Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Santos
I lay on the hospital bed, trying to block out the dull ache in my leg—and the sharper, more grating noise drilling into my ears. That’d be my father. He’s here to ‘fix’ me.
If I had the energy, I’d tell him I didn’t need fixing. That I’m fucking fine. Peachy. My ankle is wrapped tight, propped up like it was some fragile, precious thing I’m supposed to care about. But how could I? How could I focus on this when everything around me feels just as broken?
Jean-Luc Bélanger has this way of making me feel worse, even more shattered than I did lying on the ice, knowing everything was completely and utterly fucked. He should’ve stayed at the hotel with my mom. Maybe that would’ve saved me the headache.
Earlier, I pretended to be asleep when my parents came to visit for the first time, because avoiding them was easier than listening to the inevitable disappointment.
Don’t get me wrong—seeing Mom is always nice.
She’s soft, gentle in a way that barely touches the edges of my bruised pride.
But enduring Dad . . . That was something else entirely.
When they finally left to go back to the hotel, I felt the tightness in my chest ease for the first time in hours.
But then, minutes ago, Dad waltzed back into my room. Without Mom. And now, he’s rattling off a plan I don’t care to understand. He’s all white noise. His voice is this dull, static hum, a frequency I just can’t tune into anymore.
The beeping machines, the sterile hum of the room—it all blends together. I know I should listen, I really should. But I can’t bring myself to care. Not about the plan he’s pushing on me. Not about how he always seems so damn sure that he knows what’s “best” for me.
Not when everything else is falling apart.
“They’re going to release you in a week,” he says, his voice cold, calculated, like he’s talking about a business deal, not his own son’s health. “But you’re not going home. We’re sending you to El Paso.”
I don’t even look at him, or even acknowledge this whole: you’re coming with me. He says it as if I’m a five-year-old child who needs guidance from his loving and very concerned father.
“You’ll be checked into a rehabilitation center,” he continues, his tone as cold and detached as ever. “Top-notch therapists—psychological, of course. The doctor said that as long as you keep your leg elevated, it doesn’t matter when you start rehab.”
Psychological therapy. My jaw tightens, but I don’t look at him.
There’s a pressure building at the base of my skull, a tension that keeps growing with every word he speaks.
The room feels smaller, and I’m suddenly aware of how hard it is to breathe—like the air is too thick, weighing me down.
I know what’s coming next. I always do. And no matter how many times I’ve heard it, it doesn’t get any easier.
“The therapist will help with the emotional stress the injury’s caused,” he says, his voice clinical, like he’s reading off a checklist. “The trauma, the loss of control.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing as if daring me to interrupt.
“And while you’re there, you’ll attend the conversion therapy program as well. ”
Those last words hit like a hammer. Conversion therapy. Again.
It’s like all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out, leaving me suffocating in the silence.
My fingers dig into the bedsheets, knuckles turning white, but I stay frozen.
Every word he says feels like a fist pummeling my stomach, but I don’t flinch.
I’ve heard this all before. He already sent me away once, years ago, and this time . . . it’s just as suffocating.
Then I see it—etched into his face, that unmistakable look of disappointment, the kind that digs into your soul and never leaves. His eyes are hard, cold, filled with shame from that day he found me with Dust.
God, I can still remember it. We weren’t just fooling around.
I was straddling Dustin, my body pressed against his, flushed and breathless, our clothes half-torn off in the heat of the moment.
He was kissing down my neck, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me closer.
We were too far gone to even hear the door open.
And then . . . my father was standing there, his face twisted in horror.
The way he looked at me . . . at us. Disgust radiated from him like poison seeping into the air, suffocating everything in the room.
His eyes were now burning with something dark, something vicious.
He stormed into the room, his voice low, simmering with danger, like a volcano about to erupt.
Every word dripped with venom, his fists clenched as if holding back a violent explosion.
He didn’t just threaten us—he ripped into us, into me.
“My son isn’t gay,” he spat, the words like acid.
“You’re nothing but a filthy disease, and you infected him.
” The insult cut deeper than any knife, the hatred in his voice twisting my insides.
He looked at Dustin like he was something to be eradicated, like just breathing the same air as him was a crime.
And then he disappeared, but it wasn’t over.
The sound of his heavy footsteps echoed through the house, each one like a countdown.
Moments later, he was back, rifle in hand, his face twisted with rage.
For a split second, I thought it was over.
I thought he was going to kill Dustin right there in front of me.
I saw it in his eyes—the sheer rage, the uncontrollable fury that nothing could extinguish.
My heart pounded in my ears as I froze, helpless, trapped between disbelief and terror. Dustin stood beside me, tense but unflinching, as if he’d already accepted whatever was coming next.
“I’m going to finish this. Finish you,” he growled, aiming the rifle straight at Dustin’s chest. The barrel gleamed under the dim light, a heartbeat away from pulling the trigger.
Mom burst in just in time, throwing herself between them, barely stopping him from firing.
She screamed his name, begged him to put it down, to think, to stop. And somehow, just barely, she pulled him back from the edge. But in that moment, I knew—nothing would ever be the same. He’d been seconds away from changing all our lives in one reckless, irreversible moment.
But that day, I lost something. Whatever fragile respect or love I still held for my father, it shattered. The look in his eyes, the way he spat those words at me, like I was the filth he needed to wash off his hands. I gained something too. His hate. He’ll never forget, and he’ll never forgive.
But someone should tell him—there’s nothing to forgive. Not me. Not Dustin. But it sure as hell isn’t going to be me who tells him that.
“It’s for your own good,” he says, that familiar, authoritative tone sliding over his words like a suffocating blanket.
The same voice that has ruled every corner of my life, dictating my choices, my future.
“You’ve lost your way, Santos. And now, with everything that’s happened, we need to focus on getting you back on track—physically and mentally. ”
Back on track. As if I was ever on the right track in his eyes.
I feel the heat rise in my chest, my heart pounding as I fight to keep my composure.
“I don’t need that kind of therapy,” I say, my voice quiet but steady, the defiance simmering just beneath the surface.
“If you can’t get it through your thick skull that I’m bisexual, that’s your problem.
Maybe you should be the one going to therapy.
Something to fix your narrow-minded, bigoted, misogynistic head. ”
His eyes darken, and in a split second, he’s stepping closer, looming over me like a storm ready to break.
“You don’t get to make that decision,” he growls, his voice low, dangerous, each word dripping with barely contained fury.
The room feels smaller, the walls closing in, as his anger pulses between us, sharp and heavy. His gaze pierces through me, as if daring me to push back further, to challenge the authority he’s held over me for as long as I can remember.
But this time, I don’t back down. Not anymore.
This is how it’s always been with him—control, dominance, bending me to his will, like I’m some puppet he’s been fine-tuning all my life. He built me, shaped me into the perfect hockey player. But he’s never seen me. Not who I really am beneath all that.
“I’m not going,” I say, my voice louder this time, firmer, but my heart races in my chest, thudding like it’s trying to break free.
His eyes narrow, growing darker, his rage barely contained behind the tight lines of his face. He steps even closer. “You are my son. You will do as I say.”
I release a humorless laugh, the sound bitter in the heavy silence. He really thinks I’ll just cave. That I’ll follow through with his plan like I always have, like I owe him my life.
His expression hardens, the fury behind his eyes more visible now.
“I made you, you ungrateful fuck.” His words are poisonous, each one dripping with the anger he’s kept bottled up for so long.
“And just like I made you, I can tear you apart. You’ll do what I say, and you’ll be the person I want you to be. This time you won’t fail me.”
Fail him. That’s all I ever do in his eyes. No matter how hard I’ve worked, no matter what I’ve achieved, I’ll always be a disappointment.
I want to fight back, to spit his words right back in his face. To tell him that he’s the one who failed me as a father, but I’m so damn tired. Not just physically but emotionally, mentally, in a way that feels bone-deep.
It’s not just the exhaustion of being trapped in this hospital bed, waiting for doctors to decide my fate.
It’s the years of being molded and shaped into someone I never wanted to be, someone he wanted.
Every piece of me feels worn, like I’ve been fighting battles I didn’t choose, for a life I never wanted.
Do I even have the energy left to fight him now, to reclaim what’s mine?
But as I look at him, towering over me with that same imposing figure, something flickers inside me, fragile but unyielding.
I meet his gaze, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t back down.
Even though my body feels like it’s barely holding itself together, I find strength in the last place I expected.
“No,” I say again, my voice quieter than I’d like but steady. Steadier than it has any right to be. “Not this time.”
The air between us thickens, crackling with tension.
Suddenly, everything stands still—he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
His jaw tightens, the muscles in his face twitching as if he’s struggling to contain something primal, something close to rage.
His eyes burn with it, flickering like the start of a wildfire, but he holds it back. Barely.
There’s a part of me that wants to care—that wants to be the son he can be proud of. But I’m not that son, and I never will be.
His lips press into a thin line as he takes a step back, his face a cold mask again.
There’s a flicker in his eyes, a shift in the air between us. For a moment, I think he’s going to lose it. His mask of control slips back into place, but I can see it. The frustration. The anger.
“Leave,” I order. “You’re not welcome in this room—or my life.”
“You’ll regret this,” he says, colder than I’ve ever heard him. “You’re throwing away everything you’ve worked for. Everything I’ve worked for.”
I don’t respond. I just stare up at the ceiling, waiting for him to leave. His footsteps are heavy as he moves toward the door. The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I breathe out slowly, but the tension in my chest doesn’t ease. It sits there, heavy, pressing down on my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I’ve made my choice, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like something’s broken inside me, and I’m not sure it’ll ever be whole again.
I close my eyes, listening to the hum of the hospital around me, wondering if this is how it’s always going to be. Stuck between who I am and who they want me to be, with no way out.