RYAN
The final buzzer echoes across the rink and the crowd goes wild. The game’s over. We won—6-4. My teammates rush to each other in celebration.
Logan slaps me on the back as he skates by. “Hell yeah! That last pass was a fucking masterpiece.”
Austin’s already looking for the postgame snacks, clearly more concerned about his stomach than the victory, but I can’t blame him. We all earned a good meal after that game.
“You killed it,” Nathan says, slapping me on my back. It’s been less tense between us since the family dinner, and honestly… I missed my friend.
“Thanks, man, you too,” I reply.
He turns and skates over to his family. His mom’s cheering from the stands, his dad pulling him into a hug, and his sister’s there too. I feel a weird kind of twist in my stomach.
I look up at the crowd, searching… for what? I don’t know, but I’m not expecting to see anyone since I?—
I blink, my heart stopping for a split second. No way. What the hell?
But there she is. My mom is in the stands, smiling down at me like she hasn’t in… fuck, years. And it’s not just her—my dad’s there too. Right beside her.
What the hell is going on?
I feel my legs freeze for a moment, my mind scrambling to process it all. I’ve been busting my ass to get their attention for years, and I can’t remember the last time they were at one of my hockey games. And now… now they’re here? For me?
I push through the confusion and start heading toward them.
When I finally reach them, I’m not sure what to expect. A polite nod? An awkward pat on the back? But my mom surprises me. She’s smiling. Like… she’s actually proud.
There’s something else in her eyes, too. A mix of guilt and something close to regret, maybe. Or maybe I’m imagining that part.
“Great game, Ryan,” she says. “You played really well.”
I nod, smiling, my chest fluttering at the words. “Thanks, Mom.” I try to keep my voice even, steady. “I appreciate that.”
My dad stands beside her, hands jammed deep into his coat pockets, his expression unreadable. His eyes meet mine for a brief second before they flick away.
“You looked good out there,” he says. “Smart passes. Solid game.”
I blink, thrown off. It’s the kind of thing he’s said to Connor a million times. But to me? It’s rare. Foreign even.
“Thanks,” I say, though it comes out more like a question than anything else. I don’t know what to do with this version of him.
For a second, none of us says anything. We just stand there in this weird bubble of silence, the noise of the crowd and my teammates’ laughter muffled around us.
Then my mom speaks again. “Connor called us,” she explains and suddenly it makes sense. Because they never once haveattended any of my games at Colton. She swallows before continuing. “He had a talk with us and said he thought we should come watch you. That maybe we hadn’t been… as present as we should’ve been.”
I exhale slowly, blowing out a laugh. “Better late than never, I guess.”
“We didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter,” she says. “That was never the intention.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “That’s how it felt, though,” I admit, wincing the hurt flicker in my mom’s eyes. “Every game, every practice, every win… I kept looking for you. Expecting a call or even a text, but the only thing I got were my failures.”
My dad finally looks at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ve always been driven,” he says, almost like he’s thinking aloud. “I thought… maybe you didn’t want us involved. That you wanted space. You never asked.”
“I didn’t think I needed to,” I say with a shrug. “You didn’t need to be asked for Connor.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Just nods once, solemn. “I’m sorry, son. I got it wrong. I thought pushing you meant I was supporting you. I didn’t realize I was making you feel like you were always second best.”
I swallow hard, because that’s the first time I’ve ever heard my dad admit he might’ve screwed up. The first time he’s actually said sorry.
