“I love hockey,” I continue. “I always will. But it’s not all I am. And after everything that happened…I realized I don’t want to spend my life performing a version of myself that other people are comfortable cheering for.”
No one moves, as if afraid to break a spell.
There is no stopping now. The truth is out. “I’m terrified. Of failing. Of proving everyone right about who they thought I was. But I’m more afraid of waking up at thirty-five and wondering who I could’ve beenif I tried.”
Mom presses her fingertips to her lips, overwhelmed. “Your father would’ve—” She swallows. “He’d be proud you’re choosing your own path.”
Something caves in my chest. Then rebuilds.
Liam exhales slowly. “You know you’re walking away from a lot. Money. Fame. Ice time.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that.”
I nod. “I do care about all that. But this feels like the right next step.”
Liam leans back, studying me with something like awe.
“Holy shit,” he murmurs. “You really grew up.”
“Well, maybe getting there slowly.” Dmitri chuckles, and everyone around the table exhales at the joke. Erin beams. Sophie smiles.
Luka snaps his fingers. “So the jock is a secret genius. I knew it.”
Dmitri nods, approving. “Good choice, O’Connor.”
Mom leans in and presses her forehead to my temple, the way she used to when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms. “I’m so proud of you, Kieran,” she whispers.
My eyes burn. I haven’t cried since Dad’s funeral, but I’m close. So fucking close.
It hits me harder than anything else tonight.
Harder than Wren’s absence.
Harder than Reed’s bullshit.
Harder than the scouts or the noise or the dream I thought I owed everyone.
Because finally?—
I said it out loud.
I chose something that was mine.
Wren walked away from me tonight. And she was right to.
But maybe—just maybe—if I keep choosing hard things because they’re right, not easy things because they’re expected… maybe I’ll become someone worth coming back to.
For the first time all night, my lungs expand all the way.
The Uber dropsus on the corner of Bedford and North 8th. We walk up the block, past the 24-hour bodega where I used to buy candy with quarters stolen from Dad’s swear jar, past the laundromat that’s been here since before I was born. Williamsburg’s changed—trust fund kids and craft coffee shops on every corner now—but this block still looks like it did ten years ago.
The building’s a walk up. Five stories, red brick, fire escape zigzagging up the front. The kind of place you don’t notice unless you live here. The lobby smells of old radiators and someone’s dinner. The stairs creak under our weight.
“You okay?” Mom asks halfway up to the third floor.
“Yeah,” I lie.
