Chapter 4
Chapter Four
DECLAN
Lucky me—Dad’s in town.
That should make this conversation much easier.
I've been in the car for five minutes when the memories start flooding back.
I'm eight years old. Dad promised to come to my game. Championship game. I score the winning goal and scan the stands looking for him.
He's not there.
He shows up two hours later with a bottle of champagne and a contract he just closed. Tells me the game was a good warm-up for the "real wins" I'll have someday.
I'm twelve—Mom's birthday dinner. Dad cancels thirty minutes before we're supposed to leave because a client needs him.
Mom sits at the table in her dress; the cake she ordered for herself, which he forgot, sits on the table.
She doesn't cry. She just takes off her jewelry, changes into pajamas, and goes to bed at seven p.m. Two days later, she was gone.
She kissed me goodbye, promised to see me soon, and walked out the door with two suitcases.
I'm sixteen. NHL draft. I'm not getting drafted—I'm still in high school—but Dad takes me anyway to "network."
He spends the entire night introducing me to scouts, agents, and team executives, talking about my potential. My stats. My trajectory.
He doesn't ask if I want to do this. Doesn't ask if this is my dream or his.
He just assumes.
In the last three years of college I know I’ve disappointed him. He was so desperate for me to get drafted. It’s the only time I’ve ever pushed back. I’ve let him dictate my entire life, but I wanted an education. I fought hard for it.
But his goal has always been hockey. Not for me. I’m just his only son. I’m being pushed toward hockey because he doesn’t have a backup.
The pattern is clear. It's always been clear.
Nothing matters except career. Success as he defines it.
I take the elevator to the top floor and knock on his suite door.
A woman answers the door. I think she’s his assistant, but she could be his girlfriend for all I know. "Mr. Hayes is in a meeting."
"I need to speak with my father. Now."
"Sir, he's with clients."
"I don't care." I push past her into the suite.
My father is at the dining table with three men in suits. Breakfast is spread out in front of them. Papers everywhere.
He looks up, his expression going from surprise to anger in seconds.
"Declan. What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk. Now."
"I'm in the middle of a meeting."
"I don't care." I look at the three men. "Excuse us, gentlemen. This won't take long."
One of them starts to stand.
"Stay," my father says. His glare turns to me. "Whatever you need to say can wait."
"It can't." I'm aware we have an audience, but I don't care. "You went to see Sutton yesterday."
His jaw tightens. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You showed up at my house and offered her money to leave me.”
"Declan, this is not the time."
"Don't deny it. She told me everything." I step closer to the table.
The three men exchange glances. This is clearly not what they expected from a business breakfast.
"Perhaps we should reschedule," one of them says.
"Stay," my father says a second time. "We'll discuss this later. In private."
"We'll discuss it now, in front of your clients. Let them see what kind of man you really are."
"Declan, don't do this."
"Do what? Tell the truth? That you tried to bribe my girlfriend into leaving me because she doesn't fit your image of what my life should look like?"
"She's not right for you!" He stands up, his voice rising. "She's a distraction! She's holding you back from your potential!"
"She's the woman I love!"
"Love?" He laughs bitterly. "Love doesn't build a career, Declan. You’re twenty-two; trust me, you’re going to fall in love at least ten times. You don’t stop at the first one.”
“Newsflash, most people do. Love makes you a better man. It makes you better in general. You’ve never understood that.”
"You have a gift, a talent that most people would kill for. And you're throwing it away for what? A girl who works at a restaurant?"
"Her name is Sutton. And she's worth more than all your connections combined."
"She's nothing!" The words echo through the suite. "She comes from nothing. She has nothing to offer you except problems and distractions!"
One of the men clears his throat. "Richard, perhaps we should let you have a moment."
"This is my son," my father snaps. "And he's making the biggest mistake of his life."
"The biggest mistake of my life was letting you control me for twenty-two years." My voice is cold. I’m not nervous. Scared. Or even sad. I’m just done. "Every decision. Every choice. Every path I've taken has been what you wanted. What you decided was best."
"Because I know what's best for you!"
"No, you know what's best for your investment. Your project. Your legacy." I look at him directly. "When did you ever ask me what I wanted?"
"I don't need to ask. I'm your father. I know what’s best for you."
"When did you ask if I wanted to play professional hockey? If that was my dream or yours?"
"Of course, it's your dream."
"Is it? Because I've never said that. Not once.
You just assumed." I'm aware everyone in the room is watching us.
I don't care. "You've spent my entire life pushing me toward a future I'm not even sure I want.
And when I find something that actually makes me happy—someone who sees me as a person, not a commodity—you try to pay her to leave. "
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"You're trying to protect your investment! There's a difference!"
"That girl is going to ruin your career."
"If my career can't survive me being in a relationship with someone I love, then maybe it's not the right career!"
The suite is silent. Even the clients have stopped pretending to look at their papers.
My father's face is red. His hands are clenched into fists.
"You're being irrational," he says quietly.
"I'm being honest for the first time in my life."
"You're throwing away everything I've built for you."
"You built it for yourself. I'm just the tool you're using to get there.
" The words I said on the phone the other night echo back to me.
"Every opportunity. Every door you opened.
Every connection you made. It was all for you.
For your reputation. For your ability to say, 'My son plays in the NHL.
' My contract gets you status. It brings in more clients and makes you richer. "
My eyes go to the men. I don’t know who they are, but I’m guessing they’re not just uncomfortable—they’re concerned.
My dad is a smooth talker. One of the best salesmen on the planet.
He can make any second-rate quarterback feel like he’s going to be the next Peyton Manning if he just pays my dad enough money.
"You're being a child."
"I'm being an adult. Maybe for the first time." I take a breath. "So here's what's going to happen. You're going to stay away from Sutton. You're not going to contact her. You're not going to offer her money, jobs, or anything else. You're going to leave her alone."
"Or what?"
"Or I'm done with you. Completely." The words feel final. Terrifying. "No more calls. No more visits. No more strings attached. I'll make my own decisions about my career. My relationships. My life."
"You need me."
"No, I don't. I've never needed you. I've needed a father. Someone who actually cared about me as a person. Someone who supported my happiness instead of just my potential earnings." I head toward the door. "But that's not who you are. And I'm done pretending it might be."
“Stop it!”
"If you can't respect Sutton, I don't want your help anymore. Not with dev camp. Not with contacts. Not with anything." I turn back to face him. "Figure out if your son matters more than your legacy. Then we'll talk."
His face goes cold. That emotionless mask he wears when a deal falls through.
"You're making a mistake you'll regret."
"Maybe. But it's my mistake to make."
I walk out before he can respond.
The elevator ride down feels like it takes hours. My heart is pounding.
I just blew up my relationship with my father.
I get back to my truck and take a minute to collect myself.
My phone buzzes.
I expect it to be my father. Some angry text or a threat.
But it's from the dev camp coordinator.
Final arrangements for the December camp. Need confirmation of attendance by Friday. Looking forward to having you. Coach Morrison
I think about what I actually want. Not what I've been told to want. Not what everyone expects.
What I actually want.
And I realize I don't know the answer.
I've spent so long following the path laid out for me that I don't know which direction to go when I'm finally choosing for myself.
I start the truck and drive home, the dev camp message still unanswered on my phone.
Friday. I have until Friday to decide.
Whether I want the future my father built for me.
Or something else entirely.
For the first time in my life, the choice is actually mine.
And that’s terrifying.