Page 32
Campbell
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The car smelled like sweat and victory. Morgan sat beside me, vibrating, her hockey stick balanced across her lap. The rush still flushed her cheeks, and her fingers drummed against the shaft of her stick.
“I still can’t believe I made it,” she breathed, awe and exhilaration laced through her voice. “Camp, I made it.”
I smirked, glancing at her before returning to the road.
“Of course you made it, Morgs. You’re an Atwood.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw her smile widen, holding onto those words like they meant something. Like they meant everything. And for once, they did. She earned this. She fought for it. Watching her out on that ice—watching her skate like she was born for it—was something else. I’d never been prouder. We were going to celebrate. Ice cream, blasting music, windows down—just the two of us. Just for a little while. But the second I pulled into the driveway, the entire night shattered. Because his car was already there.
Morgan stiffened beside me. Her excitement vanished, replaced by something heavier, something colder. I gripped the wheel so tight my knuckles went white. Fuck. He knew. And sure enough, as soon as I killed the engine, Dad stepped out of his car, his expression already taut with barely restrained fury. His suit jacket hung loose around his shoulders, tie still knotted at his throat like he was some picture of control, like he hadn’t spent his entire life pretending we were something we weren’t.
“What the hell is this?”
He spoke in a clipped voice, sharp as a blade. I took a slow, steady breath through my nose, gathering myself before meeting his gaze.
“She made the team.”
His jaw twitched. His gaze flickered to Morgan.
“Is that true?” Morgan hesitated. Just for a second. She glanced at me, as if seeking approval before confessing. Then she nodded. The silence that followed was suffocating. Dad’s icy voice ordered: “Morgan, get inside.”
Her breath hitched. I felt it. I saw how her fingers tightened around her stick, how her body curled in on itself like she was trying to make herself smaller, like she was trying to disappear. No. Not this time.
“She’s not going anywhere,” I said, stepping between them.
Dad’s eyes snapped to mine. Warning me. Daring me.
“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, voice like iron. “She’s not playing hockey.”
The words ignited something inside me. A long-standing fire simmered beneath the surface, controlled out of necessity. But I wasn’t a kid anymore. He won’t do this to her.
“Morgan is going to play hockey.” My voice shook with fury, but I didn’t back down. “It’s her decision. I refuse to let you fuck up Morgan’s life like you did mine.”
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I laughed, sharp and empty.
“I’m talking about having to spend my entire childhood watching my parents continuously cheat on each other.”
His jaw flexed. He said nothing. And that silence? That was my confirmation. I stepped closer, my hands curling into fists at my sides. My entire body was shaking.
“I was just a kid, Dad. Do you know what that did to me? Do you think I never noticed the strange people in and out of your bedroom?” His face hardened. Coward. My breath came fast and shallow, my pulse roaring in my ears. Years. Years of holding this in. Years of pretending I was fine, of convincing myself none of it mattered, that I was stronger than all of it. But it mattered. It fucking destroyed me. My throat burned as I swallowed against the emotion clawing up my chest. “There’s a girl out there that I’m in love with, and I keep messing it up with her because you and Mom ruined my perception of relationships.” The words felt like glass in my throat, but I forced them out, anyway. “Hazel deserves better than that.”
Dad scoffed, folding his arms over his chest.
“I’m the one that stayed with you.”
My chest tightened.
“Yeah?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Mom may have abandoned me, but you’ve been just as absent in my life as her.”
His fingers curled into fists. Good. Let him feel it. I turned to Morgan, my voice softer now.
“Go inside.”
She hesitated, eyes darting between us, but then she nodded, her shoulders tight as she slipped past our father and into the house. The door clicked shut. Dad and I stood there, staring at each other, neither of us speaking. I should’ve felt victorious. Should’ve felt like I’d won something. Instead, I just felt fucking empty. The silence stretched between us like a noose, tightening around my throat, choking the air from my lungs. I waited for him to say something. To fight back. To care . But he didn’t. He just stood there. The same fucking way he always had. Disappointed. Detached. Like I was nothing more than some burden he had to tolerate. I hated him for it. Despite everything, I resented needing his approval. I let out a slow breath. My voice was barely above a whisper when I spoke.
“You don’t get to control her. Not like you controlled me.”
Dad scoffed.
“I never controlled you, Campbell. I made you into something. I gave you every damn opportunity—”
“You took everything from me!” The words ripped out of me, raw and brutal. “You didn’t make me, Dad. You broke me!” For the first time, his expression flickered. I pressed forward, my voice unsteady but unrelenting. “You pushed me to the point where I no longer loved hockey; I felt trapped by it.” I said. “Do you even know what that feels like? To wake up every day and hate the thing you’re supposed to love?”
He exhaled through his nose.
“You’re being dramatic.”
I laughed. A sharp, hollow sound.
“You tell me all the time that I’m nothing without hockey. That it’s the only thing I’ll ever be good at.” I swallowed hard. “And maybe you’re right. Because the one person who made me feel like I was more than that? I just lost her.” My voice broke. “Because I didn’t know how to be the guy she deserved, because you both fucked me up. I have no fucking idea how to be in love with someone, or how relationships work. All I know is to run.”
Dad said nothing. Not a single fucking word. And that’s when I knew. That’s when I finally fucking knew. I would never get what I wanted from him. Not the approval. Not the pride. Not the love. I let out a shaky breath, my voice breaking.
“You don’t have to say it,” I murmured. “I already know.”
Then I turned away. Because I was done. I climbed into my car, slamming the door behind me. My forehead pressed against the steering wheel, my breath uneven, my hands trembling. I could still feel it. His silence. His refusal to fight for me. To even care. I had nothing left to give him.
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The buzzing of the tattoo gun vibrated in my chest, a sharp hum that made it impossible to ignore, no matter how much I wanted to. The needle pricked my skin with precision, but it wasn’t the pain that made my heart race—it was everything else. All the thoughts and feelings I had suppressed surfaced. I hadn’t expected to be here today. I hadn’t planned this. But somehow, here I was—sitting in a tattoo chair, my skin about to be marked forever. And I couldn’t explain why. I wasn’t the guy who did things like this—spontaneous, sentimental. That was more Hazel’s thing. But I was doing this for her.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me—eyes filled with confusion and longing—as if she were waiting for me to do something, anything. But I hadn’t. I’d pulled away, just like I always did. Self-preservation. That’s what I told myself. She was too much. Too beautiful, too confusing. She was the person who could ruin everything I had built, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to handle that. But there was that feeling. That damn pull I couldn’t get rid of. Every time I tried to ignore it, it just came back stronger. Every time I attempted to shut her out, she crept back in. I can’t escape her.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, trying to block out the way my chest tightened. She had that effect on me—of someone who got under your skin without you realizing it. How made me feel like I wasn’t enough, but like I was everything. She was chaos wrapped in softness, a force I couldn’t control, and it terrified me. I still couldn’t forget when she’d pulled away from me at the party. The way she looked at me, like I’d betrayed her without even realizing it. But I had. I did it every time I let her in, and I wasn’t sure how to stop. The tattoo artist’s voice broke through my thoughts.
“You doing okay?”
I blinked, focusing on the needle again. It wasn’t the sting of it I had to fight. It was the weight of this decision. Of what I was doing. This wasn’t just some random ink. This wasn’t some design to impress anyone. This was her. A lighthouse. Simple, right? But not to me. It wasn’t just a picture. It was her keychain. The one she never took off, and said kept her grounded, like she could always find her way—even when everything felt dark. She always carried it around with her, like it was a lifeline. Like it could anchor her when the world was spinning out of control. And I needed that, too. I needed something to anchor me. Something I could hold on to. Her.
She was my hope. My lighthouse.
It was small. Innocent, maybe. But to me, it felt like a promise. I didn’t know how to ask her about it, how to ask what it meant to her, but I didn’t need to. I understood. She didn’t know it yet, but she was the anchor for me, too.
The needle pressed deeper; the pain shooting through my flesh like a current, but it didn’t hurt as much as the emptiness inside of me—the loneliness that seemed to spread every time I tried to distance myself from her. I clenched my jaw, trying not to let the feeling show. It wasn’t the tattoo that hurt—it was the realization that I was too deep now. I would not walk away. I couldn’t pretend anymore that she wasn’t changing everything for me. This tattoo wasn’t just a symbol. It wasn’t about ownership or possession. It was a reminder—of her, of me, of what I couldn’t let go of even if I wanted to. The artist pulled back for a moment.
“Almost done.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I felt the weight of the ink sinking into my skin, settling there like a mark I couldn’t erase. My fingers twitched, reaching for the fresh ink under my rib. I wanted to trace it, to feel the ridges of the lighthouse under my fingertips, as though by touching it, I could somehow make it more real. More permanent. I had no idea what I was doing. If this was a mistake. But I couldn’t stop.
My phone sat beside me on the chair, the screen lighting up with notifications I didn’t check. My fingers twitched toward it, hovering over Hazel’s name, over the last message she ever sent me. I could text her. I could tell her what I was doing. I could send a picture of the ink so she’d know—so she’d understand that even when I let her go, I never did. But I didn’t. Instead, I clenched my jaw, shoved the phone into my pocket, and let the needle press deeper.
I stood, my legs feeling a little unsteady. The door to the parlor swung open, and I stepped into the cool evening air, the streets around me humming with life, but it all felt distant. The only thing I could focus on was the fresh ink on my skin, the weight of it pressing down on me, making it all too real. It felt different now, more meaningful, like it wasn’t just a tattoo—it was a connection. To her. To something I couldn’t explain, but that I knew was there.
What if I was making a mistake? What if this was just some fleeting thing I’d regret? What if this was all just my head getting the best of me?
But then, I thought about her again. Hazel. And everything about the way she made me feel. Real. Not like the fake versions of myself I’d hidden behind for so long.
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t just infatuation. It was real. She was real. I pressed my fingers to the ink again, grounding myself, feeling the sharp reminder that no matter what, she would always be a part of me. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I knew one thing: I wasn’t running anymore. This was it. This was my choice. I just hoped she’d be ready for it when I admitted it out loud. But deep down, I was fucking terrified.
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