CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Cole
I sit in my SUV for way too fucking long, staring at the house I swore I’d never come back to.
Funny how life works.
The porch light’s on even though the sun has hours left until it sets. Same old warped screen door with a hole in the bottom right. Same Adirondack chair with the broken arm that has two different colors.
Same goddamn house.
Same fucking pit in my stomach that I had growing up here.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, my tremor fucking constant right now.
Breathe.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
DUBLIN: Just making sure you’re okay.
I stare at the text for a second, my chest easing in a way I’m still trying to understand, before typing back.
ME: Needed to take care of some things. I’ll be home later.
Home. Her. My safe place.
Today is the first day I stop allowing him to have any kind of agency in my life.
I set my phone back in the cupholder and look back at the house. At the driveway. At Dad’s old pickup truck parked crooked like always. Mom’s car parked beside it because the garage is too full of all the football training gear he refuses to get rid of.
Apparently, she’s back with him now. For how long, who knows, but nothing fucking changes, does it?
Fuck that. It changes now. It changes with what I’m about to do.
Brave words from a grown man sitting here like a little boy still traumatized by the man and the memories inside those walls.
But I’m here, aren’t I?
And they’re both home.
Part of me wishes they weren’t. The other part knows if I leave now, I’ll never come back.
And I’m so fucking tired. Of the pressure. Of hearing his voice in my head every time I miss a throw. Of feeling like a kid desperate for approval every time I fail.
I can still see it all. Dad pacing after games. Mom standing silently at the sink pretending not to listen. Film running on the television while he tore apart every mistake I made, because winning wasn’t enough unless I played perfectly.
You think scouts care about second place?
No son of mine is going to be soft.
Again.
Again.
Again.
There were good moments too. That’s the mindfuck of it. Fishing trips. Backyard barbecues. Him teaching me how to throw a spiral before my hands were big enough to grip the ball right.
But every good memory comes with a condition attached to it. Love, approval, worth . . . all needing to be earned.
I scrub a hand over my face and open the door before I change my mind.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk toward the house, and every step feels heavier than the last. By the time I reach the porch, my pulse is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I desperately want to turn around.
I knock.
There’s shuffling inside and then the door swings open. My mom freezes.
“Cole?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Honey, what are you doing here?”
She looks older than the last time I saw her. Smaller somehow too.
“I could ask the same of you,” I say, the disappointment in my voice causing her to blanche.
“It’s not as easy as—”
“I need to talk to Dad,” I say, not wanting to hear the same excuses I’ve heard her make before. The same ones I’ve probably made myself.
But that stops here. That stops now.
I can’t help her when she doesn’t want to be helped. Doc Hawley’s patience with me unknowingly taught me that.
“Dad?” I repeat before I lose my courage.
Concern flickers instantly across her face. Not confusion. Concern. Which tells me she already knows why I’m here. Or maybe she’s always known this was coming.
“Uh . . .” She glances over her shoulder. “Okay.”
She steps aside and lets me in. The smells hit me first—stale coffee and cheap laundry detergent. That hasn’t changed. Neither has what it looks like. The recliner has been moved but is still the same. Family photos are on the wall above it, like proof that we’re some happy fucking family.
I look up and my dad’s standing in the hallway, his face scrunching as he looks at me. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”
Fucking hell.
“It’s a bye week. I have the day off, but I can manage my own schedule, thanks,” I say as he raises his eyebrows. “I came to talk.”
“About?” he asks.
“Maybe I should—”
“No, Mom. You should stay.”
Dad scoffs. “Jesus Christ. What is this? An intervention or some shit?”
“No,” I say evenly, the trembling of my hand betraying the confidence in my voice. “This is me finally saying something.”
I’m met with silence. My mom wraps her arms around herself. My dad crosses his. Defensively.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Say it.”
I stare at him for a long moment. At the man I spent my whole life trying to impress. Suddenly all I can think of is how fucking exhausting that’s been.
“You screwed me up.” Not a good start, but at least it’s one.
My dad laughs once like I can’t possibly be serious. “Oh, here we go.”
“No. You don’t get to do that,” I snap.
His face transforms immediately from amused to angry. “Show some respect and watch your tone.”
“I will the moment you start respecting me.”
“Get the hell out.” He points to the door, but I don’t move.
“That’d be easier for you if I did, right? But I’m not. I’m not leaving until I say what I drove three hours to say.”
He sighs and leans against the wall. “This is gonna be good. Lay it on me, Cole-y boy.”
“You made everything about my life conditional. Every good thing was because of you. Every bad thing was a punishment because I played bad.”
His jaw clenches. “I pushed you because you had talent.”
“You threatened me.”
“I motivated you.”
“Motivated? How about making me feel like all I ever did was fail and that I wasn’t worth loving?”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” I take a step closer. “Because I’m twenty-four years old and every time I screw up, I hear your voice in my head telling me I’m weak.
Soft. A loser. Then I get the endless fucking texts telling me over and over what a waste of talent and space I am.
That no team should have to put up with my worthless ass. Should I go on because I can?”
My mom’s eyes close briefly. My dad’s face mottles.
“You think you got where you are, Cole-y boy, because people were easy on you?” His words drip with condescension.
“No,” I say. “I got where I am because I worked my ass off.”
“Because I made you.”
“No, because I was terrified of disappointing you,” I shout. My mom winces.
My dad just stares at me like he’s never heard me raise my voice before. Maybe he hasn’t.
“I was a kid.” My voice breaks. “I was just a fucking kid who took every harsh word and punishment you spewed at me simply because I wanted you to love me.”
Pain flickers across my mom’s face. My dad scoffs again but there’s less conviction in it this time.
“You’re being dramatic,” he says, pushing off the wall and walking into the kitchen, dismissing me.
I stare after him. Watch his broad shoulders bend over as he pulls a beer from the fridge. He doesn’t get it. And I also realize that maybe he never will.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t need him to.
“You know what’s really fucked up?” I ask quietly.
He turns, and I watch him lift the beer bottle to his mouth.
“I spent my whole life thinking that if I played well enough, won enough, made enough money, that eventually you’d just .
. . I don’t know. Be proud of me in a way that wasn’t tied to football. ”
He purses his lips and shakes his head. “I am proud of you.”
“No.” I step into the kitchen, uncomfortable as the two of us eat up the small space. “You’re proud of what I do. Not who I am as a man, and I honestly don’t know if you even see the difference.”
I stare at him, jaw clenched, throat burning, and silently plead with him to tell me he does.
He doesn’t say a word.
“I drove out here because I needed to say this out loud and to your face. I needed to get this off my chest so I can move the fuck on.” I glance between the both of them. “I’m done carrying this around for you.”
“Cole,” my mom whispers, almost as if she can feel the finality in my tone.
“No. I mean it.” I look back at my dad. “I’m done needing your approval to feel good enough.”
He snorts. “So, what? You just came here to blame me for your problems?”
I stare at him then shake my head. “No. I came here so I can finally stop blaming myself.”
My words are met with silence. My heart is pounding so hard. But weirdly, my hand isn’t tremoring. Not even a little.
There’s no way this is that easy, but it’s a fucking start.
“I love football,” I say quietly as my mom wipes tears off her cheeks. “But you made me afraid of it too.”
My dad looks away, completely unfazed by my words. And stupidly, his dismissal hurts ten times worse than if he yelled. I’m used to the raised voice. I’m not used to feeling like I no longer exist.
“That’s all I came to say.”
“Cole,” my mom says, the tears falling faster now. “Please—”
Holding a hand up, I move toward her. None of this is really on her, yet she never once tried to stop it. I kiss the top of her head, letting her throw her arms around me briefly, before I pull away.
My dad still hasn’t looked back at me. And it’s actually okay. Surprisingly.
You confront it.
The relationship taught you this pattern.
The person who made you believe you had to be perfect or else there was punishment.
I walk out the door and down the porch steps feeling like I can finally breathe. By the time I climb behind the wheel, my body feels wrung out. Raw but relieved.
I grip the steering wheel and stare out the windshield for a long moment before letting my head fall back against the seat.
Jesus fucking Christ.
My eyes burn, but my chest feels lighter. Not healed. Not triumphant. Not magically better. Just lighter.
He’ll never change. He’ll never accept responsibility.
“So, what? You just came here to blame me for your problems?
He’s incapable of comprehending the damage he’s done, but I’m not. Not anymore. I’m done with giving him space in my life. Giving him agency in my career. Giving him reign on my emotional state.
No more pregame calls. No more post-game critiques. No more fearing he’s somewhere in the stands.
No. Fucking. More.
I scrub a hand over my face and start the engine to head back home.
One down.
One to go.