“No, you wanted what was best for your ego.” The truth flows from me now, unstoppable. “Every goal I scored, every win, every milestone—they were yours, not mine. You’ve been playing through me since I was eight years old.”
Dad’s face crumples, decades of carefully constructed justification collapsing under the weight of truth. For the first time in my life, I see my father as he really is—not the demanding coach, not the overbearing critic, but a man haunted by his own perceived failures, trying desperately to rewrite history through his son.
“I never meant...” he starts, then stops, staring down at his hands. “I just wanted you to have the chances I didn’t.”
“I know,” I say, the anger draining away, leaving only a tired clarity. “But it has to be my choice now. My career. My game. My life.”
The server approaches with menus, senses the tension, and retreats hastily. None of us seems to notice or care.
“Is this all because of your bad situation?” Dad says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what pushed you to be too aggressive? And get hurt?”
I don’t answer immediately; the question hits too close to the very thing I’ve been avoiding. Had I gone too hard because a part of me needs to reconcile the shit I’m going through? Or was it to live up to the Brooks Kingston Dad wants me to be?
“I went too hard that day,” I say finally. “That’s on me and what I’m dealing with. But maybe I wouldn’t have felt so much pressure if I hadn’t spent my whole life trying to prove myself to you.”
Mom reaches across the table, taking both our hands in hers. “It’s not too late,” she says softly. “For either of you.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of decades of misunderstanding and misdirected ambition settling between us. Then, to my surprise, Dad nods slowly.
“You’re right,” he admits, the words clearly difficult for him. “I’ve been... too involved. Too invested in outcomes rather than your happiness.”
It’s not a full apology, not yet, but it’s more self-awareness than I’ve ever heard from Robert Kingston the Second. A start.
As we finally order our meals, the conversation shifts to safer topics—Mom’s garden, Dad’s golf game, neutral territory where we can find our footing again. But as we’re waiting for the check, I find the courage to say what needs to be said.
“I love hockey, Dad,” I tell him, my voice quiet but firm. “Always have. But I need to play it my way, for me. Not for you, not for scouts or coaches or contracts. Not to try to resolve my impossible situation. But forme.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, a gesture that contains more acceptance than he’s ever offered before. “Your way,” he echoes. “I’ll work on that.”
It’s not a revolution. It’s not even a resolution. But as we walk out of the restaurant into the cool Boise night, it feels like a first step toward something healthier.
And as I drive back to my house, alone with my thoughts, I realize that if I could finally find the courage to confront my father after all these years, maybe I can find the courage to tell Sydney the whole truth too? But it’s too late. She’s about to build a new life in LA that has no place for a complicated hockey player with a ghastly secret and a heart full of regret.
30
The City of Angels
SYDNEY
Los Angeles slaps me in the face the moment I step out of LAX—a wall of smog, palm trees, and desperation masquerading as ambition. Nothing like the crisp Dickens air I left behind four hours ago with the drive to Boise’s airport. I adjust my blazer, already not loving the more humid, warmer weather, and scan the sea of rideshare drivers holding up phones with passenger names. Mine’s nowhere to be seen.
“Excuse me.” A man in sunglasses bumps past, dragging a suitcase that costs more than my monthly rent. “Some of us have places to be.”
I shuffle to the side, my own pathetic roller bag—a relic from college that’s missing one wheel—limping behind me like a wounded animal. I check my app again. Thedriver is five minutes away. Has been for the last fifteen minutes.
While I wait, I check my phone for messages. I’m not sure from whom. I guess I’m secretly hoping Brooks will write and say all this was a huge mistake. Or just that he was too chickenshit to face reality.
None from him, but good luck wishes from Mom, Dad, Zoe, and Maisie.
Finally, my rideshare arrives—a silver Toyota that’s seen better decades. The driver, a woman with more piercings than I can count, doesn’t bother getting out to help with my bag.
“Sydney?” She doesn’t look up from her phone.
“That’s me.”
“Great. Get in. Traffic’s a nightmare.”
Welcome to LA, where warmth isn’t just a weather pattern.
