“Easton?” Pause. “Bud?”
I don’t move. Maybe if I fake being asleep, he’ll leave.
No such luck. He knows I’m awake by my loud breathing.
“Still up?” His voice is even, no-nonsense, as usual.
I let out a slow breath and roll to my back, staring at the ceiling. “Yup.”
There’s another pause before the bed dips slightly under his weight as he sits at the edge. Not like Mom would, all soft and comforting, rubbing my back or brushing my hair off my forehead. Dad’s presence is heavier, more expectant.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
A quiet scoff. “Try again.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Just thinking.”
Dad’s sigh is short, sharp. “You seem to be doing that a lot.”
Yeah, no kidding. I have a lot on my mind he has no idea about. Things I can’t share because he’ll be pissed beyond belief.
My dad doesn’t say anything for a few beats, and I know he’s watching me—assessing. This is how he operates: silent, observant, waiting until he has all the facts before weighing in.
Finally, he exhales, fully ready to lecture. “Look, I don’t know what’s on your mind, but you need to sleep. You can’t go through life exhausted.”
Well, no shit!
Dude, does he think I want to be lying here with my eyes bugging out?
“So? You gonna tell me what’s keeping you up?”
I hesitate. Fuck no, I’m not going to tell him I stole the Parker Lane Prep mascot, that I got caught, that Harper Conrad is blackmailing me into being her prom date, that I have to be on the stupid prom committee—and now the girl I have a crush on is finally paying attention to me when I’m being pressured into asking Harper to the dance.
Yeah.Didn’t freaking think so.
Then, the inevitable: “You do realize how important sleep is for athletes of your caliber.”
I groan internally.
Great.Here we go.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You can’t perform at your best if you’re running on fumes. You think your opponents are lying awake at night staring at the ceiling?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“You can’t lie here like this every night.” His voice is firm—as if I were doing this on purpose. “Bad habits start small. One late night turns into two. Suddenly, you’re sluggish at practice. You’re missing plays. And then what?”
I don’t have to answer. He does it for me.
“You lose your edge. And in hockey if you don’t have an edge—you’re nothing.”
I swallow, pressing my lips together. “Awesome.”
“Hey. Don’t be a smart-ass.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, but I know better than that, so my mouth stays shut and I continue staring at the ceiling, willing this conversation to be over.
