Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
After two years in operation, he bought a bunch of land an hour away and built a high-performance camp for kids to train. He brings in his buddies from the league to coach and mentor. Because he is the best husband—according to his wife—Jace built a compound on his property where Avery teaches guitar lessons and holds writing retreats for teenagers who want to become songwriters. It’s wild to think that no one thought they’d be anything after getting pregnant in college, but here they are, proving everyone wrong.
But that’s what my family does. We rise above and kick some major ass.
But in addition to their professional successes, they are all great dads, husbands, uncles, and sons.
For me, two of the best uncles and a dad a guy could ask for.
They are my rocks.
And I sure as hell don’t like it when they are disappointed in me.
I swallow hard.
My gaze moves between the three men, unsure what to do or say. Dad has the most intense green eyes of the trio, which is intimidating to some, but he’s my safe space, so I focus on him. There hasn’t been a moment in my life when my dad wasn’t there. Even when he was on road trips all over the USA, playing in every great hockey arena, he was included in every aspect of my life. He was always on FaceTime, and if he had to miss, my mom recorded our conversations and we’d discuss everything before I went to bed. When he retired and became the coach for the Bellevue Bullies, he still made sure to be there for us. No matter that he had thirty other kids to take care of, Mom, Louis, and I have always been his priority.
“Staring at him isn’t going to get an answer out of him.”
The three men before me don’t even spare my mom a glance. As pathetic as it is for a twenty-four-year-old man to look to his mom for help, I do. She gives me a soft smile then a shrug, as if to say, “Yeah, you did this to yourself.”
And I have.
I was supposed to pick which sport I wanted to focus on, but once again, I can’t make the decision.
Yes, this has been going on for ten years, and I still have no clue what I’m doing.
Football or hockey?
Hockey or football?
Balls or pucks?
Stick or my throwing glove?
Ice or turf?
I don’t know.
And I don’t know why I can’t make the choice.
I’m a second-year super senior because I keep putting off the draft. I’m pretty damn sure if my uncle weren’t the agent he is, teams would have written me off, but somehow, I still have professional offers. I still have teams from both sports wanting me. It’s frustrating not only for them but for me, because choosing my major and then continuing for my master’s in sports ethics was an easy choice. There is so much toxicity and abuse in sports. When my career comes to an end, I want to be the one who enforces the rules of conduct and safety for younger athletes.
I don’t think people realize that the rates of suicide for college athletes are on the rise, and that it stems from not just abuse, but also unrealistic expectations in travel sports and private clubs. Thankfully, I’ve never experienced anything like that, but I have watched my brother go through it. Silently. He never told a soul, but when I found out, I became his voice. Now I want to be the voice and enforcer for those who can’t speak for themselves.
That is, if my uncles and dad don’t kill me dead right here.
As he pinches the bridge of his nose, I am convinced my indecision has aged my dad. Gone is his purely dark hair; it’s now lined with grays along his temples and forehead. His eyes wrinkle at the sides, and I want to say that is from laughing with us, but it may come from squinting at me in disbelief since I can’t seem to make up my mind on my future. I know it’s mine, but my parents are invested. They want what’s best for me, and still, I can’t decide.
His brows furrow, and it’s a toss-up on who caused the deep groove between his eyes. That was either my mom challenging him at every turn…or me.
On an exhale, he says, “Please explain your train of thought.”
I shrug like I’m back to being fourteen. Hell, I feel like it. I know I have their support, I know they love me, but fuck, I feel like a failure. My voice is unsteady as I admit, “I don’t know. I know I said I wanted to focus on hockey, but the thought of not hitting the field has my stomach twisting. I didn’t get the year I wanted last year.”