Chapter 5
Chapter Five
RAFE
The memory hit me like a cold slap, the kind that stays with you long after the sting has faded. It was winter—the kind of brutal winter where the air felt like needles piercing your flesh.
I was thirteen, standing in the expensively decorated study of his father’s mansion, the place exuded wealth and arrogance. A dark oak desk stood at the center, papers stacked neatly—everything about my father’s world screamed order, control. It was the kind of world I was supposed to inherit. The kind of world I had no desire for.
My father sat behind the desk, one hand holding a crystal glass of whiskey, the other flipping through financial reports. His sharp suit matched the sharp edge in his eyes, cold and calculating. To my father, life wasn’t a game—it was a strategy, a move, a play. Everything was for a reason and there was always a desired end game whether it was money or power.
“This hockey dream of yours is unrealistic nonsense, son,” my father had said, his voice smooth but firm. “You’re wasting your time. You have the mind for business, for something real. A legacy to inherit. I’m offering you a future that’s worth something and will continue to be.”
Barely a teenager, I stared at him, heat rushing up my neck. I could feel the weight of disappointment pressing down on me like a thousand-pound anchor. I wasn’t some trust fund kid destined to sit behind a desk, making numbers dance for me. I was a hockey player—a dreamer, a fighter, a kid who knew the ice better than he knew his own reflection.
“But I want to play pro hockey, Dad. I’m good enough. I can make it, I know I can,” I had said, my voice cracking with the first real rebellion I had ever spoken aloud.
My father’s eyes flicked up from the paperwork, studying me like I was some foreign specimen. His lips curled into a slow, condescending smile. “Pro hockey? Come on, Rafe. Don’t be naive. You think some team is going to throw you millions just to skate around on ice? No. I’ve built something real. Something that matters. You’ll take over the company. You’ll learn to think like a leader, not some kid chasing a puck; that’s just ridiculous.”
The words cut deeper than any slap. I wanted to argue, wanted to yell that hockey wasn’t just a game, that it was everything to me—the adrenaline, the rush of the rink, the thrill of the crowd. But it was like talking to a brick wall. My father’s mind was made up. And when it came to my father, nothing was ever negotiable.
I stood there for what felt like an eternity, silence thick between us. I remember the way my father looked at me then, almost like I was a failure for even thinking about defying him. For daring to believe in something other than the life my father had planned out for me.
“I won’t have a son who wastes his potential on fantasy; we don’t have time for this kind of foolery,” my father added, his voice hard, final.
The words stung then and still sting now. Even years later, they haunt me. Because in my heart, I know I was meant for the ice, not for some glass window highrise building in the city. But every game, every training session, I could hear my father’s voice, always there, reminding me that I wasn’t enough—was never going to be enough—without the family name, the family business, the power.
I stopped caring about what my father wanted and pursued what I loved. I continued to play. Every damn game. Every shift. Every goal. For myself. For the dream my father couldn't see.
Even when my father had cut me off—refused to pay for my hockey equipment, my training—I had found a way. I worked extra shifts at the rink, paid for what I could with the little money I had. When I got a scholarship to St Valentines, I took it. When the scouts started to take notice, I put my heart into it even more, not just to prove them wrong but to prove myself right.
But the crack between father and son only widened as the years passed, as my career took off and my father’s world continued to revolve around numbers and board meetings. My father’s calls, when they came, were always the same: Come home, son. You’re wasting your time. The offer’s still on the table.
But I couldn’t go back. Not now. I was too close. Too damn close to the dream I’d been fighting for. The leagues, the contracts, the trophy I could almost taste—I could almost feel it in my veins, in the fire that burned in my chest every time I laced up my skates.
And maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t playing for myself anymore. I was playing for that kid who stood in his father’s study, desperate for a chance, desperate for approval. I was playing to prove that the dream, the passion, the heart, was worth more than all the money and power my father had built. That no matter how high the walls of that mansion were, no matter how far apart their worlds seemed, nothing would stop me from skating past them all.
Not even his father.
This sport is my love, my life. It’s bettered me as a person and taught me many life lessons that my father never could.