Page 66 of Shots on Net

“Carter, isn’t it about time we finished with this dream?”

I flinch at the tone. It’s the tone adults use to explain something to children—at once cajoling and derogatory. It’s not the tone you’d use with your adult son. And certainly not if your adult son was Carter, who will most certainly take offense.

“No,” Carter answers, fist clenched around his fork.

“I’ve indulged this fantasy for long enough. I let you play hockey—paid for it, I might add—and now it’s time to join the real world. Enough is enough.” He cuts a hand through the air as he talks, his voice hard. I can practically feel the rage radiating off of Carter; he’s going to bend that fork in half if he grips it any tighter.

“I’ll pay you back,” he says, and his dad sighs.

“The money isn’t the problem.”

Carter makes an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat. “Then what’s the problem? If I fail, I fail, but at least I tried. It’s what I want to do.”

“It’s not about whether or not you’ll succeed. You’re going to graduate and come work for me, as you promised.”

“That wasn’t the deal. I play hockey for SCU while I get my degree and then we revisit the conversation. That was the deal, and this is me revisiting the conversation. Just, listen to me for a second—."

“No,” Mr. Morgan’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. Carter is so still beside me, I don’t think he’s breathing. As though remembering that I’m in the room, Mr. Morgan clears his throat and tries to smile. “Perhaps your friend might take his meal in the kitchen; give us the privacy to have this conversation?”

“His name is Zeke, he’s my boyfriend, not my friend,” Carter says, before I can even move to stand up, “and he can stay. I need him.”

Carter’s dad pulls off his glasses and rubs at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. I try not to look too pleased with myself; below the table, I put my hand on Carter’s knee. I need you, too.

“Can you not listen to me one time? Must you fight me on everything?” His dad asks, exasperated.

“If you wanted obedience, you should have gotten a dog.”

I snort, and then hastily cover it with a cough. Carter helps me with the charade by lightly patting my back. His mom reaches across the table and nudges my water glass toward me. I could almost swear I see a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“We’re not having this conversation, Carter,” Mr. Morgan doubles down, annoyance peeking through the calm veneer. “Hockey is not a career. It’s something you can use to pad your resume. It is not a suitable choice for your future, which is something you would understand if you ever listened to me.”

“You don’t listen to me!” Carter explodes, before closing his eyes and breathing out hard through his nose as though visibly reaching for calm. “I don’t want to work for you, Dad. I don’t want to,” he enunciates each word carefully, voice wavering in anger and frustration. “Doesn’t what I want count for fucking anything?”

“Yes, honey, of course it does,” his mom answers, swiftly. She sends a silently communicative look at her husband, who sighs again. I’m getting sick of the noise. He looks away from the table, staring sightlessly out the dark window. The room is uncomfortably silent, absent of even the clink of silverware; nobody is eating.

“Look, Carter. The bottom line is, I haven’t paid three years of tuition at that school for you to play a game. I did it so you could earn a degree that would be useful in the real world. I understand you want to play hockey; I’d like to play golf all day, but that is a dream and not a reality. Every kid wants to be the football player, or hockey player, or NASCAR driver. The difference is most kids grow out of that and realize it’s time to grow up.”

The sharp inhalation of breath from Carter sounds like knives in his lungs. Before he can say something he regrets, I speak; it’s the first words I’ve said since dinner was served. “It’s not the same thing.”

Everybody looks at me. Mr. Morgan looks shocked by my presence at the table for the second time tonight. I divide my attention between Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, since the words are for them. Carter already knows.

“Perhaps the reason you don’t play golf for a living is because you weren’t good enough to play golf professionally. Carter is good enough to play hockey professionally. His dream is the reality.”

A ringing silence follows. I glance over at Carter to find his gaze already on my face.

“Passions don’t pay bills,” his dad says.

“His will,” I retort, quietly. Another sigh, this one accompanied by the scratch of chair legs across the floor. Carter and I break eye contact and look over at his dad, who has risen to standing.

“You’ve never even seen me play,” Carter says to him, voice raw, almost pleading.

“I’ve made my position clear. You will do whatever you want to do, as always, but I will not continue to pay for it. If you want to pursue a career in professional sports, I will not continue to waste my money for you to attend that school. You have until the end of this year, Carter. After that, you are on your own.”

My jaw actually drops. I know Carter was worried about this exact thing, but it felt so unbelievable. His dad buttons the front of his suit and leaves the room without a backward glance. I turn to watch him go, confused. Did he really just walk out in the middle of the conversation? Appalled, I turn back to Carter.

“What…He’s coming back, right?” Offense colors my tone on his behalf. Carter shakes his head.

“Nope. He always has to have the last fucking word. He can’t just have a conversation like a normal goddamn—.”

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