I grab my phone and lie down on the couch focusing on the breathing exercises my therapist taught me.In for four, hold for four, out for four.It helps some to calm my nerves, but once my phone starts ringing the panic rises again. Before I can think too hard about it, I swipe to answer.
Five faces fill the screen. Mom and Dad at the center, my brothers flanking them like bodyguards. The kitchen table I ate at for eighteen years, same scratches on the surface, same creaky chair that Josh is sitting in.
“Hey.” The smile feels like lifting weights with my face.
Mom’s frown is immediate. “Are you lying down?”
“Yeah.” I hesitate, trying to read the criticism in the question. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Lazy Sunday morning, huh?” She shakes her head. “You should be up doing something productive.”
“Merry Christmas,” my oldest brother, Josh says. “You wasted already?”
“I know I am.” Lance—who is only eighteen monthsyounger than me—laughs, and I can see the beer bottle in his hand. “How’s Niall?”
“He’s good.” Relief floods through me at the redirect. “How are y’all doing?”
Most of the time, I only have a hint of a southern accent, but when I’m talking to my family or anyone from back home, my drawl always comes back.
Mom’s frown deepens, but Dad cuts her off. “You thought any more about what you’re doing next? You know, you can’t sit around in your house all day long.”
My jaw tightens. “I know, and I’m not planning on doing that.” Mostly because I no longer own a house.
“Really? Because it sure looks like you’re lying around doing nothing right now,” Dad adds.
“I just finished breakfast?—”
Caleb’s laugh has that edge to it, the one I’ve heard since we were kids. “Should have chosen the right sport, brother, and you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Yep. That’s Caleb. The Golden Child. The pain in my ass.
The right sport. Football. The sport that breaks bodies just as easily as hockey, but somehow that doesn’t matter when you’re wearing the right uniform.
“Hockey players make good money too,” I say, knowing it’s pointless.
“Not unemployed ones,” Caleb shoots back.
“It’s not the sport.” Josh’s grin is all teeth. “It’s a matter of strength. Some people can take the hits and keep going. Others...” He shrugs, letting the implication hang.
There it is. Weak little Oliver with his weak little sport and his weak little injury. Just because I didn’t play football like my parents pushed the four of us to do.
“We’re concerned about you, Oliver.” Mom’s exasperation fills every syllable. “What’s your plan for the rest of your life?”
The words are right there: I’m coaching hockey. I’m movingout of this temporary setup when I find the right house. I’m building something new and making a life that doesn’t require your approval. I’m going to be happy.
The words are stuck in my throat, though. I would rather lie here and seem like I don’t have my shit together than explain my path to my family, because they won’t get it. They never will.
“I’m looking at several options,” I manage.
“Looking at options.” Dad repeats it like it tastes bad. “That’s what you said last month.”
“These things take time?—”
“Time?” Josh laughs. “You’ve had plenty of time. What you need is direction. Purpose. Like we have.”
Dad shakes his head and looks away. Twenty seconds of silence that says everything.
“Anyway.” Lance’s chest expands. “I have some news.”
