Chapter 18
An Unexpected Mentor
Connor
Iam just finishing getting changed for the day and am about to text Maisie back, asking her to reconsider a movie night, when my phone rings. “Dad” runs across the screen, and my throat closes up. Really, now? I take a deep breath—in for three, out for five—and pick up.
“Hello?”
“Connor. What’s this I hear about you being suspended?”
I run a hand down my face, my heart racing. This was a consequence I wish I didn’t have to face. “How did you even hear about that?”
“I donate heavily to the school. They keep me apprised. You think they just give away apartments to freshmen? I thought you were smarter than that.”
I grind my teeth, an inkling of regret clawing at my chest. “What do you want, Dad?”
“What I want is for you to explain why you won’t be competing tomorrow. You’re destined for the Olympics. How’s it going to look if you can’t even make it to your first college meet?”
I hate him. I hate that he has me questioning what I did. I hate that he thinks he has a say or that his money buys him a ticket to knowing what goes on in my life with or without my consent.
“There was an incident. The suspension is my punishment. Unlike you, I take responsibility for my actions.” My face burns hotter than the sun.
A long silence echoes on the other end of the line before he says, “Watch your mouth, son.”
“I think that’s enough for today, Dad. I don’t know why I picked up anyway.”
I’m about to hang up when he says, “I’ll make a call.”
Then, the line goes dead.
I grab the stress ball on my desk and launch it across my room, letting out a frustrated growl. It bounces off the wall and shoots back at me. I duck out of the way, but it only manages to make me more upset. I storm out of my room, slamming my door, and march down the hall.
Hunter pops his head out of his bedroom, eyes wide as he sees me barreling toward him. He shifts to block my path. “Whoa, whoa.” He stops me with a hand on each of my shoulders, but I shrug him off.
“Leave it, man.”
“All right.” He lets his hands drop to his side. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
“Nothing. I mean, fuck—” I pull at the ends of my hair “—my dad called.”
His eyes harden in recognition of what that means. “Take a deep breath. Don’t let him fuck with your head.”
I drop my shoulders and lean back against the wall. Hunter adopts a similar stance opposite me.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
I take the breath he suggested. “Not really, no.”
“That’s okay. How about some breakfast? I can make my mom’s pancakes?”
“Sure, man, that sounds great, thanks.”
“You got it.” He strides down the hall and makes it to the top of the staircase before he turns around and says, “For what it’s worth, you’re one of the best dudes I know despite who your father is.
Always have been, always will be. I’m proud of you for not letting your anger toward him poison you.
It’s okay to be angry. You have every right to be. ”
“Thanks, Hunter. You’re a great friend.”
“Back atcha, big guy. I’ll get started on those pancakes.” He disappears down the stairs.
Continuing to take deep breaths, I try to calm myself down.
I hate how reactive I am to my dad. It makes sense considering everything, but still.
What if he called and I reacted that way while Maisie was over?
I wouldn’t want her to ever think she was in danger with me.
Especially after seeing how that asshole was around her. I never want to make her uncomfortable.
I need to work on my shit. Running a hand down my face, I push off from the wall.
Stretching my arms up and back and then letting them swing forward a few times, I physically allow the tension to leave my body with each throw of my arms. Then, I head down to see if Hunter needs any help making breakfast. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.
Dr. Fitz is an imposing man. His office is large, with a whole wall of windows overlooking the O’Donner Memorial Soccer Stadium, space for at least twenty athletes to pile in for a meeting, plants hanging against one wall, and a roaming desk in the middle of the room—but when I walk in, he makes it feel small.
His bald head and stern features pale in comparison to his sharp tone.
“Bocelli. Sit.”
I obey, taking a seat on the leather stool closest to his desk.
“The dean tells me you’re suspended for five meets and an invitational, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this punishment is a result of your being physically violent with another student—another athlete, no less?”
“That’s correct, sir.” My shoulders slump.
“So what brings you in today?” His tone shifts in a way that sounds almost concerned.
“I know what I did was wrong, sir. I know violence is never the answer. And I admit I instigated the situation. It was in defense of a close friend.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asks, leaning forward as his hands rest against the desk.
“The student I hit was saying atrocious things about someone I care about deeply—sir,” I tack on at the end.
“I see. So this was a skirmish over a girl?”
My eyes widen in alarm. “It wasn’t like that. She’s a friend. A teammate. She was dating this man until recently, and he was talking very disrespectfully about her. I reacted to his words, but I know that isn’t an excuse.”
“Hmm,” he says as he opens and closes a file on his desk. “Do you react physically often?”
“What?” He’s looking at me with intention but no harshness in his features.
“No, I…this is the first time anything like this has happened.” But then I think back; there was the time some kids were picking on my brother Robert for being a male cheerleader.
I shoved them into the lockers, telling them to shut up.
Dr. Fitz seems to see this all play out on my face, because he quirks an eyebrow as if he doesn’t believe me.
But then he moves on, saying, “Tell you what, I want you to commit to three mandatory sessions with the team psychologist. If you agree, I’ll convince the dean to drop your suspension by two meets. ”
“Mandatory therapy?”
“Yes.”
“Is that necessary?” Although I guess this would be working on my shit.
“That’s up to you, really, but that’s the offer.”
“Okay.”
“I understand you are Charlie Bocelli’s son.”
I visibly flinch. “Um, yes, sir.”
“He called earlier. It always piques my interest when a large donor makes a call in for their son or daughter. I like to gather more information when that happens.”
I stare back at him, my temples throbbing. A loss of feeling overtakes me from the change in conversation to my father.
“I saw in your file. Charlie lost custody rights when you were fourteen. Now, I won’t pretend to know what your relationship with the man is like, but as for myself, I had a dad who liked to waltz in and out of my life whenever he felt like it.
It doesn’t bode well for a child’s emotional upbringing.
” He pauses to rub a hand over his hairless head.
“Go see the psychologist, son. I promise it’s for the best.”
I’m speechless. This beast of a man opened up about his past. He looked into my file instead of simply listening to the words of a man who donated ungodly amounts of money to his department.
He offered me a chance, not only at shortening my suspension but at working through some of the pain that ties me in knots.
Pain from a father who abandoned me and my family, from a grandfather who was everything I needed until he was gone.
From who I am as a person, and this anger that detonates without my full consent.
I nod in agreement. “All right. When’s my first appointment?”
A smile tips the right side of his mouth. “I took the liberty of reviewing your schedule as well. How does Monday at 3:30 sound?”
“Sounds perfect.” I stand and take the appointment card he hands me. The top of the card lists “Donny Fantil, BCS, BMCP,” along with a phone number and email.
“If you need to reschedule for any reason, call that number.” Dr. Fitz points toward the card in my hand.
“I will. Thank you, sir.”
“Take care, Connor. I hope to see great things from you. Both in and out of the pool.”
I blink and mutely nod my head in acknowledgment. Dumbfounded, I exit his office and head for home.
Later that afternoon, I remember Maisie asked me to text her how it went, so I pull up our thread and send off a quick one.
All good with Fitz. He’s going to try convincing the Dean to remove two of my suspended Meets. Just have to do some sessions with the team psychologist. Still no Vimer Invitational though.
I can’t quite wrap my head around all of today’s events, let alone relay them to her over text, so I resign myself to sending the basics with the intention of talking more after her competition tomorrow.
Good luck tomorrow, Betty. I’ll be in the stands rooting for you. I know you’ll do great.
Texting bubbles appear and disappear three times.
Betty: Thanks Connor. Your support means a lot.
You deserve it. See you tomorrow.
Yeah, we’ll sort everything out after she’s done competing tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.