Page 115 of Game Misconduct

I have Bex by my side. What if I end up taking from her, upending the careful balance we have? What if I hurt her?

I don’t want to. I’d rather take all that pain and suffering on myself. But…

Fred shuffles toward me. “I heard you got injured. How are you doing?”

Fuck him. Fuck him for making me sympathize with the man who single-handedly tried to ruin my life. Fuck him for showing up when I’m broken and vulnerable.

He doesn’t actually care. He probably wants a story he can sell to the press. And yes, it’s shitty that I have to consider all the possible ulterior motives. He’s never cared about me before, only what I can do for him.

Not anymore.

I slip my phone from my pocket and pull up my contacts. With a few taps of the screen, I block his contact, once and for all.

He’s still standing before me, looking up at me expectantly.

I used to look up to him. I used to care about him. And then he threw it all away. He threw me away. And I let him.

Not now. Not anymore.

“You don’t get a redemption arc. I don’t have to be part of your story,” I snap. “Go to rehab, or drink yourself dead. I don’t fucking care. You are nothing to me. You don’t have any power over me.”

And with a burst of clarity, I realize… he doesn’t.

Growing up with a drunk for a father, I never knew which side of him I’d get. Five-beers Dad, jovial and fun to be around; or six-beers Dad, bitterly caustic and cruel. Make a mess of himself at hockey practice, or supportive cheerleader in the stands. Angry and paranoid, or World’s Best Dad.

There was never a way to predict.

But I’m not that scared little kid anymore. Elsy always says family are the people we choose to keep in our lives. The people we choose to love.

This man may be my father, but he’s not my dad. That ship sailed long ago.

He can need help, but I don’t have to be the one to help him. I can acknowledge he has a disease while holding firm to the boundaries that protect me from being caught in the shitstorm.

I turn on my heel, stalking back into the practice facility.

And then I stop short.

Because in the threshold is Bex, staring at me with horror on her face.

Fuck. I fucked this up, too.

My steps slow as I approach. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, my redheaded beauty pulls me into a rib-bruising hug.

Frozen, I don’t know what to do. My arms hang limp by my sides as she embraces me, rocking me from side to side.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” she murmurs into my ear.

And that’s what breaks the dam. Tears fill my eyes, grief over the loss of my mother, over losing my father. The innocent child subjected to him. The pain of the last fifteen years, always hoping he’ll stay sober. The dread of that eventual phone call, telling me he’s finally gone.

Wrapping my arms around Bex, I bury my face in her hair. Her scent floods my nose, calming me faster than any pharmaceutical aide.

“So proud,” she repeats.

I choke back a cry, the sound trapped in my throat.

When she pulls back, her hand finds mine. The simple touch of her palm to mine slows my racing heart.

“It’ll be okay.” Her other hand lifts to cup my cheek, and I lower my head to kiss her.

She doesn’t mean it as a platitude. No, this is a promise.

Whether she knows it or not, being with her has given me the strength to change my future. To prune a toxic limb to allow the rest of me to grow.

“I love you.”

My lips find hers again. Another truth. Another promise.

“I love you, and I support you,” I continue. “Thank you for supporting me.”

Bex’s thumb traces over the bridge of my nose. “You make it easy.”