Chapter 12
Carter
The next two weeks are tense but good.
My father hasn't made good on his threat yet, probably waiting to see if I'll crack, but he's also not backing down.
I've started the loan process for Maya's expenses. It's not ideal, but it's workable and she's been amazing researching scholarship opportunities, looking into public school options, refusing to let me feel guilty about any of it.
"I'm proud of you," she tells me during one of our nightly calls. "For choosing yourself. For standing up to him."
"I couldn't have done it without Lennox."
"Good. That's what partners do. They make you brave enough to be yourself."
Lennox and I are solid. Better than solid. We're figuring out how to actually be a couple the mundane, daily stuff alongside the intense feelings.
She comes to all my games now, sitting in her usual spot, cheering loudly. My teammates have accepted her presence, some even joking with her before games.
I go to her newspaper office sometimes, watching her work with the same fierce focus she brings to everything. She's brilliant and driven and mine.
It's perfect.
Until my father shows up at the championship game.
It's the biggest game of the season. Scouts everywhere. NHL contacts. Media coverage. The works.
And Richard Lynch is sitting front row, center ice, impossible to miss.
Coach pulls me aside before the game. "Your father's here."
"I noticed."
"He's brought scouts. Big ones. Teams that have been expressing interest in you." Coach looks uncomfortable. "He's also been talking to them. About your 'focus issues' and 'personal distractions.'"
My stomach drops. "He's actively sabotaging me?"
"He's expressing concerns. But yeah, effectively sabotaging." Coach puts a hand on my shoulder. "Play your game. Show them who you really are. That's all you can do."
I try. I really try.
But every time I'm on the ice, I can feel my father watching. Judging. Waiting for me to prove him right that I'm distracted and unfocused.
I play conservatively. Cautiously and we lose 3-2.
After the game, my father is waiting outside the locker room with a smug expression.
"Tough loss."
"Get away from me."
"I warned you. Personal distractions affect performance. The scouts saw it." He holds up his phone. "Already getting texts. Teams withdrawing interest. Questioning whether you're worth the investment."
"Because you've been poisoning them against me—"
"I've been honest about what I've observed. A player who's more focused on his girlfriend than his game. Who makes emotional decisions over strategic ones. Who—"
"Who's trying to be a decent human being instead of a robot. Yeah, sorry that's so disappointing." I push past him toward the exit.
He follows. "This ends now. Either you break up with that girl and refocus, or I'm done. No more second chances."
"Good. Be done. I don't want your chances."
I find Lennox waiting by my car, looking worried.
"I saw your father. Did he—"
"Yeah. He's been talking to scouts. Sabotaging my draft prospects." I unlock the car. "Get in. I need to get out of here."
We drive in silence for a while. Finally, she speaks.
"Maybe he's right."
I slam on the brakes, we're in a parking lot, thankfully. "What?"
"Maybe I am distracting you. Maybe you would play better if—"
"Don't. Don't you dare finish that sentence." I turn to face her fully. "I lost that game because I was playing scared. Playing to prove him wrong instead of playing for myself. That's on me, not you."
"But if the scouts are pulling back—"
"Then I'll find different scouts. Different teams. I'm a good player. Someone will see who isn't influenced by my father's bullshit." I take her hand. "I'm not losing you over this. I refuse."
"Carter—"
"No. Listen. I've spent my entire life letting him control my decisions. Letting fear of his disappointment drive everything I do. I'm done. Even if it means my hockey career goes differently than planned. Even if it means struggle. I'm choosing me and I'm choosing us."
She's crying now. "That's the most romantic and terrifying thing anyone's ever said to me."
"Good. Because I mean it." I kiss her, right there in the parking lot. "Now come home with me. I need you."
"Your place or mine?"
"Mine. It has better coffee and no roommates."
"Sold." She jokes.
***
That night, after we've exhausted ourselves, we lie tangled in my sheets, talking about the future.
"What if you don't get drafted?" she asks.
"Then I coach. Or I finish my masters and work in sports psychology. Or I find some other way to combine everything I care about." I trace patterns on her back. "The NHL was my father's dream, not necessarily mine. I'm starting to realize that."
"What is your dream?"
"Right now? To make a difference in athlete mental health. To change the culture from within. To maybe coach someday and create the kind of supportive environment I wish I'd had." I pull her closer. "And to build a life with you. Whatever that looks like."
"That's a good dream."
"What's yours?"
"To write stories that matter. That changes perspectives. That makes people think differently about sports and culture and power." She looks up at me. "And to build a life with you. In whatever city, whatever circumstances, as long as we're together."
We fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, and I don't have nightmares about my father or scouts or losing everything.
Because I've finally realized, I haven't lost anything.
I've gained something more valuable than any hockey career.
Myself. And the courage to be honest about who I am and what I want.
Everything else is just details.