“You held yourself like a champion,” he says. “Not just in how you played. In how you carried yourself. That matters.”
“I’ve had to,” I say.
A small pause.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
He looks at me then.
Really looks.
And I can feel it—the weight of everything he’s realizing all at once.
What he missed.
What I built without him.
“You did not need me to become this,” he says quietly.
“No,” I agree.
Then I meet his eyes.
“But I’m glad you’re here now.”
I glance back toward the gym.
Not obvious.
Just a flick of my eyes.
Searching.
I don’t see him.
Not anymore.
And that—that lands differently than I expect.
Because a part of me thought—after that look—after that moment
after everything that passed between us without a single word—he’d come down.
He didn’t.
And I don’t know what that means.
My father is still talking—something about travel, about coming to Madrid, about showing me where I come from—but his voice fades at the edges.
Because my mind is somewhere else.
Back on that service line.
Back in that moment.
Back in the way his body leaned forward—like he was about to come to me.
And didn’t.
