Page 83 of Racking Up Penalties
Is everything okay?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to tell him everything, to lean on his strength and share the burden, but this is something I have to do alone. At least for now.
Yeah, I’ll handle it.
I type back, feeling both the weight and the liberation of my impending confession.
“Go change into something acceptable. You look like a peasant.”
I find myself at the foot of the stairs. Climbing them is like ascending into my past, each creak of the polished wood underfoot echoing through the empty hallway above. My childhood bedroom door stands ajar, a sliver of comfort in a house that feels more like a museum dedicated to the Matthews family facade.
I slip inside and close the door behind me, shutting out the party, the noise, the world. The room hasn’t changed much since I was last here. Trophies still gleam on shelves, hockey posters adorn the walls, and the bedspread is the same one I had when I scored my first hat trick.
It’s a shrine of my accomplishments but nothing that says who I really am.
I run my fingers over the trophies, not feeling the pride they’re supposed to inspire. Instead, I feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else. Someone who fits neatly into the mold Dad carved for him.
I plop down on the edge of the bed, the mattress familiar beneath me.
My reflection stares back at me from a framed photo on the desk, smiling, carefree, a ghost of who I once was. Or maybe who I was expected to be. I want to tell that kid everything’s going to be okay, that he’ll find his way. But first, I have to believe it myself.
“Be your own man,” I whisper to the room, to the boy in the picture, to the Ethan who’s about to face his parents and finally say enough is enough. It’s a mantra, a plea, a battle cry.
“Be your own man.”
I rise from the bed and push off the weight of the past. My feet carry me to the closet, its door creaking familiarly as I pull it open. Inside, there’s a small black duffel bag tucked away in the back, hidden beneath old jerseys. I reach for the bag, the fabric cool and soft beneath my fingers. It’s time.
I unzip it and add the stack of cash I’ve been squirreling away from odd jobs and selling things I no longer need—my quiet rebellion against the life they’ve laid out for me. Next, I place a few items inside that I want to keep or I can sell.
With the zipper closed and my lifeline secured, I whip out my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen before tapping out a message.
Can you come get me?
My heart thuds against my ribcage as I add an address and hit send.
I know I left them all worrying. The tears in Tessa’s eyes hurt me to my core. If I have a choice, I’ll never make her cry again.
I descend the stairs, each step deliberate, a rhythm to prepare myself for the impending storm. My hands are fists at my sides, my resolve an armor I’ve only recently learned to wear.
The murmur of conversation grows louder as I reach the bottom step.
I weave through the throng of guests, their laughter and conversations forming a cacophony that seems to buzz louder in my ears with every step I take. Glimpses of familiar faces flicker past—neighbors, business associates of Dad’s, people who’ve watched me grow up but never really saw me.
“Hey, Ethan!” someone calls out, but I can’t place them, can’t summon the will to pretend I do. The smiles they flash are strained, their eyes darting around as if looking for an escape or perhaps something more entertaining than a conversation with me.
“Looking good out there on the ice,” another offers, clapping me on the shoulder as I pass by. I muster a grunt of thanks, knowing it’s not me they care about; it’s the status they think I represent.
The air feels thicker the deeper into the crowd I push, each brush of a hand or pat on the back serving as a reminder of the web of expectations I’m tangled in. It’s suffocating—the noise, the heat, the scent of expensive perfume mixed with roasted turkey.
There they are, my parents. My dad stands like he always does when he’s in his element, shoulders back, hand gesturing emphatically. He’s holding court among a group of well-dressed guests, likely investors or scouts, his voice booming as he dissects player stats with the precision of a surgeon. Beside him, my mom nods, her smile practiced, her eyes scanning the room, perhaps looking for someone more important to engage.
“Potential, that’s what it’s all about,” Dad’s saying, words punctuated by a firm jab of his finger into the palm of his other hand. “You can’t manufacture passion. A player has it, or he doesn’t.”
I edge closer, unnoticed. Mom catches a waiter’s eye and murmurs for a refill on her chardonnay without missing a beat. They’re a well-oiled machine, my parents, playing their roles to perfection.
It takes every ounce of my will not to turn around and escape. Instead, I stand tall, my athletic training steadying my breathing and focusing my mind. This isn’t a game on the ice; this is real life, and I’m done being a pawn in their charade.
I’m a silent shadow lingering at the edge of their circle, my presence unnoticed as laughter and clinking glasses swirl around us. Dad’s voice slices through the hum of conversation, each word a sharp jab to my gut. “His girlfriend? Oh, she’s a sweet girl, but let’s be real, with Ethan’s prospects, it’s clear what she’s really after.”
