I could picture his reaction perfectly. The disgust. The disappointment sharper than anything my hockey performance had ever earned. The voice that had warned thirteen-year-old me about “those disgusting boys” coming back in full force.
The son who couldn’t play hockey well enough was barely tolerable. A son who liked men would be unforgivable.
Whether I got traded, whether I came out, whether I played perfectly for the rest of my career—it didn’t matter. I was going to lose him.
I’d already lost him. Maybe I’d never really had him at all.
The only question was whether I’d keep destroying myself trying to earn love that was never coming.
Friday’s game against Florida was no better than the rest.
I’d spent the night before texting with Marco—sharing our days, our thoughts, the mundane details that somehow felt important. It reminded me what I was playing for. Why I needed to get my shit together and turn this around.
But knowing what I needed to do and doing it were two different things.
I fumbled passes. Lost positioning. Made reads that were half a second too slow.
We won 4–2. Without me.
My phone buzzed as I was boarding the team bus. Papa’s name flashed on the screen.
I stared at it for a moment, my thumb hovering over the answer button. Then the call went to voicemail.
For the first time in my life, I’d let one of his calls go unanswered.
I knew what he’d say. Knew he’d watched the game, made note of every moment where I wasn’t good enough. I couldn’thandle it tonight. Couldn’t hear his voice telling me everything I already knew about how badly I’d played.
I found a seat near the back of the bus and slumped against the window.
The phone buzzed again ten minutes later. Papa. Again.
I declined the call.
Around me, guys were talking, laughing, reliving plays from the game. I stared out the window.
It buzzed a third time as we pulled into the hotel parking lot.
I let it go to voicemail.
By the time I got to my room, there were three new voicemails waiting. I opened the voicemail app and stared at them for a long moment—three messages, probably five minutes of my father’s disappointment and criticism.
I deleted them without listening.
The relief was immediate. But so was the guilt.
I’d never ignored Papa’s calls before. Never deleted his voicemails unheard. He was my father. My only family. And I’d just… shut him out.
But God, the relief. Not having to hear his voice dissecting my failures. Not having to defend myself or make excuses or promise to do better. Just… silence.
I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, phone in my hand, conflicted.
Part of me wanted to call him back. Apologize. Listen to whatever he had to say and take it like I always did.
But a larger part—the part that was exhausted and hurting and so tired of never being good enough—just wanted to be done with it. To let it go. To stop letting his voice live in my head.
I set the phone on the nightstand and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe.
