25. April #2
My father’s nostrils flare. “You’re wasting your potential. You have a brilliant mind, April. You could be making real money, building a real career—”
“I have a real career.”
“Walking dogs is not a career.” My mother’s voice is disdainful. “It’s a hobby at best.”
The old April—the one who spent years trying to please them—would shrink right now.
Would apologize. Would at least consider their perspective.
But as of right now, standing in this space, which may be the only good thing I have left, I bury that version of myself like a dog would a bone. It’s gone. Lost.
“You came all the way to Nebraska to tell me my job isn’t real?”
“We came here because we’re worried about you. Plus, this whole thing with that hockey player—”
“Clark.”
“Is foolish. He plays games all day. You need someone serious.”
Dad says, “You barely know him—”
I cock my head, wondering just how well they know me. “I’ve known him for ten years.”
“And now suddenly you’re committed to each other? After all this time?” Dad shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense, April.”
“What doesn’t make sense is you showing up unannounced to criticize every choice I’ve made.” My voice is rising, but I can’t stop it. “I’m twenty-eight years old. I have a successful business. I’ve signed a lease on a commercial property. I’m happy.” At least I was until this week.
“But what about our legacy?” my mother asks.
And there it is, the real issue at hand. They only care about how I make them look. When they’re at events with their friends and colleagues and are asked about their two daughters, they can sing Elise’s praises, but then when I come up …
“What about what I want?” I ask.
My mother huffs. “We want you to be realistic. This bakery idea—what happens when it fails? What happens when you and Clark break up? Then what?”
The words hit like a slap. Not because they’re cruel, but because they voice the exact fears that have been building since we returned from Oregon and have only grown since I overheard Clark’s phone call with Whitaker.
“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “But that’s my risk to take.”
My mother looks pointedly at my father and then smooths her hands down her front.
He says, “We’re staying in Omaha tonight. We’d like to take you and Clark to dinner to get to know him properly.”
Every instinct screams at me to say no. But a tiny, hopeful part of me—the part that still wants my parents’ approval—thinks maybe if they properly meet Clark, they’ll understand.
“I’ll see if he’s free,” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
As they exit, I overhear my mother chirp, “What kind of guy wouldn’t make an effort to meet his alleged girlfriend’s parents?”
First, they did meet him at our high school graduation. Next, he’s entering the playoffs, arguably the busiest and most stressful time of year for an NHL player. Lastly, maybe I’ve misread the situation and I’m not his girlfriend—at least not for real, which puts me back where we started.
But what about rule seven? When this is over, we go back to being friends. No matter what.
Right now, I don’t know where we stand. I’m aware this could be solved by simply asking, but I’m terrified that I won’t like the answer.
However, I text Clark and am surprised when my phone beeps almost immediately with a response.
Clark: Sure—just let me know when and where
That’s it. He hardly uses punctuation. In the very least, I imagined an emoji face at the mention of my parents. He’s not their biggest fan and only tolerates the idea of them because, and I quote, “They brought you into this world.”
But I’m not so sure anymore.
I spend the latter half of the afternoon fretting, reluctant to kick off my house shoes and change. I find a squeak toy that must be from April Fool’s Day in the back of my closet, where I keep the clothes that my mother would approve of for dinner.
Instead of picking me up as planned after I gave him the restaurant info, he texts that he’ll be late. If this were last month, I wouldn’t think much of it. However, the air between us is weird—foggy when it should be crisp like after a spring rain. It’s like he forgot where he put our friendship.
Dinner is a disaster from the moment we sit down.
My parents are tense and fully invested in judging everything about the five-star establishment they chose.
Noses in the air, they look around as if people they don’t know are judging them because we have an empty seat at the table.
It’s a vicious cycle of unhappiness—a perspective and pattern I’m committed to not repeating.
After ordering drinks, Clark arrives in khakis and a button-down, looking wonderfully handsome and unbearably tense. He shakes my father’s hand, politely kisses my mother’s cheek, and drops one on the top of my head.
This should cue the confetti cannons. Instead, all I get is the sad trombone.
It felt polite and obligatory—mostly because he also kissed my mother when, in our previous life as best friends, he once told me that if he ever saw her again, he’d challenge her to a duel with foam pool noodles.
He’s the Culpepper family champion—the guy shows no mercy!
However, this isn’t my Clark. This is NHL Clark, media-trained and careful.
The restaurant is dark and moody, reflecting how I feel about this situation. Ordinarily, Clark would ride in on a beam of sunshine. Not tonight. Forecast: dreary clouds and drizzle.
After we’ve ordered, we sit in awkward silence until my mother breaks it with a click of her tongue. “Well, we’re so glad you were able to make it, Clark, was it?”
As if she doesn’t know his name. Steam might start coming out of my ears.
He smooths his napkin into his lap and says, “Of course. It’s a busy time of year, but—” He pauses and looks at me. I’m not sure if I see accusation in his eyes because the restaurant is dim, but I don’t see the twinkle I love so much.
“So, Clark, April tells us you play hockey?” my father asks as if he’s never heard of the sport or it’s unique like the caber toss.
“Yes, sir. Goalie for the Nebraska Knights.”
“Must be nice to play a game for a living.” My mother’s smile is tight.
Clark’s jaw flexes almost imperceptibly. “I’m very fortunate.”
My father steeples his fingers. “And what will you do when your career ends? Hockey players don’t have longevity, from what I understand.”
“Dad—” I start, but Clark touches my hand with a gentle pressure that says it’s okay.
But it’s not okay. I’m going to flip tables if this continues.
“I’m studying for my coaching certification,” Clark says evenly. “And I’ve been investing in properties and small businesses. Building for the future.”
“Smart,” Dad says, nodding. “Though professional athletes’ post-career ventures don’t always pan out, do they? Statistics show—”
“Dad, can we not do this?” My voice comes out as sharp as my butter knife, but still.
“Do what, honey?” Mom asks innocently. “We’re just getting to know Clark. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
The rest of dinner continues in this vein. Backhanded compliments dressed up as concern. Subtle digs wrapped in pleasantries. My parents are masters at making people feel small while maintaining plausible deniability.
And through it all, Clark is quiet. Too quiet. I can see him shutting down, retreating behind his media-ready mask.
When they turn their attention to me, it’s even worse.
“This bakery lease,” Mom says, dabbing her mouth with her napkin, “it’s a significant financial commitment. What if it doesn’t work out?”
“It will work out,” Clark says.
“But if it doesn’t?” Dad presses, focused on me. “You’ll have walked away from law school for nothing. Another thing you quit when it got hard.”
The words sting because they’re designed to. Because deep down, I’m terrified they’re right.
“April doesn’t quit,” Clark says, his voice firm. “She pivots. She adapts. She finds better paths. That’s not quitting—that’s intelligence.”
My parents exchange a look.
“Well,” Mom says. “That’s certainly one perspective.”
The implication is clear: a na?ve perspective from someone who doesn’t know better.
I want to defend him. Defend us. Want to tell my parents exactly what I think of their judgment. Instead, I fall into old patterns. I smile. I nod. I try to smooth things over.
By the time dessert arrives, I can barely breathe. Clark drives me home in silence. The kind of silence that feels like screaming.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say as we pull up outside my building. “I’m so sorry about tonight.”
“It’s fine.” His voice is flat.
“It’s not fine. They were horrible to you.”
“April, they’re your parents. They want what’s best for you.”
“That doesn’t give them the right to—”
“Maybe they’re right.” He’s staring straight ahead, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Maybe I’m not what’s best for you.”
My heart stops. “What?”
“The spotlight. The scrutiny. Your parents’ disapproval. The way you had to defend us ...” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are full of something that looks like resignation. “Maybe they see something we don’t.”
“Clark—” I want to ask what’s happening, why he’s withdrawing, but I know. He’s just not into me the way he was in high school. We’re better as friends. Right now, those are words I don’t want to hear.
Thankfully, he makes an out. “I should go. Early practice tomorrow.”
He leans over and kisses my forehead, not my lips.
Then he’s gone, and I’m left watching his taillights disappear down my street.
We have “the conversation” the next evening via text. Because apparently, we’re cowards. I’m also at his loft, house and dog sitting because I’m a glutton for punishment.
Clark: We should probably talk about Kansas City.
Me: Yeah. We should.
Clark: The campaign is almost over.
My hands shake as I type.
Me: I don’t want to hold you back. From playoffs. From your career.
Clark: You’re not holding me back. Did we move too fast? Maybe we need space to figure things out.
Me: This was always temporary, right?
Even though it stopped being fake weeks ago. Even though I love him. Even though the thought of losing him is tearing me apart.
Clark: Let’s not forget rule seven. That’s what matters most.
Friends. We’re going back to friends. Like the last few weeks never happened.
Like we didn’t confess our crushes on each other.
Like we didn’t arrive at the truth after ten years.
But we didn’t actually say how we feel in the present, did we?
We didn’t define things. We just cleared up the past and I’m afraid now there is no future.
Me: Friends. Right. That makes sense.
Clark: We’ll finish the campaign, then we can figure out the rest.
Me: Sounds good.
It doesn’t sound good. It sounds like an ending. Like giving up. But I don’t know how to pivot, adapt, find better paths—as he told my parents—when I’m not even sure he wants me to.
I set my phone down and let myself cry. The dogs—all five of them—pile onto my bed, offering comfort in the only way they know how.
This is better, I tell myself. Better to end things now before I’m in too deep.
Except I’m already too deep.
I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to save myself.
A few days later, Clark picks me up early in the morning to drive to Kansas City.
His smile is uncertain and the dogs must be picking up on his vibe because all of five of them are rather subdued.
Moose pokes his head up in the way back.
Scout and Buster sit in the middle row and gnaw on special bones.
Purdy and Lulu are cozy in their travel seats and look out the window.
“Coffee?” Clark asks, which are just about his first words since picking me up.
“Sure. Thanks. That would be good.”
We stop at a gas station. Make small talk about the weather. Avoid eye contact.
The dogs sense something is wrong, watching us with worried gazes.
About an hour into the drive, I can’t take it anymore.
“Clark—”
“April—”
We both stop. It’s a painful anticipatory pause—the moment of decision between tearing off the bandage or peeling it back slowly. Either way, it’s going to be unpleasant.
“You first,” he says.
I take a steadying breath. “I want you to know that I don’t regret any of this. The campaign. Us. Whatever we were.”
“Whatever we were,” he repeats softly, but it almost sounds like he’s asking a question. “Me neither.”
“Even if it doesn’t—”
His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “Even then.”
We fall back into silence, but this time it’s heavier than one of the big rigs passing us by on the highway and follows us all the way to Kansas City.
After meeting with the dog sitter whom we arranged for the pack, I head to the arena.
The game tonight is crucial. I sit with the WAGs who traveled for the away game.
They seem to know something is wrong, but respect my silence.
Jess squeezes my hand during the national anthem.
Ella brings me overpriced arena nachos I can only bring myself to pick at.
Whit just sits close, her presence a quiet comfort.
Clark is a mountain in the goal. He makes saves that seem impossible—glove saves, pad saves, an incredible stick save in the second period that has the entire arena on its feet.
But in the third period, everything goes wrong.
There’s a scramble in front of the net. Limbs and sticks flying. Clark goes down to block a shot, and suddenly, players are piling on top of him. The whistle blows. The crowd gasps.
Clark isn’t getting up.
My heart stops.
The trainers rush onto the ice. I’m on my feet without realizing it, pressing against the glass, trying to see through the cluster of players and medical staff.
“He’s okay,” Jess says beside me, but her voice is tight with worry. “He’s going to be okay.”
They help him to his feet slowly. He’s holding his head, looking dazed. The trainers guide him toward the tunnel, and right before he disappears, his eyes scan the stands.
Is he looking for me?
Our gazes lock for just a second, and I see fear, pain, and something else I can’t quite name.
Then he’s gone.
“I need to go,” I tell the girls. “I need—”
“Go,” Margo says.
I run to Clark’s side.