Page 105 of King of the Crease

I manage a smile and move closer. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No. I’m not up for festivities tonight.”

I pull a chair beside the bed and sit. Up close, the changes are impossible to ignore—the hollowed cheeks, the gray tint beneath his skin. The man who once filled every room now seems swallowed by it.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

“I visited Saint Brigid’s today,” I say finally. “Got my butt whooped in hockey.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “You playing hockey? Parliament is scandalized.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “I think I was the worst goalie in Ardenian history.”

A quiet moment lands between us. I straighten in my chair, forcing myself into the speech I rehearsed all evening.

“Father…I’ve been thinking.” My hands clasp together. “About the future. About Ardenia.”

He watches me carefully.

“I want to be king,” I continue. “I wish to retract my renouncement of rights. These are our people, and I will do right by them. I am ready to step into this role, when the time comes. Being king requires many responsibilities, but marrying a woman is not one of them.” I keep my jaw tight, staying strong. He doesn’t react. “And, if that means I must remain single, then I am ready to make that sacrifice for the country I love. There are still ways for me to produce an heir. Modern medicine is quite astounding.”

The rise and fall of his chest continues its steady rhythm. Silence stretches between us.

I expect outrage. Bellowing fury about making a mockery of the crown. About responsibility.

Instead, my father closes his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice trembles.

“As I lie here,” he says slowly, “I find my fears have changed.”

I frown. “Father?”

“It isn’t proper planning for a king and queen to only have one child. You have the heir, and then you have the spare. We tried, of course, but nature had other plans. That, understandably, put a lot of pressure on you.” He breaks into a harsh cough. I pat his back, offer him water.

“I once feared Ardenia without an heir. Without stability. Without continuity. But now…” His gaze shifts to me. “That is not what keeps me awake.”

He sits up, putting us eye level.

“My greatest fear,” he says, “is leaving this earth knowing my son is miserable and hates me.”

The words knock the air from my lungs.

“I don’t hate you,” I say quickly.

He gives a faint, sad smile. “No. But you have been unhappy for a very long time.”

I don’t know how to answer that. The vindication I thought I would find from that admission isn’t here, only more sadness.

He looks toward the ceiling, gathering strength.

“I was so determined to be a good king,” he continues. “Your grandfather taught me that the crown must come before everything. Before comfort. Before desire. Before family.”

His hand shifts weakly against the blanket.

“I believed sacrifice made me noble.” His voice softens. “But somewhere along the way, I stopped being a good father.”

“That’s not⁠—”

“It is,” he says gently. “I saw you with the other children. You were always…different. Your mother commented on it once. She found it delightful. I told her to never mention it again. Rather than face the truth, I chose to ignore it in the hopes it would go away as you got older.”