“You’re not eighty either. Christ, Ethan. A sprained shoulder shouldn’t have ended your whole future.”
I shift in my seat, wishing I could disappear into the fabric. “It wasn’t just the injury.”
“No,” he says, voice tightening. “It was the attitude. You didn’t have it in you to keep pushing.” He shakes his head.
I don’t respond.
He laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “You had scouts. Offers. You were somebody. Now you’re holed up in your room making video games.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
“I’m studying game design,” I say quietly.
“As part of what—liberal arts? Sounds like a backup plan for people without real plans.”
I flinch like he’s hit me. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just thinks I should take it like a man.
We pull up to the house. He kills the engine, turns to me with that let’s-talk-man-to-man look that always precedes something brutal.
“You got a plan for after graduation?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I’m working on something. A final project for my course. It's a game. Then I’m going to pitch it to some indie companies in San Fran. Maybe one of them will pick it up and?—”
“Is it gonna pay rent?” he interrupts.
The question hangs there. We both know the answer.
“That’s what I thought.” Too easy, like he’s proven a point. “Look, it’s not too late. Call Coach Adler. Transfer credits. Take a fifth year, get back in shape?—”
“No.” My voice fucking cracks, and I hate that I can’t control it.
He nods slowly, like I’m a toddler mid-tantrum. “I just want you to succeed.”
“I know.” I swallow.
I reach for the door. His hand stops me.
“Your mother and I talked. If your grades tank, you’re coming home. Year at the hardware store. Prove you can work before we let you chase”—he gestures vaguely—“whatever this is.”
The hardware store. Ten-hour shifts selling screws to weekend warriors. The future he’s holding hostage.
“But if you pull decent grades, show us you’re serious? You get Grandpa’s trust fund. Your shot at this game thing.”
My throat closes. The trust fund—my only chance to survive in San Francisco without crawling back.
“Game design is a real career. You’ll see.”
The look he gives me says he won’t.
I don’t look at him.
I get out. Close the door softly. Then harder. Not quite a slam—that would be childish. Just... firm.
Inside, I take the stairs two at a time. My throat burns. Tell myself it’s the cold.
In my room, I sit on the bed’s edge and stare at the carpet like it might offer answers. Open my laptop. Close it. Open it again.
Type “game designer average salary”.
