The shift from coach to father made my throat tighten, but I couldn’t think about that now.
I texted Tolrek with fingers that finally cooperated, telling him what my father had said.
His response came through immediately.He messaged me too.
I’m scared.
Me too. But we’ll be alright.
The words were enough to get me moving.
The main corridor stretched ahead, full of players milling around in various states of undress. Some still in gear, others in workout clothes, a few already showered and changed into street clothes.
All of them turned to look when I walked past, but no one said anything.
Simone stood near the entrance to the players’ lounge, talking to Fedor. She caught my eye as I passed and gave me a nod, the kind that said,I’m rooting for you,without drawing attention.
The wives and girlfriends definitely knew.
I wondered how many conversations had happened in group chats I wasn’t part of. How many people had put the pieces together before we’d even walked into my father’s house last night?
Tolrek was waiting outside my father’s office.
He’d showered and changed into jeans and a dark Henley, his hair still damp. He stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders tense, staring at the door like he was trying to see through it.
He looked up when I approached.
“Ready?” I asked, stopping beside him.
“No.” His voice rasped. “You?”
“Not even a bit.”
Footsteps echoed from around the corner. Brashe appeared, stopping short when he saw us. His gaze moved from Tolrek to me and back to Tolrek, and something passed between them that I couldn’t read.
Brashe gave us a single nod. The gesture conveyed everything it needed to.
Tolrek nodded back, and the tension in his shoulders eased.
“They all know,” I said quietly after Brashe had left.
“Does that make this easier or harder?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Tolrek reached past me, opened the door, and we stepped inside.
My father sat behind his desk, his shoulders slightly hunched. Elbows on the desk. One hand rubbing his face. He looked older than he had yesterday. Tired beyond just missing sleep.
Two empty chairs sat across from his desk.
“Sit,” he said without looking up.
We did, and I internally started counting. One. Two. Three. Four.
At fifteen, my father finally spoke. “I spent all night thinking about what you both said.” He looked up then, meeting my eyes first. “I never meant to make you feel as if you didn’t have meaning.”
“I know you didn’t,” I croaked out.
