I stay in the car for a while after he goes inside, just breathing, staring at my hands on the wheel, the ghost of his weight still pressed against my chest. I know there’s work to do, trust to rebuild, but I’ll do it all for him. I’ll do it a hundred times over.
Noah
Threeweekslater…
There’s something about the way my father stands outside my apartment door that turns every muscle in my body into stone. He’s not supposed to be here—not today, not this city, not this building, not this version of my life.
I barely recognize the shape of him in the security camera’s grainy preview until I open the door and see him standing there in pressed slacks and a dark overcoat, as if he’s just come from a board meeting. There’s no smile, only that polite mask that used to pass for affection when I was younger. I try not to flinch when I see him.
“Dad?” My voice comes out too small and uncertain. I grip the door a little tighter. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
He glances past me, scanning the hallway, then back at my face as if he’s cataloguing weaknesses. “You didn’t answer mylast call. I was in town for a meeting and thought I’d check in. May I come in?”
I hesitate, throat tightening, but step aside. “Yeah. Sure.”
He steps in, eyes moving over every inch of my space—first the shoes lined up by the door, then the stacked books on the coffee table, the camera bag on the kitchen island, the blanket thrown over the back of the couch. I see something pass across his face. “It’s tidy,” he says, eyes still searching. “That’s good. Busy week?”
“Uh. A little,” I mumble, fighting the urge to shrink. “Classes, swim, just… normal stuff.”
He nods, walking the perimeter of my living room. “Classes going well?” He fixes me with that look that says he already knows the answer but wants to hear me say it. “I checked your grades. Some of your midterms were a little below your standard.”
The shame hits before I can build a wall against it. I fumble for something safe. “We just got results. I can bring them up. I’ll study harder.”
He studies me, expression unreadable, lips pursed. “And your times in the pool?”
I flinch, trying not to show it. “Coach says I’m making progress.”
“Progress.” His tone goes flat, disappointment threading every syllable. “That’s not what you’re here for, Noah. You’re here to win. Your mother says you haven’t called her back, by the way.”
The reminder of her—another impossible standard—just makes the room feel smaller. “I’ve been—”
“How are your times?” he interjects, not caring about anything I have to say. “Your coach mentioned the meet on Friday. You haven’t sent me your splits.”
I bristle, fighting to keep my tone neutral. “Coach said he’d email them out today. I’m seeded third in the relay, second in backstroke.”
“Third?” His voice is quiet, but I hear the clear disappointment. “You were seeded first last season.”
I stare at my feet. “I’m working on it.”
He lets out a sigh, wandering to the kitchen where my pill organizer sits lined up beside the coffee maker. He picks it up, inspecting the compartments with a slight frown before setting it back down. “You’re still taking these?”
I nod, pulse hammering in my neck. “Doctor’s orders. It helps.”
He doesn’t argue, but his silence makes my skin crawl. There’s a tension in the air, a sense that we’re not talking about the things we’re really talking about. “So, what did you need, Dad?” I ask, trying for lightness.
He shrugs, smooth and practiced. “Just checking in. Making sure you’re focused. You’re entering a crucial point in your career, Noah. You need to start thinking about Olympic trials, about your future. That means more discipline, less distraction.”
My mouth is dry. “I know. I—Dad, Iamfocused. I’m doing everything you asked.”
He’s not listening. He never is. He glances at his watch. “Let’s go to Blackthorne. I’d like to speak with your coach about your training schedule. There are things we need to clarify before the next meet.”
I want to say no, to tell him I need to get back to class, that this isn’t a good time. But all the old scripts come roaring back—the ones where my obedience means peace, where fighting means war. I nod, feeling small. “Okay. Just let me grab my bag.”
The drive to campus is silent. He doesn’t play the radio. I watch the city blur by in staccato bursts through the window, heart crawling up my throat. He makes small talk, but it’s thekind that sounds like reading off a cue card.“Your mother sends her regards. How’s your health? Your diet? Are you making time for recovery?”I answer as best I can, hearing the checklist behind every question. Not a son, just an athlete. A product. A brand.
When we reach Blackthorne, the campus feels different—smaller, harsher, like I’m thirteen again, following my father down the endless corridors of another pool, another coach’s office. I trail behind him through the athletic wing, the sharp scent of chlorine already making my chest feel tight. I spot a few of my teammates on the way, but no one meets my eyes.
Coach is waiting, broad-shouldered and stone-faced, shaking my father’s hand with a forced politeness that’s always made me uneasy. The office is bright with trophy cases and banners, the walls plastered with old victory photos—team after team, smiling and frozen in time.
