But I never do. Because despite everything, they're still my parents. And some pathetic part of me still hopes that one day, they'll reach out and want to make amends.
The sitcom ends, replaced by local news. I finally find the strength to hit the power button on the remote. The screen goes black, leaving the room dim except for the street light filtering through my blinds.
Tomorrow will be better. My fever's already lower than it was this morning. Another day of rest, and I'll be back at practice, ready to get back to it.
Because at the end of the day, that's all I can do. Keep playing. Keep trying. Keep sending money to parents who don't care and wanting a woman I can't have. Keep pretending that the emptiness inside me is just temporary.
I pull the blanket tighter, shivering despite the heat radiating from my skin. Sleep tugs at me, promising a few hours of escape from the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with this illness.
The locker room buzzes with post-practice chatter, guys peeling off sweat-soaked gear and giving each other endless shit about the usual topics.
I feel good again after that brutal flu—no more fever, no more feeling like my lungs are full of broken glass. But my stomach's tied in knots that have nothing to do with being sick. I've rehearsed what I'm going to say to McCoy a dozen times, but the words still feel clunky in my head, foreign and uncomfortable.
Practice went well today. Coach ran us through new power play formations, and I nailed every pass, every shot. Being sidelined for those three days made me hungry for the ice in a way I haven't felt in awhile. Maybe it's the contrast with how shitty I felt last week, or maybe it's something else—something shifting inside me.
McCoy stands by his stall, carefully taping a stick blade with the precision of a surgeon. His captain's jersey hangs behind him. He's been with the Blades for forever, respected by everyone from the rookies to the veterans. The kind of player who leads by example, not by running his mouth.
The exact opposite of me, in other words.
I take a deep breath and cross the room, dodging discarded shin pads and equipment bags.
"Hey, McCoy. Got a minute?"
He glances up, surprise flickering across his face. "Sure, Barnesy. What's up?"
"I wanted to apologize," I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. "For the fighting. The penalties. All the shit that's cost the team over the past months."
McCoy's hands go still on the stick. The surprise on his face deepens to something like shock. "Okay..."
"I know I've been a liability," I continue, the words coming easier now that I've started. "And I want you to know I'm working on it. For real this time. Not just saying it."
He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sets down the stick and turns to face me fully.
"That's... unexpected." His voice is neutral, like he’s not sure if I’m just fucking around with him.
"I'm tired of being the problem," I say simply. "I want to be part of the solution for once."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I appreciate that, Barnes. And for what it's worth, I've noticed the changes. Coming early to practice. Staying late to work with Tucker on his shot. That's leadership stuff."
Something warm blooms in me. Not pride exactly—more like relief. Like maybe I'm not completely fucking this up after all.
"Thanks," I say, feeling awkward now that the hard part is over. "That's... yeah. Thanks."
McCoy picks up his stick again, but his eyes stay on me. "Keep it up, Barnes. This team needs your talent."
I nod and take a step back. "I will."
"And Barnes? It’s good to have you back. That Jets game was fucking painful to play without you."
I smile at him and turn to grab my stuff. I’ve got fifteen minutes to get to my therapy session.
I arrive with a minute to spare and I’m ushered into Dr. Ballard’s office.
Dr. Ballard sits across from me in a leather chair. His office smells like old books and coffee, with weird abstract paintings on the walls. He's older than I expected from our phone consultation—mid-sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that make his eyes look slightly too large for his face.
"So, Nate," he says, consulting his notes. "Why don't you tell me what brings you here today?"
I stare at the pattern on the rug between us—something Persian and complicated. The therapy session was my idea. No team mandate. No Coach Martinez ultimatum. Just me, finally admitting to myself that I need help that goes beyond sports psychology.
