Page 76 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“He’s not going to wake up, is he?”

The question hits me like a body check, knocking the air from my lungs. I know the answer—the doctors have shown me the scans. According to them, it’s not possible.

“You don't know that.”

“But they've told you. Haven't they?”

“There are cases…” I trail off, knowing how it sounds. There are miracle cases—documented times when the doctors don’t think it could happen, and yet it does.

“Sam.” Her tone is impossibly gentle. “Is this what he would want? To be kept here like this?”

My voice breaks. “Stop. Please, just stop.”

She moves closer, and I feel her hand on my shoulder. Warm. Real. “I know you love him. Maybe you’re not ready to say goodbye. But maybe that’s exactly what’s holding you back—not just in hockey, but in life. You’re waiting for something that…might never happen.”

No, no, no. I can’t stand the thought of making that decision. The thought always comes back to haunt me: What if I take him off the life support today, and tomorrow was the day he’d wake up?

“I can’t—I’m not doing this right now.”

“Doing what?”

It’s just two words, but I can hear it in her tone—I thought you wanted me. I thought you wantedthis.

“You think you know what’s best for my dad?” It almost comes out as a laugh. Incredulous, and when I say it, it doesn’t sound like my own voice.

“That’s not what I—”

“Iknowwhat you're implying,” I cut her off, squeezing my hands into fists. “That I should let him go. That I’m being selfish keeping him here. But you don’t understand.”

“Believe it or not, Idounderstand. Being stuck, unable to fully commit to the future because you’re so fixated on this one thing, trapped in the moment.” When Finn’s eyes meet mine, they’re shining with tears. “Sometimes the moment you let go is when you gain clarity. When you allow some space for things to go your way.”

The moment you let go. It’s not just some adage from a motivational book. She’s talking about letting my father go.

Doctors and nurses have been telling me for years that his brain activity is low. That he doesn’t have much of a chance at coming back. They’ve shown me the scans and given me the statistics. And every time I look at him, I can’t even fathom the possibility of pulling him off the machine keeping him alive. It feels like if I make that choice, it’d be the next day that he finally woke up.

“Get out.” My voice is low, dangerous. I don’t feel in control of my body or my facial expressions.

Finn takes a step back, hurt flashing across her face. “I just thought—”

“Well,don't.”

The silence stretches between us, and I can't bring myself to look at her.

If I do, I might see that clinical gaze she uses when she’s trying to figure out which of my stats to focus on. When she’s determining I should test out muscle recovery gels, or start a new vitamin regimen.

The look she uses when she’s trying to figure out how to fix something.

My dad isn't broken. He's just...waiting. And I'll wait with him as long as it takes.

Turning away from her, I grab the bouquet of flowers with shaking hands. I focus on the crinkling of the cellophane to keep from turning around and chasing after her. My brain feels like a tornado has gone through it, and I already have the sinking feeling of regret. A wish to go back and do something differently.

But I can’t. So, instead, I do what I’m here to.

I sit down next to Dad’s bed and grab the remote, turning the TV to Sports Center.

Finn

If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I’m good in a crisis. My therapist might say that my immediate jump to action is less about being organized, and more about forcing myself to move on from the hurt, but I’m not with my therapist right now.

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