“I have six months. Six months to show the scouts I’m worth a first-round pick. Six months to prove I’m Beaumont legacy material. I can make it six months.”
“And then what? You get drafted, go to training camp, and your shoulder gives out in the first week?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
Carter shakes his head. “You’re being stupid.”
“I’m being strategic. There’s a difference.”
“No, there’s not. Strategic would be getting treatment now, healing properly, and coming back stronger. This is just… this is self-destruction with a plan.”
He’s not wrong. But he understands the pressure. Carter’s good, legacy good. He dropped everything for his girl, but my father the family it’s different.
My dad who played twelve years in the NHL, a brother currently in his fourth season with the Bruins, an entire family history of excellence breathing down his neck.
If I fail, I’m not just failing myself. I’m failing the Beaumont name.
“I’ve got this,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “Trust me.”
Carter looks at me for a long moment, then stands. “Your funeral. But when this blows up in your face, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He walks away, and I’m left alone with my shoulder, my secrets, and the growing certainty that he’s absolutely right.
I skip the team dinner at Morrison’s. Make some excuse about a paper due, which isn’t even a lie, I do have a paper due, I’m just not going to write it. My Sports Psychology class can wait. Everything can wait.
Instead, I go back to my apartment, a small one-bedroom off campus that I share with no one. Most of the team lives in the hockey house or in campus apartments with roommates. But I need space. Need privacy. Need somewhere I can collapse without an audience.
I ice my shoulder for twenty minutes, take three ibuprofen even though I’m not supposed to take more than two, and stare at the ceiling while waiting for the pain to dull to manageable levels.
My phone buzzes. Text from my father.
Dad
Watched game tape from last week. Your backchecking is sloppy. Your shot selection is questionable. Call me tonight. We need to discuss your performance.
I don’t respond. Haven’t called him in three weeks. Every conversation is the same, criticism dressed up as coaching, disappointment wrapped in expectations I can never quite meet.
Jackson
Dad’s pissed you’re not calling him back. What’s going on?
I stare at the message. Jackson Beaumont, four years in the NHL, living the dream that’s supposed to be mine. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to be the younger brother, always chasing, never quite catching up.
Ryder.
Nothing’s going on. Just busy with school and hockey.
Jackson
Bullshit. I know you. You’re avoiding him which means something’s wrong. Is it the shoulder?
My breath catches. How does he know?
Ryder
What shoulder?
Jackson
