Page 200 of Hard Pass

“I will the moment you start respecting me.”

“Get the hell out.” He points to the door, but I don’t move.

“That’d be easier for you if I did, right? But I’m not. I’m not leaving until I say what I drove three hours to say.”

He sighs and leans against the wall. “This is gonna be good. Lay it on me, Cole-y boy.”

“You made everything about my life conditional. Every good thing was because of you. Every bad thing was a punishment because I played bad.”

His jaw clenches. “I pushed you because you had talent.”

“You threatened me.”

“I motivated you.”

“Motivated? How about making me feel like all I ever did was fail and that I wasn’t worth loving?”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” I take a step closer. “Because I’m twenty-four years old and every time I screw up, I hear your voice in my head telling me I’m weak. Soft. A loser. Then I get the endless fucking texts telling me over and over what a waste of talent and space I am. That no team should have to put up with my worthless ass. Should I go on because I can?”

My mom’s eyes close briefly. My dad’s face mottles.

“You think you got where you are, Cole-y boy, because people were easy on you?” His words drip with condescension.

“No,” I say. “I got where I am because I worked my ass off.”

“Because I made you.”

“No, because I was terrified of disappointing you,” I shout. My mom winces.

My dad just stares at me like he’s never heard me raise my voice before. Maybe he hasn’t.

“I was a kid.” My voice breaks. “I was just a fucking kid who took every harsh word and punishment you spewed at me simply because I wanted you to love me.”

Pain flickers across my mom’s face. My dad scoffs again but there’s less conviction in it this time.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says, pushing off the wall and walking into the kitchen, dismissing me.

I stare after him. Watch his broad shoulders bend over as he pulls a beer from the fridge. He doesn’t get it. And I also realize that maybe he never will.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t need him to.

“You know what’s really fucked up?” I ask quietly. He turns, and I watch him lift the beer bottle to his mouth. “I spent my whole life thinking that if I played well enough, won enough, made enough money, that eventually you’d just . . . I don’t know. Be proud of me in a way that wasn’t tied to football.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I am proud of you.”

“No.” I step into the kitchen, uncomfortable as the two of us eat up the small space. “You’re proud of what I do. Not who I am as a man, and I honestly don’t know if you even see the difference.”

I stare at him, jaw clenched, throat burning, and silently plead with him to tell me he does.

He doesn’t say a word.

“I drove out here because I needed to say this out loud and to your face. I needed to get this off my chest so I can move the fuck on.” I glance between the both of them. “I’m done carrying this around for you.”

“Cole,” my mom whispers, almost as if she can feel the finality in my tone.

“No. I mean it.” I look back at my dad. “I’m done needing your approval to feel good enough.”