Page 201 of Hard Pass

He snorts. “So, what? You just came here to blame me for your problems?”

I stare at him then shake my head. “No. I came here so I can finally stop blaming myself.”

My words are met with silence. My heart is pounding so hard. But weirdly, my hand isn’t tremoring. Not even a little.

There’s no way this is that easy, but it’s a fucking start.

“I love football,” I say quietly as my mom wipes tears off her cheeks. “But you made me afraid of it too.”

My dad looks away, completely unfazed by my words. And stupidly, his dismissal hurts ten times worse than if he yelled. I’m used to the raised voice. I’m not used to feeling like I no longer exist.

“That’s all I came to say.”

“Cole,” my mom says, the tears falling faster now. “Please—”

Holding a hand up, I move toward her. None of this is really on her, yet she never once tried to stop it. I kiss the top of her head, letting her throw her arms around me briefly, before I pull away.

My dad still hasn’t looked back at me. And it’s actually okay. Surprisingly.

You confront it.

The relationship taught you this pattern.

The person who made you believe you had to be perfect or else there was punishment.

I walk out the door and down the porch steps feeling like I can finally breathe. By the time I climb behind the wheel, my body feels wrung out. Raw but relieved.

I grip the steering wheel and stare out the windshield for a long moment before letting my head fall back against the seat.

Jesus fucking Christ.

My eyes burn, but my chest feels lighter. Not healed. Not triumphant. Not magically better. Just lighter.

He’ll never change. He’ll never accept responsibility.

“So, what? You just came here to blame me for your problems?

He’s incapable of comprehending the damage he’s done, but I’m not. Not anymore. I’m done with giving him space in my life. Giving him agency in my career. Giving him reign on my emotional state.

No more pregame calls. No more post-game critiques. No more fearing he’s somewhere in the stands.

No. Fucking. More.

I scrub a hand over my face and start the engine to head back home.

One down.

One to go.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Dublin

The kitchen smells like butter, sugar, and emotional avoidance.

Which is ridiculous. Mostly because I’m a grown woman. A professional, rational, capable adult who built an entire career out of staying calm when everyone else spirals.

And yet there are two loaves of banana bread cooling on the counter, a batch of blueberry muffins lined in neat rows beside them, and enough chocolate chip cookies that just finished baking in the oven to feed half the Rebels offensive line.