“Second, you're right. I don't have a job offer yet. But you know what? Even having Marcus interested is huge. That's how this industry works—you build connections, you prove yourself, you earn your shot. Which I'm doing.”
“You're gambling your future on 'interest'—”
“No, I'm building my future on my talent. Which Marcus saw. Which everyone in that room saw. Everyone except you.”
“I saw plenty. I saw my son getting excited about maybes and possibilities instead of concrete opportunities?—”
“Because you don't WANT to see it!” The words explode out of me. “You sat there, watched me succeed, watched an industry professional call my work revolutionary, and all you can see is that it's not a signed contract. You're looking for any excuse to dismiss this because it's not football.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“You're right,” I continue, quieter now. “I don't have a job offer. But I have something you'll never understand—I have potential in a field I actually love. And if Marcus doesn't hire me, someone else will. Because I'm good at this.”
“Being good at something doesn't guarantee?—”
“Nothing's guaranteed, Dad. Your football career wasn't guaranteed either, was it? But, at least, if I fail, it will be at something I chose. I will not be living through my kid becausemydreams got interrupted.”
The silence stretches between us like a canyon. When he speaks again, his voice is ice-cold.
“Is that what you think? That I'm living through you?”
“I think you've been trying to turn me into the NFL player you never got to be since I was six years old. And now that that's impossible, you can't see any value in what I actually am.”
“What you actually are is a dreamer without a backup plan. That trust fund you're counting on for your little adventure in San Francisco? That's contingent on you showing you can handle adult responsibilities. Getting a real job, not chasing 'interest' from game companies.”
“Keep it.”
The words are out before I can stop them, but I don't want to take them back.
“What?”
“Keep the trust fund. I don't want it.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You can't afford to live without it. Especially on the 'maybe' salary from your 'interested' game company.”
“I'll figure it out. Get roommates, work part-time, whatever it takes. At least, I won't have to pretend your opinion matters anymore.”
“Ethan, you're being so dramatic. Think about what you're saying?—”
“I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years.” I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted but also strangely light. “Marcus might not hire me. You're right about that. But someone will, because I'm good at this. And I'd rather struggle doing something I love than be comfortable doing something that makes you proud.”
“So you're just going to throw away your future out of spite?”
“No, Dad. I'm going to build my own future. Even if it starts with 'just interest' instead of guarantees.”
Another long pause. When he speaks again, his voice has shifted into the tone he uses for closing business deals—professional, final.
“Fine. When this 'interest' turns into nothing and you're begging for minimum wage jobs, don't come crying to me.”
“I won't,” I say quietly. “Goodbye, Dad.”
I hang up and sit there, phone in my hand, finally understanding the truth: Even if Marcus offers me the job tomorrow, Dad will find a reason to believe it's not enough. The salary will be too low, the company too risky, the industry too unstable.
I could become the lead designer at the biggest studio in the world, and he'd still ask why I couldn't have been a quarterback.
And that's not my problem to fix anymore. I immediately turn off my phone before I can second-guess myself.
The silence in my room feels huge, like the space left behind after a thunderstorm. I sit on my bed, staring at the wall, processing what just happened.
