11. Colin
COLIN
He texted this morning saying he was "in the area" and wanted to "catch up," which is Dad code for "I have opinions about your life choices and I'm going to share them whether you want to hear them or not."
The thing is, I've been in a really good mood lately. Hockey's going well, my grades are decent, and there's this whole situation with Savannah that makes me smile every time I think about it.
So of course Dad has to show up and potentially ruin everything.
Tyler tried to give me a pep talk earlier, but it basically consisted of "just don't let him get in your head," which is easier said than done when the person trying to get in your head raised you.
Dad walks through the front door at exactly 7 PM because he's never been late for anything in his life. He's wearing his work clothes and his serious expression, which means this isn't going to be a fun conversation.
"Colin," he says, like we're business associates instead of family.
"Hey, Dad."
"How about we talk outside? Get some air."
Translation: he doesn't want other people overhearing whatever lecture he's about to give me.
We walk out behind the dorm building where there's a little courtyard with benches. Dad sits down and gestures for me to join him, but I stay standing because sitting feels too much like getting trapped.
"So," he says. "How are things going?"
"Good. Really good, actually."
"Hockey?"
"Hockey's great. I'm on the third line now, getting decent ice time."
"That's progress."
"Yeah, it is."
"And classes?"
"Fine. Passing everything."
"Just passing?"
"Well, I mean, I'm doing better than just passing. But they're not easy."
"They're not supposed to be easy. They're supposed to be manageable while you focus on hockey."
And there it is. The thing I was dreading.
"Dad, I am focusing on hockey."
"Are you? Because from what I hear, you're spending a lot of time on other activities."
"What other activities?"
"Social activities. Study groups. Tutoring."
Oh fuck. He knows about Savannah.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Colin, I called Coach Mac yesterday."
"You what?"
"I wanted to check in on how you're adjusting. He mentioned that his daughter has been helping you with academics."
"Savannah's been tutoring me in Biology. That's it."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"So you're not spending time together outside of tutoring?"
I want to lie, but Dad has this way of finding out the truth anyway. Plus, I'm eighteen fucking years old. I shouldn't have to lie about who I spend time with.
"We hang out sometimes," I say.
"How often is sometimes?"
"I don't know. We get coffee, we study together, we talk after her trainer stuff."
"So every day."
"Not every day."
"Most days."
"Maybe."
Dad runs his hand through his hair, which he only does when he's frustrated.
"Colin, we need to talk about priorities."
"My priorities are fine."
"Are they? Because it sounds like you're getting distracted."
"By what?"
"By a girl. By social activities. By things that aren't hockey."
"Dad, I'm doing well at hockey. Coach moved me up a line."
"You're doing okay at hockey. There's a difference."
"Okay isn't good enough?"
"Not if you want to reach your potential."
"What if my potential includes more than just hockey?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I know I should drop it. I know I should just nod and agree and let him think he's gotten through to me. But I'm tired of pretending that his vision for my life is the only one that matters.
"It means maybe I want to be good at other things too. Maybe I want to have friends and do well in school and have a life outside of hockey."
"Colin, you can have all those things later. Right now, you need to focus on the opportunity in front of you."
"What opportunity?"
"The opportunity to play Division III hockey at a high level. To maybe transfer to a bigger program. To keep your options open for after college."
"My options are open. That's why I chose college instead of juniors, remember?"
"Your options are only open if you're successful at hockey. If you're average, you're just another college graduate with a business degree."
"What's wrong with being a college graduate with a business degree?"
"Nothing's wrong with it. But it's not what you're capable of."
"How do you know what I'm capable of?"
"Because I'm your father. I've been watching you play hockey for ten years."
"And in those ten years, when have I been happiest?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"A real question. When have I been happiest playing hockey?"
Dad thinks about this for a moment.
"Probably when you were younger. Twelve, thirteen years old."
"And why do you think that was?"
"Because you were dominating your age group."
"No, Dad. Because I was having fun. Because hockey was something I loved, not something I felt pressured to be perfect at."
"You can't stay twelve years old forever, Colin."
"I know that. But I can try to remember why I fell in love with hockey in the first place."
"And you think this girl is helping you remember that?"
"Her name is Savannah. And yeah, actually, she is."
"How?"
"Because she reminds me that I'm more than just a hockey player. That I can be good at hockey and also be good at other things."
"Colin, you don't understand how competitive it is at this level."
"I think I have a pretty good idea."
"Do you? Because while you're having coffee dates and study sessions, other guys are in the gym. Other guys are watching film. Other guys are doing everything they can to get ahead."
"Other guys are also burning out and hating hockey by the time they're twenty."
"Some of them, maybe. But the ones who make it are the ones who sacrifice everything else."
"What if I don't want to sacrifice everything else?"
"Then you won't make it."
"Make it to what? The NHL? Dad, do you know how many Division III hockey players make it to the NHL?"
"Some do."
"Like, statistically none. This isn't a stepping stone to professional hockey. It's college hockey. For fun. While getting an education."
"It doesn't have to be just for fun."
"What if I want it to be just for fun?"
Dad stares at me like I just told him I want to become a professional clown.
"I don't understand that," he says.
"I know."
"Colin, I played professional hockey. I know what it takes."
"You played three years in the ECHL before you got hurt. That's not the NHL."
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately know I've gone too far. Dad's face goes white, then red.
"Is that what you think of my career?"
"Dad, I didn't mean?—"
"That it doesn't count because it wasn't the NHL?"
"No, that's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"I meant that your path isn't necessarily my path."
"My path was to work as hard as I possibly could and see how far it took me."
"And my path might be to work hard but also have a life outside of hockey."
"That's not a path. That's giving up."
"It's not giving up. It's choosing balance."
"Balance is what people choose when they're not good enough to be great."
"Maybe I don't want to be great. Maybe I just want to be happy."
"You can't be happy if you don't reach your potential."
"How do you know what my potential is?"
"Because I've been watching you your entire life."
"And I've been living my entire life. Maybe I know myself better than you think I do."
We're both getting louder now, and I notice a couple of students walking by who are definitely listening to our conversation.
"Colin," Dad says, lowering his voice. "I'm trying to help you."
"I know you are. But maybe your help isn't what I need right now."
"Then what do you need?"
"I need you to trust that I can make good decisions about my own life."
"Can you?"
"I think so."
"Even when those decisions involve distractions?"
"Savannah's not a distraction."
"Any time spent not focused on hockey is a distraction."
"That's not true."
"It is true. And the sooner you accept that, the better off you'll be."
"Better off how?"
"Better off in terms of reaching your goals."
"What if my goals are different from what you think they should be?"
"Then your goals aren't ambitious enough."
I look at my father sitting on this bench, and I realize that we're never going to agree on this. He sees hockey as the only thing that matters, and I see it as one of several things that matter.
"Dad, I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"Do you want me to be successful, or do you want me to live the career you never got to have?"
"That's not fair."
"It's a fair question."
"I want you to be successful."
"At hockey."
"At whatever you put your mind to."
"But you think I should put my mind to hockey."
"I think you should put your mind to the thing you're most talented at."
"What if I'm talented at multiple things?"
"Then you focus on the thing with the most potential."
"According to who?"
"According to reality."
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I can tell Dad is trying to figure out how to convince me he's right.
"Colin," he says finally. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say that you'll support my decisions even if they're not the decisions you would make."
"Even if those decisions limit your potential?"
"Even if those decisions prioritize my happiness over some theoretical potential that might not even exist."
Dad looks at me for a long time, and I can see him struggling with something.
"I can't promise that," he says.
"Why not?"
"Because watching you settle for less than you're capable of would kill me."
"And watching you try to control my life is killing me."
"I'm not trying to control your life."
"You're trying to control my priorities."
"I'm trying to help you make smart choices."
"What if my smart choices don't match your smart choices?"
"Then one of us is wrong."
"Or we just have different definitions of smart."
"Maybe."
Dad stands up, and I can tell he's done with this conversation.
"I need to drive back tonight," he says.
"Okay."
"Think about what I said."
"I will if you think about what I said."
"Deal."
He gives me a hug that feels more like an obligation than affection, and then he's walking back to his car.
I sit on the bench for a while after he leaves, trying to process what just happened. Part of me feels bad for being so confrontational, but part of me feels like I finally stood up for myself.
My phone buzzes with a text from Savannah.
Savannah:
How did it go with your dad?
Me:
Could have gone better.
Savannah:
Want to talk about it?
Me:
Not really. Want to get ice cream and pretend my family is normal?
Savannah:
Ice cream sounds perfect.
Me:
Meet you at the dining hall in 20?
Savannah:
See you there.
As I'm walking back to my dorm to grab my student ID, I realize that Dad's probably right about one thing: I am spending a lot of time on things that aren't hockey.
But I'm also happier than I've been in months.
And maybe that's worth something too.