The door swings shut behind him and I fight the urge to pace as I wait. I don’t know when it happened, but some time over the last four years, my son drifted away from me, and I don’t know how to rebuild the relationship we once had.
Less than a minute later, it cracks open again. Dylan stands in the doorway, his boots off, socks rolled down, and his jersey half untucked. He brushes his sweat-damp hair off his face as he fixes me with a glare.
“You hereto gloat?”
My brow furrows. “Dyl?—”
He steps out of the change room, letting the door slam shut behind him. “Go ahead. Say it.”
“I’m not here to say anything.”
Dylan scoffs. “Really? Everyone else already has.”
“I’m not everyone else.”
“I played like trash,” he says bitterly.
“It wasn’t your best game,” I admit, pushing off the wall and taking a couple of steps towards him. “You looked like you were trying to prove something out there, but you didn’t need to. I think you just let the pressure of playing against your old teammates get the better of you.”
His jaw tightens. “What do you know?”
“I know what it looks like when a player lets the noise get in his head, and I know you’re better than what you showed today.”
Dylan’s shoulders hunch and he exhales deeply. “I’ve got to go shower before the bus leaves.”
My brows lift. “You’re not staying? I thought you’d want to hang out, grab a beer?—”
“You thought wrong.”
He turns to walk away, but I grab his arm. “Dyl?—”
My son shakes me off. “I’ll talk to you during the week, Dad. Go celebrate with your team.”
His words cut deep as the door slams shut behind him. The need to comfort my son burns from within my soul, but there’s nothing I can do if he wants to shut me out. I’ll just have to give him space to lick his wounds.
With a sigh, I turn and walk back to our change rooms. I take a moment outside to shove down my concern forDylan and force a smile on my face before pushing open the door. Most of the players are still there, showering and celebrating their win—we’re sitting top of the ladder, and if we don’t drop a game, we’ll win the championship.
Not going to lie, it’ll be challenging without Whitford, but we have the depth in our list to cover him. I scan the room until I find him horsing around with Walters. The kid has no idea his life is about to change.
As the players leave the rooms, I make my way over to Andy, who’s busying himself packing up the equipment.
“How was Dyl?” he asks, avoiding my gaze.
“Pretty disappointed in his game.”
He nods. “It wasn’t his best. I’m sure he’ll drown his sorrows with his mates and some Banshees. I wouldn’t wait up for him.”
“He’s going back on the team bus.”
He looks up in surprise. “Huh.”
“Yeah.”
“So I guess you’re looking for a bit of a distraction?”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Depends on how forgiving you’re feeling.”
