Keep going. Do not get excited yet. Excitement is just the setup for a harder fall.
"More significantly, this invitation represents an opportunity that we believe aligns with your demonstrated aspirations. Valenridge University is establishing the first competitive hockey program that formally supports the participation and inclusion of Omega athletes on a professional-level team. This team will compete in sanctioned league play, with opportunities to attend multiple showcase events and, pending performance qualification, submit for entry into the Stanley Cup developmental pipeline."
I stop reading.
The letter shakes in my hands.
Not from cold. Not from fatigue. From the specific tremor that happens when your body processes information so enormous that your nervous system cannot decide whether to celebrate or collapse.
Stanley Cup developmental pipeline.
An Omega. On a team. Competing in sanctioned league play. With a pathway to the actual, legitimate, no-asterisk-required professional hockey pipeline.
I look up from the letter, and my father is smiling.
Not the big, performative grin he saves for press conferences and charity events. The quiet one. The private smile that lives in the creases around his eyes and the slight softening of his jaw. The one he wore the first time I scored a goal in a real game, standing behind the plexiglass with tears streaming down his face that he blamed on the cold.
"I know you have been dealing with a lot of rejection lately," he says, his voice carrying that careful steadiness that fathers adopt when they are trying very hard not to cry in front of their daughters. "But it seems those coaches truly hated rejecting you. If they went out of their way to formally recommend your name to this university, Sage, that is not pity. That is professional respect expressed through the only channel they had available."
I stare at the letter.
Then at him.
Then at the letter again.
"This place," I say slowly. "It is not a brand new establishment?"
"Not entirely, no." He shakes his head. "They have been accepting Alphas for years. Strong athletic program, respected academics, solid reputation in the hockey world. But this is their first season opening enrollment to Omegas. And from what I gather, they are not looking for token representation. They are recruiting athletes with high-level skills in their respectivesports. The kind of talent that could make them Olympic-worthy, or in your case, league-worthy."
First season. Inaugural. Groundbreaking.
Which means no precedent. No playbook. No guarantee that this experiment will survive its first contact with reality.
I fold the letter carefully, creasing the edges with the precision I apply to taping my stick before a game. My fingers move automatically while my brain spirals through possibilities and pitfalls at a speed that makes my temples throb.
"It is still a school specifically for Alphas and Omegas," I say, and I can hear the frown in my own voice before it fully forms on my face. "A designated institution. Separate from the normal university system." I press my thumbnail into the crease of the fold, sharpening it until the paper protests. "Because apparently we cannot even excel in a standard academic environment. We need our own special little box with our own special little label so the rest of the world can point at it and saylook, we gave the Omegas their own playground, are we not progressive?"
The bitterness surprises even me.
Not because I do not feel it. I feel it constantly, a low-grade acid that corrodes the lining of every hopeful thought before it has time to take root. But I usually keep it leashed tighter than this. Usually manage to sound more philosophical and less like a person who wants to set institutional structures on fire and warm her hands over the flames.
I put my head down, pressing my forehead against the folded letter in my hands. The thick paper is cool against my skin, carrying the faint scent of ink and formality.
"I am not sure, Dad."
The words come out quieter than I intended. Smaller. Carrying a weight that belongs to a girl who has been fighting the same battle for so long that she can no longer remember what it felt like before the war started.
He does not respond immediately.
I hear the squeak of his chair. The soft thud of his shoes on the hardwood as he stands. The creak of old leather as he crosses the room and settles onto the couch beside me, the cushions dipping under his weight until we are both sinking into that familiar, comfortable void.
His hand lands on my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Grounding in the way that only a parent's touch can be when you are drowning in your own head and need someone to remind you which direction is up.
"Did your mother share the ride home?"
I lift my head just enough to meet his eyes.
"Is it that obvious?"
