Page 42 of Slap Shot Daddies

I dread the thought of going to church.

I am weary of playing the dutiful daughter, returning home only to be reminded by my parents that I've strayed too far from the life they envisioned for me.

The cold, textured leather of the steering wheel digs into my palms as I squeeze harder, my fingers trembling with the effort. I feel disconnected from that world. It no longer feels like mine, if it ever did at all.

I draw in another breath, slow and deliberate, and finally turn the ignition. It'll be all right, I tell myself.

It's just one Sunday.

I ease out of the parking lot, leaving the ice rink behind me.

The moment I step into my clinic, I can hear the sounds of pets fussing in their cages. I have a bunch of boarded pets right now, all here while their owners are on vacation. Their presence is grounding, anchoring me to this place that is unequivocally mine.

And yet, as I traverse the space, a knot forms in my stomach, tightening with each step as I survey the mounting tasks awaiting my attention.

The medical supplies, so crucial to my work, are perilously low, the shelves nearly bare of prescription pet foods.

I pull out my tablet, my fingers gliding almost on autopilot, as I compile a list of necessities, syringes, antiseptics, surgical tools, bandages, avian supplements, and more.

By the time I finish, a heavy sensation settles in my gut, as though I’ve swallowed a lead weight. The total cost? Far beyond what my budget can handle.

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the tension ripple across my scalp as my fingers tug at the strands. The thought of taking out another loan crosses my mind yet again, but the memory of vet school debts and the initial business startup costs of the business makes my head spin with anxiety.

I need an alternative, a different path forward.

Investors, perhaps? But the thought of navigating that complex web of financial negotiations brings its own kind of stress.

I lean against my desk, pressing my fingers to my temples in an attempt to stave off the rising tide of frustration.

All I ever wanted was to help animals.

I never anticipated the myriad challenges that came with that goal.

My brain feels like it’s in overdrive and desperately needs a break. With a weary sigh, I flip open my laptop and begin thesearch for flights to Columbus. It takes only minutes to find a suitable one that departs on Saturday morning.

Just enough time to fly in, endure the church service, and fly back without lingering too long under my mother’s watchful gaze. I navigate through the booking process, securing not only the flight but also a hotel and a rental car before leaning back in my chair, already exhausted from the mere thought of it all.

I can already hear my mother insisting I stay with her and Dad, but I adamantly refuse. I crave space, a buffer zone between their world and mine.

If I let them reel me in, even briefly, they’ll inevitably try to persuade me to move back home for good.

I groan, pressing my forehead against the cool surface of my desk.

If my father has his way, he’ll attempt to introduce me to some nice Christian man, someone with a stable job, a spacious home, and unwavering faith.

The antithesis of the three men I spent last night with.

The thought amuses me, drawing out a genuine laugh. For a moment, I allow myself to envision it. Me striding into the post church potluck with Ambrose, Braden, and Reggie flanking me.

The sheer horror etched on my mother’s face. My father probably choking on his sweet tea. The entire congregation abuzz with scandalized whispers.

The image is so ludicrous, so completely absurd, that I can’t suppress the grin stretching across my lips.

Too bad it’s a mere fantasy.

I already know how Sunday will unfold. I’ll plaster on a smile. I’ll sit quietly.

I’ll nod in agreement to everything they say.

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