“Doctors.” He says it like a curse. “Doctors don’t understand what it takes to play at this level. You need to push through pain, not baby yourself.”
“Pushing through pain is what caused this in the first place.” I try to argue with him.
“No. Weakness caused this. Lack of discipline. If you’d been maintaining your body properly?—”
“I was maintaining. I was training. I was doing everything right and my body still broke down.”
“Because you’re not as strong as you think you are. The Beaumont legacy requires?—”
“I know what it requires,” I snap. “You remind me every chance you get. Play through pain. Never show weakness. Sacrifice everything for the game. I get it, Dad. I’ve always gotten it.”
“Then why are you sitting here with your arm in a sling instead of on the ice?”
“Because I have a grade two AC separation and a partially torn rotator cuff, and if I keep playing, I’ll tear it completely and destroy any chance at a professional career.”
“Or you’ll prove you’re tough enough to overcome adversity.”
“That’s not how injuries work.” I whisper, but he still heard me.
“That’s exactly how they work in professional hockey. The scouts aren’t looking for players who fall apart at the first sign of trouble.”
Maya stands up suddenly. “With respect, Mr. Beaumont, that’s terrible advice.”
My father looks at her like he’s just noticing she exists. “Who are you?”
“Maya Lynch. I’m a friend of Ryder’s and I’m also someone who nearly destroyed themselves trying to meet impossible expectations, so I know exactly what you’re asking him to do.”
“This is a private family conversation?—”
“Then have one. Have a conversation where you actually care about your son’s wellbeing instead of your legacy. Have a conversation where you ask how he’s feeling instead of immediately criticizing him. Have a conversation where you’re his father instead of his coach.”
The room goes silent.
My father’s face darkens. “I don’t need advice from some?—”
“Stop.” I stand, moving between them. “Maya’s right. You flew here to assess the situation, fine. The situation is that I’m injured and need time to heal. You can either support that or leave.”
“Support you quitting?”
“Support me recovering so I have a career at all.”
We stare at each other, the weight of three generations of Beaumont expectations pressing down on this moment.
“Your brother didn’t quit when he was injured,” my father says finally.
“Jackson had a broken finger. I have a partially torn rotator cuff. It’s not comparable.”
“It’s always comparable. Pain is pain. Either you push through it or you don’t.”
“And what happens when pushing through it causes permanent damage? When I can’t play at all because I destroyed my shoulder trying to prove I’m tough enough?”
“Then you weren’t meant for this level anyway.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I always knew what my father wanted from me, but I also thought that maybe he would be a little more understanding.
“Get out,” I say quietly.
“What?”
