“Fate again?” I say wryly.
“Not fate. Just life.”
A long, pained silence falls over the patio. My heart is on its last legs; it’s been aching for so many weeks now, I don’t know how it’sstill beating.
“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”
He knows exactly who I mean. “Have you tried calling her?”
“Yeah. A couple times. Texted her a bunch too. But she told Gigi she wants space.”
Dad waves that off. “Try again.”
“But she doesn’t want—”
“Wyatt, I appreciate that you want to listen to women here, but I can tell you this from experience: Sometimes they say they want space, but what they really want is for you to hold their hand. To be there.”
“She ended it. I’m not going to force her to love me.” Jesus. Sounds so pathetic saying that out loud.
“But you love her.”
“So fucking much. But I also can’t force her to believe me.”
Another silence settles between us, this one shorter, because my next words spill out before I can contain them.
“I played hockey this summer.”
His head swivels toward me. “Where?”
“The new community center by the library. They have a good rink.”
“Great rink,” he agrees. “The air is so crisp in there.”
“You mean cold, Dad. The air is fucking cold in there.”
He grins. “I love it.”
“I know you do.” My voice turns gruff. “I’m sorry it’s not what I want to do.”
“What?”
“Hockey. I know how badly you wanted me to follow in your footsteps.” Shit, how is one beer loosening my tongue? “I’ve spent a long time feeling like I’m not good enough.”
Dad looks shocked. “What are you talking about, not good enough? Wyatt—”
“No, let me finish. I’ve always felt like I let you down. Disappointed you because I chose to quit the team in high school, even though I probably could’ve been good enough.”
“Not probably, definitely,” he corrects. “But here’s the thing about hockey, champ. You can be technically perfect, have all the skills required of a great player. But if you don’t have heart, what’s the point?” He takes a quick sip of beer. “I listened to your song.”
“Which one?”
“‘Lightkeeper.’” He cocks his head at me. “It made me feel things.”
I can’t help but chuckle. My dad might not be the most articulate when it comes to explaining why he likes the music he likes, but I know what he means.
“You’re talented,” he continues. “Andyourheart is music. Not hockey.”
“You really don’t care that I didn’t want to play pro?”
