“Yes, sir. Goalie for the Nebraska Knights.”
“Must be nice to play a game for a living.” My mother’s smile is tight.
Clark’s jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. “I’m very fortunate.”
My father steeples his fingers. “And what will you do when your career ends? Hockey players don’t have longevity, from what I understand.”
“Dad—” I start, but Clark touches my hand with a gentle pressure that says it’s okay.
But it’s not okay. I’m going to flip tables if this continues.
“I’m studying for my coaching certification,” Clark says evenly. “And I’ve been investing in properties and small businesses. Building for the future.”
“Smart,” Dad says, nodding. “Though professional athletes’ post-career ventures don’t always pan out, do they? Statistics show?—”
“Dad, can we not do this?” My voice comes out as sharp as my butter knife, but still.
“Do what, honey?” Mom asks innocently. “We’re just getting to know Clark. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The rest of dinner continues in this vein. Backhanded compliments dressed up as concern. Subtle digs wrapped in pleasantries. My parents are masters at making people feel small while maintaining plausible deniability.
And through it all, Clark is quiet. Too quiet. I can see him shutting down, retreating behind his media-ready mask.
When they turn their attention to me, it’s even worse.
“This bakery lease,” Mom says, dabbing her mouth with her napkin, “it’s a significant financial commitment. What if it doesn’t work out?”
“It will work out,” Clark says.
“But if it doesn’t?” Dad presses, focused on me. “You’ll have walked away from law school for nothing. Another thing you quit when it got hard.”
The words sting because they’re designed to. Because deep down, I’m terrified they’re right.
“April doesn’t quit,” Clark says, his voice firm. “She pivots. She adapts. She finds better paths. That’s not quitting—that’s intelligence.”
My parents exchange a look.
“Well,” Mom says. “That’s certainly one perspective.”
The implication is clear: a naïve perspective from someone who doesn’t know better.
I want to defend him. Defend us. Want to tell my parents exactly what I think of their judgment. Instead, I fall into old patterns. I smile. I nod. I try to smooth things over.
By the time dessert arrives, I can barely breathe. Clark drives me home in silence. The kind of silence that feels like screaming.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say as we pull up outside my building. “I’m so sorry about tonight.”
“It’s fine.” His voice is flat.
“It’s not fine. They were horrible to you.”
“April, they’re your parents. They want what’s best for you.”
“That doesn’t give them the right to?—”
“Maybe they’re right.” He’s staring straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Maybe I’m not what’s best for you.”
My heart stops. “What?”
