10. Ryder
Ryder
My father arrives Saturday morning like a storm system, unavoidable and destructive. Just my luck.
Malcolm Beaumont is everything you’d expect from an NHL legend, tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with the confidence of someone who’s used to being the best in any room. He played twelve years, won two Stanley Cups, and has never let anyone forget it.
“You look soft,” are his first words to me.
Not “hello.” Not “how are you feeling.” Just immediate criticism.
“Nice to see you too, Dad.”
“Don’t get smart. Show me the shoulder.”
We’re in my apartment, he refused Carter’s offer to host, said he wanted privacy for “family matters.” Maya’s here anyway, sitting quietly in the corner like she promised.
I take off my shirt, let him examine the shoulder with the kind of rough efficiency that makes me flinch.
“Weak,” he pronounces. “You’ve let it get weak. What kind of training program are you following?”
“The kind recommended by doctors for recovery from a grade two AC separation.”
“Doctors.” He says it like a curse. “Doctors don’t understand what it takes to play at this level. You need to push through pain, not baby yourself.”
“Pushing through pain is what caused this in the first place.” I try to argue with him.
“No. Weakness caused this. Lack of discipline. If you’d been maintaining your body properly?—”
“I was maintaining. I was training. I was doing everything right and my body still broke down.”
“Because you’re not as strong as you think you are. The Beaumont legacy requires?—”
“I know what it requires,” I snap. “You remind me every chance you get. Play through pain. Never show weakness. Sacrifice everything for the game. I get it, Dad. I’ve always gotten it.”
“Then why are you sitting here with your arm in a sling instead of on the ice?”
“Because I have a grade two AC separation and a partially torn rotator cuff, and if I keep playing, I’ll tear it completely and destroy any chance at a professional career.”
“Or you’ll prove you’re tough enough to overcome adversity.”
“That’s not how injuries work.” I whisper, but he still heard me.
“That’s exactly how they work in professional hockey. The scouts aren’t looking for players who fall apart at the first sign of trouble.”
Maya stands up suddenly. “With respect, Mr. Beaumont, that’s terrible advice.”
My father looks at her like he’s just noticing she exists. “Who are you?”
“Maya Lynch. I’m a friend of Ryder’s and I’m also someone who nearly destroyed themselves trying to meet impossible expectations, so I know exactly what you’re asking him to do.”
“This is a private family conversation?—”
“Then have one. Have a conversation where you actually care about your son’s wellbeing instead of your legacy. Have a conversation where you ask how he’s feeling instead of immediately criticizing him. Have a conversation where you’re his father instead of his coach.”
The room goes silent.
My father’s face darkens. “I don’t need advice from some?—”
“Stop.” I stand, moving between them. “Maya’s right. You flew here to assess the situation, fine. The situation is that I’m injured and need time to heal. You can either support that or leave.”
“Support you quitting?”
“Support me recovering so I have a career at all.”
We stare at each other, the weight of three generations of Beaumont expectations pressing down on this moment.
“Your brother didn’t quit when he was injured,” my father says finally.
“Jackson had a broken finger. I have a partially torn rotator cuff. It’s not comparable.”
“It’s always comparable. Pain is pain. Either you push through it or you don’t.”
“And what happens when pushing through it causes permanent damage? When I can’t play at all because I destroyed my shoulder trying to prove I’m tough enough?”
“Then you weren’t meant for this level anyway.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I always knew what my father wanted from me, but I also thought that maybe he would be a little more understanding.
“Get out,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Get out of my apartment. If you can’t support my recovery, if all you can do is criticize, compare and make me feel like a failure, then leave.”
“Ryder—”
“I said leave.”
My father stares at me for a long moment. Then he grabs his coat and walks out without another word.
The door closes, and I’m left standing in the middle of my apartment, shaking with adrenaline and anger and something that might be relief.
Maya crosses to me immediately. “Are you okay?”
“I just kicked my father out.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“That was… that was really stupid.”
“Or really brave. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. “He’s right though. I am weak. I let my body break down, let my shoulder get worse, let everything fall apart.”
“No. You’re human. Humans have limits. Pretending you don’t doesn’t make you strong, it makes you destructive.”
“Says the girl who tried to kill herself.”
The words come out harsher than I mean, but instead of flinching, Maya sits beside me.
“Exactly,” she says. “Says the girl who tried to kill herself because she thought being weak meant being worthless. Says the girl who learned the hard way that asking for help isn’t failure. Says the girl who survived because someone cared enough to save her even when she didn’t want to be saved.”
“I don’t know how to do this. How to be less than perfect and still be worth something.”
“None of us do. We’re all just figuring it out as we go. But Ryder? You’re worth something because you exist, not because you play hockey. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve your time.”
I want to believe her. Want to believe that I’m more than my sport, more than my family legacy, more than the expectations I’ve been carrying since I was six years old.
“Thank you,” I say. “For being here. For saying what needed to be said.”
“That’s what friends do.”
“Friends,” I repeat. “Is that what we are?”
Maya looks at me, and something shifts in her expression. Something warm and complicated and terrifying.
Maya doesn’t answer with words. Instead, she closes the last half-step separating us, slow enough that I feel every inch of the distance disappearing. Her gaze drops to my mouth for one heartbeat, then flicks back up to my eyes, asking, daring, giving me the final second to pull away.
I don’t, and there is something about her pulling me in the more I’m with her.
Her hand finds
the side of my neck, fingers cool at first, then warming instantly against my
skin. She tilts my face down just enough, and then her lips brush mine, soft,
testing, almost careful. The contact is so light it’s maddening, a tease that
pulls a quiet sound from the back of my throat before I can stop it.
That sound
seems to snap something in her.
She presses forward, mouth opening against mine, and the kiss turns hungry in one seamless slide.
Her tongue finds mine, hot, deliberate, stroking in a slow drag that makes my knees threaten to give out.
I taste coffee and the faint sweetness of the dessert she had and underneath it all, just her.
Maya. The same Maya I’ve known about for years, but only just met is now kissing me like she’s been starving for it.
My hands move on instinct, one sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her head so I can angle her exactly where I want her, the other finding the small of her back, pulling her flush against me until there’s no space left for doubt or hesitation.
She makes a small, broken noise into my mouth when our hips meet, half moan, half sigh and the sound pours straight into my bloodstream like liquor.
She kisses deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing my bottom lip just hard enough to sting before she soothes it with another slow sweep of her tongue. My fingers tighten in her hair, hers slide down to fist the front of my shirt, tugging me impossibly closer as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
We break for air only because lungs demand it. Foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s ragged exhales, lips still grazing, unwilling to separate completely.
“Friends,” she whispers against my mouth, voice wrecked and teasing at the same time. “Is that what you want to call this?”
I drag my thumb along the curve of her jaw, feeling the way she trembles under the touch.
“No,” I murmur, stealing one more slow, filthy kiss before I answer. “I don’t think ‘friends’ covers it, but-.”
She cuts me off.
“Don’t mention my brother and ruin this moment,” she says, and then she’s kissing me again, deeper this time, slower, like she’s memorizing every slide and catch and sigh.
And I let her.
I let her take me apart one devastating kiss at a time, right there in the quiet dark, until the only thing left is the heat of her mouth and the certain, terrifying knowledge that we’re never going back.
I know Carter will kill me, but I've been thinking about this moment for a while now.