Chapter 34
ETHAN
Istare at the text I just sent, then immediately want to delete it and send something else. Something more desperate, maybe. Something that would convince her not to take time, to just come over right now so we can figure this out together.
But that’s not what she asked for. I need to trust that giving her the space won’t make her run into Miles’s arms, and if it does, then we’re not meant for each other anyway.
So I pocket my phone and try to focus on the work I’ve been neglecting for days.
My senior showcase presentation is in two weeks, and while the game itself is finally working properly, I still need to put together the portfolio and gameplay that will determine whether I graduate and what kind of job prospects I’ll have afterward.
It should be straightforward—screenshots, design documents, a demo video. But every time I try to write the artist statement, my brain feels like mud.
I’m deep into writing when I get distracted by an email notification. Grade update in the portal. I click over, expecting nothing exciting, and freeze.
My GPA has jumped from 2.8 to 3.2.
The academic rehabilitation tutoring credit has been applied, just like Professor Long promised. My transcript now shows “Academic Mentorship - Merit Completion” alongside improved grades in two other courses.
I should feel proud. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel sick, because I know exactly who else has seen this.
My dad insisted on portal access when I started college.
None of my friends’ parents have it, but Dad said it was non-negotiable if he was paying tuition.
“I need to know early enough when things are going shit so I can help you course-correct,” he’d said.
Just like how he had showed up to every single one of my football practices.
You’d think it would be supportive, but it was actually so he could point out mistakes in real-time and make sure I was performing up to his standards.
I really need to change my password and log him out. I keep meaning to, but somehow, I never do. Like part of me still wants his approval, even when I know it’s poisonous.
My phone rings before I can even close the portal. Dad's name flashes on the screen, and my stomach immediately clenches.
But wait—this time is different. He was at the showcase. He saw the standing ovation, heard Marcus from Nebula asking about my choice mechanism, watched three hundred people celebrate my work.
Maybe, finally, he gets it.
I answer with more hope than I should allow myself.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Ethan.” His voice has that particular tone that means he's got something to say, but there's something else too. Pride, maybe? “I see your grades have improved.”
“Yeah, they have.” I can't help the smile creeping into my voice. “And did you see—the showcase went amazing. Marcus from Nebula was really interested—”
“We'll get to that. Academic rehabilitation tutoring.” There's a pause, and I can practically hear him processing this information.
“Professor Long called me about it earlier.
Said you'd been helping some struggling student with Creative Writing, and that both of your grades improved significantly as a result.”
“Yeah, the tutoring program worked out well. But Dad, about the showcase—Marcus said my work was revolutionary. He wants to talk more formally—”
“Wants to talk.” Dad's voice sharpens. “Not offering you a job. Not hiring you. Just 'wants to talk.'”
The hope in my chest wavers. “Well, yeah, but Professor Long said—”
“So you don't actually have a job offer.”
“Not yet, but—”
“So you finally decided to take your academics seriously.” His voice shifts back to that particular blend of relief and condescension. “Good. About time you found a way to make yourself useful after throwing away your real potential.”
The hope in my chest starts to deflate, but I push through. “Dad, didn't you see the presentation? The industry people were taking notes. This IS my potential—”
“The presentation was very polished, I'll give you that. You always were good at performing.”
Performing. Like it was just an act.
“It wasn't a performance, Dad. It's my career. Nebula Arcade is one of the best indie studios in the country, and they might be interested.”
“I have to admit, I was worried about you after the football thing.
Thought maybe you'd just given up entirely.
But this tutoring program, this shows you're at least trying to salvage something from your college experience.” He's warming up now, getting into his stride, completely ignoring everything I'm saying.
“It's smart, actually. If you can't be an athlete, at least you can help other people who are also struggling.
Make yourself feel important by fixing other people's problems.”
“That's not what—Dad, did you even watch my presentation? Did you hear what Marcus said about the choice mechanism being revolutionary?”
“I heard a lot of fancy words about video games, son.
But teaching, or even coaching—now that's a stable career.
I'm assuming the student you helped had some sort of learning difficulty.
That's perfect for you, son. You always were good with the underdogs, probably because you understand what it's like to not quite measure up.”
Something snaps inside me. The last bit of hope I'd been clinging to—that maybe seeing my success would change his mind—dies completely.
He was there. He saw everything. The standing ovation, the potential of job offers, the respect from industry professionals. And it still wasn't enough.
I will never be enough for him unless I'm throwing a football.
“Stop.” The word comes out harder than I intended. “Just stop talking.”
“Excuse me?”
“You were there, Dad. You SAW it. Three hundred people gave me a standing ovation. One of the best studios in the industry is interested in my work. And you're still acting like it's some hobby I need to give up?”
“Ethan, getting emotional about—”
“You have no idea what you're talking about.” I'm standing now, pacing my room. “First of all, Piper doesn't have learning disabilities. She's brilliant. Smarter than I am, actually. Definitely smarter than you.”
“Ethan—”
“Second, you're right. I don't have a job offer yet. But you know what? Even having Marcus interested is huge. That's how this industry works—you build connections, you prove yourself, you earn your shot. Which I'm doing.”
“You're gambling your future on 'interest'—”
“No, I'm building my future on my talent. Which Marcus saw. Which everyone in that room saw. Everyone except you.”
“I saw plenty. I saw my son getting excited about maybes and possibilities instead of concrete opportunities—”
“Because you don't WANT to see it!” The words explode out of me. “You sat there, watched me succeed, watched an industry professional call my work revolutionary, and all you can see is that it's not a signed contract. You're looking for any excuse to dismiss this because it's not football.”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“You're right,” I continue, quieter now. “I don't have a job offer. But I have something you'll never understand—I have potential in a field I actually love. And if Marcus doesn't hire me, someone else will. Because I'm good at this.”
“Being good at something doesn't guarantee—”
“Nothing's guaranteed, Dad. Your football career wasn't guaranteed either, was it? But, at least, if I fail, it will be at something I chose. I will not be living through my kid because my dreams got interrupted.”
The silence stretches between us like a canyon. When he speaks again, his voice is ice-cold.
“Is that what you think? That I'm living through you?”
“I think you've been trying to turn me into the NFL player you never got to be since I was six years old. And now that that's impossible, you can't see any value in what I actually am.”
“What you actually are is a dreamer without a backup plan. That trust fund you're counting on for your little adventure in San Francisco? That's contingent on you showing you can handle adult responsibilities. Getting a real job, not chasing 'interest' from game companies.”
“Keep it.”
The words are out before I can stop them, but I don't want to take them back.
“What?”
“Keep the trust fund. I don't want it.”
“Don't be ridiculous. You can't afford to live without it. Especially on the 'maybe' salary from your 'interested' game company.”
“I'll figure it out. Get roommates, work part-time, whatever it takes. At least, I won't have to pretend your opinion matters anymore.”
“Ethan, you're being so dramatic. Think about what you're saying—”
“I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years.” I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted but also strangely light.
“Marcus might not hire me. You're right about that.
But someone will, because I'm good at this.
And I'd rather struggle doing something I love than be comfortable doing something that makes you proud.”
“So you're just going to throw away your future out of spite?”
“No, Dad. I'm going to build my own future. Even if it starts with 'just interest' instead of guarantees.”
Another long pause. When he speaks again, his voice has shifted into the tone he uses for closing business deals—professional, final.
“Fine. When this 'interest' turns into nothing and you're begging for minimum wage jobs, don't come crying to me.”
“I won't,” I say quietly. “Goodbye, Dad.”
I hang up and sit there, phone in my hand, finally understanding the truth: Even if Marcus offers me the job tomorrow, Dad will find a reason to believe it's not enough. The salary will be too low, the company too risky, the industry too unstable.
I could become the lead designer at the biggest studio in the world, and he'd still ask why I couldn't have been a quarterback.
And that's not my problem to fix anymore. I immediately turn off my phone before I can second-guess myself.
The silence in my room feels huge, like the space left behind after a thunderstorm. I sit on my bed, staring at the wall, processing what just happened.
I just told my father I don’t need his approval.
I just turned down my inheritance.
I just committed to making it on my own in one of the most expensive cities in the country, in an industry that’s notoriously difficult to break into, with no safety net.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I feel... free.
For the first time since my shoulder injury, I’m not carrying the weight of someone else’s expectations. I don’t have to prove I’m not a failure. I don’t have to justify my choices or apologize for my interests or pretend to be grateful for conditional love.
I can just be good at what I’m good at.
I turn my phone back on.
Troy
Heard yelling. You good?
yeah. Better than I’ve been in years, actually.
Want to talk about it?
Later. Right now I need to finish my showcase portfolio.
Aight.
I set the phone aside and open my laptop again. The artist statement cursor blinks at me, waiting, but this time I know exactly what to write:
“This game is about learning that your value isn’t determined by other people’s ability to see it.
It’s about finding the courage to rebuild when everything you thought defined you gets taken away.
It’s about discovering that sometimes the most important victories are the ones no one else will ever understand.
It’s about being enough, exactly as you are.”
My fingers fly over the keyboard, words pouring out of me like water from a broken dam. For the first time in months, maybe years, I’m writing about my work without trying to translate it into terms my father would approve of.
I’m writing for myself.