He doesn't say anything for a long time.
"I've given my life to your career."
"I know."
"I've made sacrifices."
That’s a stretch, but I don’t say it.
"I know, Dad. I know you have." I close my eyes for a second. "I'm grateful. I mean that. Everything you gave me—the training, the opportunity, and the time—I don't take that for granted. But it was also what you wanted." I pause. "I'm not saying that to hurt you. I'm saying it because I think you know it's true."
Silence.
"I don't understand you," he says finally. It sounds less like anger and more like what it actually is—a man who mapped out a route for someone and can't figure out why they're looking at a different road. He really can’t understand why our dreams don’t look the same. Like he truly believed I was his puppet to control for the rest of time.
"I know," I say. "I'm sorry about that."
He hangs up.
Not a dramatic hang-up—he just stops talking, and the call ends. I know he’ll start the process. He’s mad, and he’ll be pissy, but he’ll do it because it means I’m offering him a path that is adjacent to his dream.
I sit there with my phone in my hand and look at the yard.
I've been building toward this conversation for months, maybe longer. I thought when I finally said what I wanted out loud to the person I most needed to say it to, there would be some kind of release. But it just feels done. Very anticlimactic.
I stare at the bright green leaves on the maple tree in the backyard.
I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll watch that tree come into spring. For four years, I’ve lived in this house with my best friends. It all ends in less than two months. We had some good times here. I’m going to miss it.
All of it. The arguments. The laughs. The lazy days.
I hear the back door open.
I don't turn around. I hear her footsteps and smile. I know those footsteps. Sutton sits down next to me. Her arm brushes against mine.
She doesn't ask how it went.
She puts her head on my shoulder.
"He didn't take it well?" she says softly.
"He hung up."
"Ouch."
"He'll call back," I say. "He always calls back. He's angry now, but he's also my dad. He'll call back."
“Do you think he’ll try and negotiate, or are you going to have to find an agent?”
I chuckle. “He'll make the calls. It's what he lives for. He just needs to let me know he's not happy about it.”
“I’m proud of you, Declan. I really am. You knew what you wanted, and you found a way to get it.”
“I’m going to have everything I want. I’m determined to make it happen.”
“What is his biggest concern about Boston, or is it because it wasn’t his idea?”
“He’s worried Boston won’t bite. I’m not old, but I’m not so young. If I don’t hit the ground running, my shelf life will expire before I really have a chance to get out there and show off. He wants fame—the brand deals. I just want to play a little hockey and then move on. I’m not trying to be a McDavid or Boldy. I just want to play and then retire knowing I made it to the top. These guys don’t want to step on each other’s toes. Seattle has the first pick. And they’ve shown interest.”
