Chapter 29 Icy Return #2
The restaurant hasn’t changed—same dark wood paneling, same oversized leather booths, same photos of local sports heroes adorning the walls.
There’s even one of me from my rookie year, grinning like a moron after my first hat trick.
I look impossibly young, unburdened by injury or the weight of my career possibly ending.
My parents are already seated when I arrive, my mother rising to embrace me with the desperate hug of someone who’s missed their son. My father remains seated, offering only a nod and a handshake when I approach.
“Brooks.” He says my name like he’s checking attendance. “You look fit.”
“Rob,” my mother chides gently. “Is that any way to greet your son after a month apart?”
Dad grunts, reaching for his Merlot. “Just making an observation, Lisa. Fitness is essential for his return.”
I slide into the booth across from them, already feeling the familiar tension creeping up my spine. “Good to see you too, Dad. Mom, you look great.”
She does. My mother has always been beautiful in a soft, approachable way that contrasts sharply with my father’s hard angles and perpetual frown.
“How’s your shoulder, honey?” She reaches across to squeeze my hand.
“Good as new,” I lie, ignoring the dull ache that’s settled in after practice. “Doctor says I’m cleared for play.”
“I watched the practice livestream,” Dad says, and my stomach drops. Of course he did. “Your lateral movement is still hesitant. And you pulled up on that check from Jenkins.”
Not even five minutes in, and we’re already here. I signal the server, ordering a beer I desperately need. “It was my first day back, Dad. I’m not going to be mid-season form right out of the gate.”
“The team doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for you to ease back in.” He leans forward. “That rookie, Carter, is hungry for your spot. And he’s got speed you never had, even before the injury.”
Mom shoots him a warning look. “Rob, please. Can’t we just enjoy dinner first?”
But Dad’s on a roll now, the familiar litany of critiques flowing as naturally as breathing. “Your stick handling was sloppy in the neutral zone. You telegraphed that pass to Carter in the second drill. And your conditioning—”
“How’s Maisie?” Mom interjects desperately. “After her last treatment?”
The question lands like a lead weight. They don’t know about Meema’s deception either. Another conversation I’ve been avoiding.
“She’s fine,” I say shortly, taking a long pull of my beer when it arrives. “Health-wise, anyway.”
“And Sydney?” Mom asks, her voice gentle. “You didn’t tell us you were going to propose.”
Dad snorts, clearly impatient with this line of conversation. “The weather girl? That’s just a distraction he doesn’t need right now. This season’s critical for his career trajectory, especially after the injury.”
Something inside me snaps, a tension wire pulled too tight for too long. “Her name is Sydney,” I say, my voice low but sharp. “She’s a weather reporter and a sportscaster. And she’s in LA interviewing for her dream job because I pushed her away.”
My parents exchange glances across the table. Mom’s concerned, Dad’s dismissive.
“Probably for the best.” Dad shrugs. “You need to focus on your comeback. Everything else is secondary.”
“Is that all you care about?” The words burst out of me, louder than intended, drawing glances from nearby tables. “My spot on the team? My ‘career trajectory’?”
“Brooks,” Mom starts, but I’m beyond stopping now.
“Do you have any idea what the past couple of months have been like? This past year?” I demand, leaning across the table toward my father.
“The rehab, the pain, the nightmares?” I lower my voice, glancing around.
“And in my situation? But in the midst of all that, I met someone incredible, someone who made me feel like maybe there’s more to life than hockey, and I blew it because I’m so screwed up by your obsession with my career that I can’t even be honest with her. ”
Dad’s face darkens, his jaw setting in that familiar stubborn line. “Don’t blame me for your problems, son. Everything I’ve done—every sacrifice I’ve made—was for your benefit. To give you opportunities I never had.”
“That’s just it, isn’t it?” My voice drops, the realization crystallizing with clarity. “This was never about me. It was always about you. Your lost chance. Your unfulfilled potential. You never made it to the pros, and now you’re trying to live through me. That stops. Now.”
The words land hard, my father physically recoiling as if I’ve struck him. Mom’s hand flies to her mouth, eyes wide with a mix of shock and what might be recognition.
“That’s not true,” Dad says, but his voice lacks conviction. “I wanted what was best for you.”
“No, you wanted what was best for your ego.” The truth flows from me now, unstoppable. “Every goal I scored, every win, every milestone—they were yours, not mine. You’ve been playing through me since I was eight years old.”
Dad’s face crumples, decades of carefully constructed justification collapsing under the weight of truth.
For the first time in my life, I see my father as he really is—not the demanding coach, not the overbearing critic, but a man haunted by his own perceived failures, trying desperately to rewrite history through his son.
“I never meant...” he starts, then stops, staring down at his hands. “I just wanted you to have the chances I didn’t.”
“I know,” I say, the anger draining away, leaving only a tired clarity. “But it has to be my choice now. My career. My game. My life.”
The server approaches with menus, senses the tension, and retreats hastily. None of us seems to notice or care.
“Is this all because of your bad situation?” Dad says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what pushed you to be too aggressive? And get hurt?”
I don’t answer immediately; the question hits too close to the very thing I’ve been avoiding. Had I gone too hard because a part of me needs to reconcile the shit I’m going through? Or was it to live up to the Brooks Kingston Dad wants me to be?
“I went too hard that day,” I say finally. “That’s on me and what I’m dealing with. But maybe I wouldn’t have felt so much pressure if I hadn’t spent my whole life trying to prove myself to you.”
Mom reaches across the table, taking both our hands in hers. “It’s not too late,” she says softly. “For either of you.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of decades of misunderstanding and misdirected ambition settling between us. Then, to my surprise, Dad nods slowly.
“You’re right,” he admits, the words clearly difficult for him. “I’ve been... too involved. Too invested in outcomes rather than your happiness.”
It’s not a full apology, not yet, but it’s more self-awareness than I’ve ever heard from Robert Kingston the Second. A start.
As we finally order our meals, the conversation shifts to safer topics—Mom’s garden, Dad’s golf game, neutral territory where we can find our footing again. But as we’re waiting for the check, I find the courage to say what needs to be said.
“I love hockey, Dad,” I tell him, my voice quiet but firm. “Always have. But I need to play it my way, for me. Not for you, not for scouts or coaches or contracts. Not to try to resolve my impossible situation. But for me.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once, a gesture that contains more acceptance than he’s ever offered before. “Your way,” he echoes. “I’ll work on that.”
It’s not a revolution. It’s not even a resolution. But as we walk out of the restaurant into the cool Boise night, it feels like a first step toward something healthier.
And as I drive back to my house, alone with my thoughts, I realize that if I could finally find the courage to confront my father after all these years, maybe I can find the courage to tell Sydney the whole truth too?
But it’s too late. She’s about to build a new life in LA that has no place for a complicated hockey player with a ghastly secret and a heart full of regret.