“You know, Dad doesn’t care if you make it to the PWHL,” he says, softer this time. A metallic taste floods my tongue as I chew on the inside of my cheek.
“I know.”
My hand glides over the top of Pumpkin’s soft fur, and she lets out a little sound of contentment as she melts into me.
“Then why do you act like he does?”
When Avery asks you a question, it’s never to corner you. He’s not being malicious, or even passive-aggressive—though sometimes it feels that way. He just genuinely wants to understand why things are the way they are. Which is funny,because he already seems to understand things better than most. My dad sips from his mug of eggnog, head tilted as he stares at his trophies.
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”
Avery’s hand rests on my shoulder. It’s quick but warm, and he scrunches his brow at me as he pulls it back.
“You say that like it’s new.”
My brows pinch. “What?”
“You’ve been saying there’s something wrong with you since, like, eighth grade when you stopped letting Dad come to your games.”
My stomach tightens. My fingers twitch against Pumpkin’s fur.
“That’s not the same thing,” I mutter, my heart beginning to pound.
“Isn’t it?” he challenges. “You keep acting like this stuff is a mystery. Like no one’s figured you out yet. But you’ve been assessed. Imposter syndrome doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.” He pauses, long enough for me to feel the lump in my throat harden. “Also, you have a therapist. Who isveryworried about you, by the way. If you’re going to make me your emergency contact, at least pick up the phone when she calls. It’s been three months now. It’s like you’re determined to be miserable.”
His words sink into the pit of my stomach. Growing up, his candor always irritated me. He never bothered to sweeten his words. He just served them raw, no sugar to soften the taste. But over time, I’ve come to appreciate it. To love the sour twang, because even if it’s not what I want to hear, or what I want to acknowledge, it is the truth.
Maybe that’s what I like about Darcy so much. She doesn’t occupy herself with artificial sweeteners. She just tells it like it is.
“Have you told Mom and Dad that I haven’t been going?” I ask hesitantly, my voice embarrassingly small. There’s something hard and swelling, weighing over my vocal chords, tugging them down. He shakes his head.
“No, but if you keep ghosting her I will.”
I smile briefly. “Thanks.”
He just nods.
We’re quiet for a beat, but of course, I never let the silence sit too long. Not unless it’s with Darcy.
“Do you think he really misses it?” I ask. Avery hitches a shoulder.
“Yeah,” he responds. “I think he does. But there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it.”
I nod, sucking my cheek back between my teeth. “Yeah. I mean, Mom was practically a single parent. Your diagnosis is probably the reason we don’t have daddy issues,” I joke. Avery doesn’t get it. His brows furrow, and he looks at me, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Because if you didn’t,” I explain, “Dad probably would’ve played until he was like, sixty, and we would’ve never seen him.”
I expect the crease between Avery’s brows to smooth out, which is what normally happens when I explain a joke he didn’t catch. Instead, it deepens, and his head tips to the side.
“Wait, you think dad quit hockey because I got diagnosed with autism?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I hitch a nonchalant shoulder. “The same summer you got diagnosed, that’s when he quit.”
Avery’s hooded eyes narrow, and a chill shoots through my chest. “Peyton, Dad didn’t quit hockey.”
I blink. Then I blink again. Then again. A confused laugh escapes me.
