Chapter 2 #2
Actually asking a girl on a real date? Going to dinner, learning her favorite movie, letting her see the parts of me that aren’t just loud jokes and party tricks? That’s relationship territory, and I’m not going anywhere near that minefield. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
“She’s a moron, Ethan,” Freddie says, and I know he means Paige, not the waitress.
I nod. But the photo still sits in my hidden folder. Not gone. Not yet.
Freddie lingers in the doorway. “Also, your game’s good. Really good. Just don’t let her mess with your head. Get it finished.”
I give him a tired smile. “Thanks, man.”
He disappears down the hall, and I finally exhale.
I open my laptop. Load the code. Let myself fall into the one thing I still believe I might actually be good at.
Outside, Greg catches the last of the sunlight like he’s listening.
The car smells like leather and stale energy drinks, and my dad taps the steering wheel like he’s still hyped from the final touchdown.
“That was a hell of a game,” he says, glancing over at me. “That last-minute pick? Beautiful read. Kid’s got vision.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I feel. “He’s good.”
Dad nods. “Not as good as you were, though.”
I look out the window. Count backwards from five. He doesn’t mean it to hurt—but it does anyway.
“You really didn’t have to come all the way up just for a game,” I say, forcing a light tone. “It’s like, a six-hour round trip.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it. I love football more than anything else. And I love watching it with my son.”
My chest tightens. For a second, I almost let myself relax into the compliment.
Then he adds, “Wish I was watching you out there instead of some other kid wasting your scholarship.”
And there it is.
I let out a breath. “We’ve been over this.”
“I know, I know,” he says, waving a hand like the conversation’s casual. “The injury. The rehab. But if you’d pushed harder—if you’d stuck it out—you’d be playing for real right now. Scouts, sponsors, hell, maybe even the draft.”
“I’m not doing this again.”
“I just don’t get it, Eth. You had the potential.”
“I have other potential,” I snap before I can stop myself.
He goes quiet for a second. Then, like he’s switching tactics. “How are your grades?”
I stare at the windshield. “Fine.”
“Fine like passing, or fine like ‘please don’t check the portal’?”
I grip my knee. “I’m working on it.”
“Because, you know, if you’d stuck with football, I wouldn’t care about your GPA. But if you’re not going pro, then you’d better graduate with something worthwhile.”
And just like that, the warmth from earlier shrivels. The shared love of the game, the memories, the jokes—all smothered by expectations I never agreed to carry.
“That last drive was a disaster,” he mutters. “Quarterback had no composure. No vision.”
I nod, even though I thought the kid held up okay under pressure. But I’ve learned not to offer my opinion unless I want a lecture on “mental toughness.”
Dad glances over at me. “You would’ve nailed that throw.”
I stare out the window. “I’m not seventeen anymore. And I don’t play.”
“You’re not eighty either. Christ, Ethan. A sprained shoulder shouldn’t have ended your whole future.”
I shift in my seat, wishing I could disappear into the fabric. “It wasn’t just the injury.”
“No,” he says, voice tightening. “It was the attitude. You didn’t have it in you to keep pushing.” He shakes his head.
I don’t respond.
He laughs softly, but there’s no humor in it. “You had scouts. Offers. You were somebody. Now you’re holed up in your room making video games.”
My hands curl into fists in my lap.
“I’m studying game design,” I say quietly.
“As part of what—liberal arts? Sounds like a backup plan for people without real plans.”
I flinch like he’s hit me. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just thinks I should take it like a man.
We pull up to the house. He kills the engine, turns to me with that let’s-talk-man-to-man look that always precedes something brutal.
“You got a plan for after graduation?” he asks.
I hesitate. “I’m working on something. A final project for my course. It's a game. Then I’m going to pitch it to some indie companies in San Fran. Maybe one of them will pick it up and—”
“Is it gonna pay rent?” he interrupts.
The question hangs there. We both know the answer.
“That’s what I thought.” Too easy, like he’s proven a point. “Look, it’s not too late. Call Coach Adler. Transfer credits. Take a fifth year, get back in shape—”
“No.” My voice fucking cracks, and I hate that I can’t control it.
He nods slowly, like I’m a toddler mid-tantrum. “I just want you to succeed.”
“I know.” I swallow.
I reach for the door. His hand stops me.
“Your mother and I talked. If your grades tank, you’re coming home. Year at the hardware store. Prove you can work before we let you chase”—he gestures vaguely—“whatever this is.”
The hardware store. Ten-hour shifts selling screws to weekend warriors. The future he’s holding hostage.
“But if you pull decent grades, show us you’re serious? You get Grandpa’s trust fund. Your shot at this game thing.”
My throat closes. The trust fund—my only chance to survive in San Francisco without crawling back.
“Game design is a real career. You’ll see.”
The look he gives me says he won’t.
I don’t look at him.
I get out. Close the door softly. Then harder. Not quite a slam—that would be childish. Just... firm.
Inside, I take the stairs two at a time. My throat burns. Tell myself it’s the cold.
In my room, I sit on the bed’s edge and stare at the carpet like it might offer answers. Open my laptop. Close it. Open it again.
Type “game designer average salary”.
Delete it before hitting enter.
I know the odds. Know most designers eat ramen for years before breaking through. But I’m good at this. Really good. And someday, when kids in our neighborhood are obsessed with something I built, when Dad’s golf buddies ask about his son, the designer—
Then he’ll see. Then I’ll be somebody again.
Just not the somebody he wanted.