In Your Pucking Dreams, Captain

Kendra

I used to stand by the idea that every girl dreamed of a perfect boyfriend. For three years, mine was the guy who made me smile after an unfair B on a math quiz. He was also the one who invited me to every hockey game while I watched him slam pucks into the net. All for his pro dream.

To show I was a supportive girlfriend, I crafted a lucky bracelet with two tiny hockey sticks for Simon Warrington.

And now, after three freaking years together, Simon peeled off that bracelet and let it hang between us in the chilly hospital hallway. His eyes fixed on the floor, blinking too often.

“What did you say?” I asked, my chest heaving.

Simon finally closed his eyes and let out a tired breath. “Come on, Kenny, don't make me repeat it.”

I suppressed a shudder and jabbed a thumb at the door behind me. “Simon, my father’s lying there,” I croaked. “I…I don’t have time for your jokes.”

His lips flattened into a line as he averted his gaze, like he had somewhere else to be. “I’m breaking up with you,” he said. “This is my freshman year in college.”

I blinked, another reminder that it wasn't mine.

“It’s supposed to be a time where I get to explore options and plan my future,” he added, as though it explained everything. “You practically live here now. Kendra, you don't even let me touch you anymore—”

I raised a hand, cutting him off. My mind was too numb to even think about sex. All this time, I thought he'd been holding me while I cried over Dad. I was wrong.

I inhaled deeply. The hospital air was thick with antiseptic and a whole lot of bullshit. Simon's posture was relaxed and confident; even his speech sounded painfully rehearsed.

I pinched the bridge of my nose in disbelief. “Do I look like I exist to satisfy your needs? God, Simon, is this really about my dad, or did you plan this right from the start?”

“Come on,” he said lazily.

Simon didn't dispute the accusation. He looked utterly bored. The same guy who'd swore that we'd grow old watching our kids skate on the lake.

“Yeah, I'm sorry,” I rasped, shaking my head. “So sorry for the girl whose life you'll ruin next.”

“Kendra, you are so selfish. I can't spend my time being a nurse,” he snarled. “So, grow up; the world won't stop for you.”

The world had already stopped for me. I wanted to ask him if waiting for my dad to wake up was supposed to match the thrill of drunk parties and hockey games.

When I didn’t respond, he dumped the bracelet into my palm like it was made of filth. Simon walked away, taking three years of love and dreams with him.

After he disappeared around the corner, the hallway walls started closing in, clogging my throat, and I hurried into the room.

Dad lay on the bed, hooked up to a beeping EKG machine. His chest rose and fell with each breath, yet for the past month, he had been trapped in the fog of a coma. When he got laid off from work, he'd drunk his heart out and crashed into a truck on the way home from the bar.

I sat down beside him, grasping his heavy hand. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, wetting the back of his hand.

“Please wake up,” I whimpered. “I can't do this without you.”

The beeping was the only response I ever got.

Dad never liked Simon, only ever acknowledging him with a dark scowl, saying I was too good for a troublemaking brat like Simon.

How could I not be?

I was a straight-A student who led the debate team, while Simon was scoring trophies as hockey captain at our high school.

Endgame.

That was what our yearbook called us.

I let out a bitter scoff, remembering how I’d quarreled with Dad for threatening to split us up after Simon took me for a road trip on his new motorcycle. I cried, swearing that I'd run away for good.

“Ducky, a man who loves you…my God...you're going to feel it right here." Dad had said, thumping his fist to his heart. “Deep down, you'll know he'd never put you in harm's way. But this is just a video game to Warrington.”

The memory struck me like a chord as I squeezed his hand. My body went numb. Daddy won. He actually got the last laugh.

Yet I’d do anything for him to crack a smile right now and say, “I told you so.”

Suddenly, a sharp creak came from the hospital door, and I quickly wiped off my tears.

“Kendra, do you have a moment?” asked Dr. Frank.

I nodded and followed him out the door, where he studied me like I was a slide under a microscope. “I’m speaking to you as a human being and a father,” he said kindly. “Can I offer a word of advice?”

“Sure.”

“You’ve been coming here every day,” he said. “And I get it, but you have to…try to get back in the world. I’m sure your dad, Kevin, will understand. The nurses are here to take care of him.”

My shoulders locked as Dr. Frank gestured at the door; I wanted to claw my way back inside and shut the outside world out. What could it offer me more than the sound of my dad talking again?

“Doctor, I’m the only one he’s got right now,” I replied, the words heavy under my breath. “I just can’t pretend he isn’t.”

Dr. Frank gave me a sad understanding nod, leaving me alone to face the room again.

By the time I finally dragged myself back home that night, I slumped on the couch nursing one of Dad's remaining beers from the fridge and a greasy burrito. Nothing else could pass through my throat as I scrolled through my phone. All my friends seemed to line up on the social media feed.

Envy lay thick in my throat, and I swallowed hard at their stylized dorm pics, selfies with new friends in matching alma mater hoodies.

By now, I was supposed to be at a California college with Simon, soaking up the sun. But his parents had laughed in our faces and forced Simon to attend Michigan's Templeton University.

Prestigious.

Elite-Coded.

A hockey player’s paradise.

All he talked about during our senior year of high school was joining the Gladiators and rubbing shoulders with some jerk named Noah O’Shea.

With Dad in that bed, I couldn't go to college. My brain was fried and wouldn't be useful in a classroom.

I set my phone aside, the screen still splashed with everyone’s perfect life, and reached for the untouched pile of mail on the coffee table.

I ripped open the utility bills until I reached one from the hospital.

I sat up straight.

Medical: Twelve thousand dollars.