, offering only a nod and a handshake when I approach.
“Brooks.” He says my name like he’s checking attendance. “You look fit.”
“Rob,” my mother chides gently. “Is that any way to greet your son after a month apart?”
Dad grunts, reaching for his Merlot. “Just making an observation, Lisa. Fitness is essential for his return.”
I slide into the booth across from them, already feeling the familiar tension creeping up my spine. “Good to see you too, Dad. Mom, you look great.”
She does. My mother has always been beautiful in a soft, approachable way that contrasts sharply with my father’s hard angles and perpetual frown.
“How’s your shoulder, honey?” She reaches across to squeeze my hand.
“Good as new,” I lie, ignoring the dull ache that’s settled in after practice. “Doctor says I’m cleared for play.”
“I watched the practice livestream,” Dad says, and my stomach drops. Of course he did. “Your lateral movement is still hesitant. And you pulled up on that check from Jenkins.”
Not even five minutes in, and we’re already here. I signal the server, ordering a beer I desperately need. “It was my first day back, Dad. I’m not going to be mid-season form right out of the gate.”
“The team doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for you to ease back in.” He leans forward. “That rookie, Carter, is hungry for your spot. And he’s got speed you never had, even before the injury.”
Mom shoots him a warning look. “Rob, please. Can’t we just enjoy dinner first?”
But Dad’s on a roll now, the familiar litany of critiques flowing as naturally as breathing. “Your stick handling was sloppy in the neutral zone. You telegraphed that pass to Carter in the second drill. And your conditioning—”
“How’s Maisie?” Mom interjects desperately. “After her last treatment?”
The question lands like a lead weight. They don’t know about Meema’s deception either. Another conversation I’ve been avoiding.
“She’s fine,” I say shortly, taking a long pull of my beer when it arrives. “Health-wise, anyway.”
“And Sydney?” Mom asks, her voice gentle. “You didn’t tell us you were going to propose.”
Dad snorts, clearly impatient with this line of conversation. “The weather girl? That’s just a distraction he doesn’t need right now. This season’s critical for hiscareer trajectory, especially after the injury.”
Something inside me snaps, a tension wire pulled too tight for too long. “Her name is Sydney,” I say, my voice low but sharp. “She’s a weather reporter and a sportscaster. And she’s in LA interviewing for her dream job because I pushed her away.”
My parents exchange glances across the table. Mom’s concerned, Dad’s dismissive.
“Probably for the best.” Dad shrugs. “You need to focus on your comeback. Everything else is secondary.”
“Is that all you care about?” The words burst out of me, louder than intended, drawing glances from nearby tables. “My spot on the team? My ‘career trajectory’?”
“Brooks,” Mom starts, but I’m beyond stopping now.
“Do you have any idea what the past couple of months have been like? This past year?” I demand, leaning across the table toward my father. “The rehab, the pain, the nightmares?” I lower my voice, glancing around. “And in my situation? But in the midst of all that, I met someone incredible, someone who made me feel like maybe there’s more to life than hockey, and I blew it because I’m so screwed up by your obsession with my career that I can’t even be honest with her.”
Dad’s face darkens, his jaw setting in that familiar stubborn line. “Don’t blame me for your problems, son. Everything I’ve done—every sacrifice I’ve made—was for your benefit. To give you opportunities I never had.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it?” My voice drops, the realization crystallizing with clarity. “This was never about me. It was always about you. Your lost chance. Your unfulfilled potential. You never made it to the pros, and now you’re trying to live through me. That stops. Now.”
The words land hard, my father physically recoiling as if I’ve struck him. Mom’s hand flies to her mouth, eyes wide with a mix of shock and what might be recognition.
“That’s not true,” Dad says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I wanted what was best for you.”
