TYLER
My father making “dropping by” on his way home from New Jersey is setting off all kinds of alarm bells in my brain. Ever since he texted this morning to tell me, I’ve been in a tailspin.
It doesn’t help that I’ve lost the last four games in a row, starting with the one Seraphina attended. The EnduraFuel tournament this weekend and going into that on a losing streak is one of the worst possible scenarios.
“How many left?” I grunt, trying to ignore the searing fatigue throughout my abs. I’m so distracted, I can’t even count my fucking sit-ups today.
“Two more,” Mark urges.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode in my chest. To say I’ve been overdoing coffee would be an understatement. But without it, I would be horizontal. I’ve been trying to get extra sleep to compensate for all the stress, and the irony is I’m sleeping less than ever. It’s turned into a vicious cycle of caffeine and fatigue that I can’t seem to break.
A knock at the training room door interrupts us, and the door beeps as someone enters the keycode. When my father steps inside, there’s something across his face I can’t read—or maybe I don’t want to, because then I’d have to admit it’s bad.
“Can I talk to Mark for a second, son?”
They step out into the hallway and have a hushed discussion that drags on for longer than I expect. I make a halfhearted attempt to eavesdrop, but their voices are low, and the metal door is thick. It’s impossible to make out what they’re saying.
Breath heavy, I reach for my phone, navigating back into the text Seraphina sent me earlier today.
Tinker Bell: Question 40: Worst fear?
It’s a little too on the nose for me to comfortably answer at the moment. Worst fear? I’m going to go with disappointing everyone in an epic fashion, wasting my parents’ time and money and nuking my career before it starts. Oh, wait. That’s already happening.
Panic winds around my body like a rope, tightening its hold until it feels like my ribs might crack. It’s easier to maintain where you are than to make a comeback if you fall. I’m close to falling, if not already there.
The door reopens, and my father enters, but Mark doesn’t rejoin us. “What’s up?” I grab my water bottle and drain the rest of it.
Dad slips off his navy suit jacket and drapes it over the back of a nearby chair, then lowers to sit in it. His expression tells me we’re in parent mode right now, ramping up my level of anxiety to a record high.
“Normally, I wouldn’t distract you during a weekend like this, but I want you to hear the news from me before it breaks.”
My mouth turns drier than the Sahara. “What news?” “New York picked up Caleb Brown.”
I glance around the training room, because there’s a ninety-five percent chance I am actually going to vomit. “You’re kidding.”
Pushing to stand, I start doing laps. My heart is racing, my mind is going even faster.
This is happening. It’s actually happening. He’s taking my spot on the depth chart.
“Son.” He stands in my path, and I come to a halt. “I’m not trying to upset you. But it’s all over social media. I didn’t want you to see it for yourself or hear it from a friend. We can talk this out. Your career is going to be just fine.”
“How do you know that? Do you have a crystal ball? ‘Cause I could sure fucking use one.”
“Tyler.” My father claps me on the arm, then drops his hand. His shoulders rise, and he heaves the heaviest sigh I’ve ever heard. “Let’s have a chat. And not just about hockey.”
“What do you mean?” Reluctantly, I let him steer me to sit in the green plastic next to the one he was sitting in, and he reclaims the chair beside it.
“I’ve been pushing you too hard. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. This isn’t healthy. When you were younger, you were always so
driven and I wanted to encourage it, but I’ve done you a disservice in the process.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, picking up my water bottle. It’s empty. Leaning over, I steal a bottle of mixed berry EnduraFuel from the nearby minifridge. In a few swallows, I drain half and set it aside.
“You’re not, and it’s my fault. I can absolutely own that. But now that I see the trajectory this is taking, I have to intervene and try to help you as your father. Not as your agent, and not as your career advisor.” He pauses, and his dark gray eyes probe mine. “What’s going on in your personal life?”
“Nothing,” I say automatically.
Eyes on the prize. Hockey. Training. School.
My chest aches because I know those pieces aren’t enough on their own.
“Are you seeing someone?”
A vise wraps around my neck. Mark must’ve mentioned something to him.
“Yes,” I say. “No. I don’t know.” “Tyler—”
“Look, Dad. I appreciate all the concern and I understand where you’re coming from. I even see your point. I don’t disagree with you, but I need to survive this EnduraFuel event first. Can you let me do that? My bandwidth is fully maxed. I can’t take on anything additional, even if it’s supposed to help me in the long run. Let me focus on the invitational, and I promise you we can figure out this work-life balance and mental health stuff later.”
My father studies me. “It’s a deal, but we’re not dropping this.” “I know. I just need to get through this weekend.”
