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Because letting go is the only way to make sure Michael is happy.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
everyone?
MICHAEL
Twenty-two years old
“Ah, feels good to be in New York.” Ash sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Not gonna lie, this place hits differently when you’ve got a Cup ring on your finger.”
I roll my eyes and pick up my cup. “Fuck off, Vaughn.”
“Don’t be salty, man. You’d be gloating too.”
“You’re mistaking me for someone else.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head. “You haven’t changed a bit, Thompson.”
That isn’t entirely true. My world changed overnight when I left school to join the Phantoms more than two and a half years ago.
The first season was brutal. It took months to adjust to a new schedule and adapt to a new lifestyle, and at the same time, I was busting my ass to prove myself. To make sure the world finally saw who I really was. To show it with my game, to prove it with assists and goals. We made it to the playoffs that year, but we lost in the first round.
That bolstered my confidence and gave me a sense of accomplishment, and yet, there was so much more to work on. Not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. It all happened so quickly—the unexpected call, the decision to leave school, the move to New York, the changes to my relationship with Isla. I may have looked cool on the outside, but by the end of the season, I was drowning.
Eventually, the façade crumbled. It happened faster and more epically than I could’ve imagined. All it took was one call. One call from her, and I let go of all the broken pieces I’d been holding together. Because she was right. Because I felt it too. We were prolonging the agony. But understanding that didn’t make it any better. I was a mess, and my career was on the line. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk my future with the team or with Isla, so I went to the team’s mental performance coach and started therapy.
Therapy didn’t change who I am, and the growth didn’t happen instantaneously, but it has allowed me to keep my focus where it belongs. I stopped chasing comparisons. I stopped caring about the opinions of others and stopped feeling bad about the name on my jersey. Instead, I chose to be proud of who I am and who my dad is. Dad’s career doesn’t hang over mine anymore. At least, not in my mind.
I don’t pay attention to social media or news outlets. I keep my head down and my focus where it belongs: on my skills, my game, my body. I trust my own pace now—I am where I’m supposed to be. Of course, the doubts still show up sometimes, but I don’t let them influence what I do with my life or how I do it.
We made it to round two of the playoffs this year. The Vipers won the Cup, which has made Ash kind of insufferable. I get it, even if he is annoying, because I made it another step closer to knowing what it means to win the Cup. Close enough to know it’s coming—hopefully next season. Losing in the second round didn’t make me question myself like it would have before.
Because I know who I am now.
Not my dad.
Not just a last name on a jersey.
Not a nepo baby who was only drafted because of Dad’s legacy.
I am Michael Thompson.
The center for the New York Phantoms. A team player my coaches trust in the last minute of a tied game. The man who listens when his teammates have something to say. Who’s earned their respect and gives his in return. A player fans love to cheer for.
I’m building a solid career, one brick at a time. Even if I want more from life than just this, I know my career has to come first. For now. It’s the same way for Isla.
Blinking, I refocus on Ash. “Ready for tonight?”
“I was born ready.” He grins at me.
“We’ll see. I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. The media crowds in New York are unreal. Everyone’s gonna be there.”
Head tilted, he asks, “Everyone?”
A little lead ball forms in my gut. Head down, I tell him, “I don’t know.” Because the pause Isla and I took has turned into complete silence. Not because the feelings have died—quite the opposite, actually. We made this decision because every new “goodbye for now” was more painful than the last. Every call we couldn’t take, every message left on seen when one of us barely had time to breathe, let alone respond, added to the heavy weight pulling us down, forcing us to make choices we were unhappy with.
How can two people maintain what they had while their lives move in opposite directions? There was no space for us. Only longing. And pain. Lots of pain.
