Page 198 of Hard Pass

I sit in my SUV for way too fucking long, staring at the house I swore I’d never come back to.

Funny how life works.

The porch light’s on even though the sun has hours left until it sets. Same old warped screen door with a hole in the bottom right. Same Adirondack chair with the broken arm that has two different colors.

Same goddamn house.

Same fucking pit in my stomach that I had growing up here.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, my tremor fucking constant right now.

Breathe.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder.

DUBLIN: Just making sure you’re okay.

I stare at the text for a second, my chest easing in a way I’m still trying to understand, before typing back.

ME: Needed to take care of some things. I’ll be home later.

Home. Her. My safe place.

Today is the first day I stop allowing him to have any kind of agency in my life.

I set my phone back in the cupholder and look back at the house. At the driveway. At Dad’s old pickup truck parked crooked like always. Mom’s car parked beside it because the garage is too full of all the football training gear he refuses to get rid of.

Apparently, she’s back with him now. For how long, who knows, but nothing fucking changes, does it?

Fuck that. It changes now. It changes with what I’m about to do.

Brave words from a grown man sitting here like a little boy still traumatized by the man and the memories inside those walls.

But I’m here, aren’t I?

And they’re both home.

Part of me wishes they weren’t. The other part knows if I leave now, I’ll never come back.

And I’m so fucking tired. Of the pressure. Of hearing his voice in my head every time I miss a throw. Of feeling like a kid desperate for approval every time I fail.

I can still see it all. Dad pacing after games. Mom standing silently at the sink pretending not to listen. Film running on the television while he tore apart every mistake I made, because winning wasn’t enough unless I played perfectly.

You think scouts care about second place?

No son of mine is going to be soft.

Again.

Again.

Again.

There were good moments too. That’s the mindfuck of it. Fishing trips. Backyard barbecues. Him teaching me how to throw a spiral before my hands were big enough to grip the ball right.

But every good memory comes with a condition attached to it. Love, approval, worth . . . all needing to be earned.

I scrub a hand over my face and open the door before I change my mind.