Page 22 of Crossing the Line

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“You know that’s not true.”

I knew it, but I wasn’t going to admit it. She was on the road. I hit my head swerving to avoid hitting her.

“But I can see why you think it. I would, too, to be honest.” He slouched as he took a draw from his straw. The smoothie he’d gotten me sat between us.

I grabbed it and took a drink.

We sat in silence for a while, and it was like Dad needed the silence, too. He looked sad. Almost as sad as me.

“I’m thankful you’re okay, son. That accident, that serious of a concussion…you’re lucky. And while I know you’re devastated you can’t play hockey anymore, I’m just glad you’re alive and this concussion didn’t leave you unable to speak or worse. I’ve read up on the devastation multiple concussions can lead to.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I sat there, drinking my smoothie, trying to wrap my brain around the fact I couldn’t play hockey ever again. It took a few minutes to work up the courage to ask what needed to be asked.

“We have to call Coach, don’t we?” My voice cracked. “And tell him…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. Calling the coach at Alabama. Telling him. Maybe I could have Dad do it. I wasn’t sure I could.

“Yes. We probably should, right away. It might free up your scholarship for another athlete.”

Someone else would get a call from Coach offering them a scholarship to play on the team. My spot. That was my spot.

I shifted in my seat as a cool breeze of air tore through the area. “What am I supposed to do? Just go to school there and take classes? Pretend like everything is fine?”

Dad flinched beside me, then set his cup on the bench and rested his elbows on his knees, like I’d been doing earlier. His head dropped into his hands, and he let out a long, slow breath.

“I’m sorry, son.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “But that’s not an option anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

Dad rested back, still looking out ahead of him. His jaw ticked, and he rubbed the tops of his thighs as he drew in a deep breath.

“Dad?”

“The money we’d set aside for you to go to college is…gone.”

My heart bottomed out, and my mouth went arid dry. “The money isgone? What…does that mean?” We’d always had money—plenty of it. Mom was a surgeon and Dad was an accountant! Nice cars. Nice house. It wasn’t really anything I’d ever worried or thought about.

“We were going to tell you…”

“Tell me what?” The pulsing headache piped in again, sending a wave of pain up the back of my skull.

“Ryan.” Dad turned toward me, slightly. “Your mother is sick.”

“What?” Ice shot through my veins.

“Not sick like cancer, but…” He coughed into his hand before continuing. “Years ago, before you were born, she had a gambling problem. She got the help she needed and kicked it before graduating from medical school. And up until about six months ago, she was doing great, the picture of rehabilitation.”

“Gambling?” The air whooshed out of my lungs. How was that even possible? How could I have not known?

“She relapsed six months ago. Hid it from me. But one day, she missed a major surgery at work. Just didn’t show up. Someone at the hospital called me to check and make sure she was okay. I found her at a casino a few towns over. She’d been sneaking out there for a while. Racked up some serious debt.”

“What? Why did you keep this from me?”

“We were working on telling you.”

“Workingon it? Are you kidding me?” My fists formed tight balls, and my knuckles turned bright white.

“I’m sorry, Ryan.” My dad bowed his head.


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