The Boy Who Knew Me First

Season 1

Episode 8

by Joxy

The Boy Who Knew Me First - Season 1, Episode 8: Recruiting Season

Chapter 1: CHAPTER 1: THE EVALUATION

The waiting room was designed to be calming. Soft gray walls, abstract watercolor prints, a white noise machine humming somewhere behind the reception desk. Natural light filtered through gauzy curtains. Magazines fanned across the glass coffee table—Psychology Today, National Geographic, Time. The air carried that particular medical-building smell—cleaning products mixed with the faint lavender from a diffuser trying too hard to create calm.

Ethan sat on the edge of a cream-colored armchair, the fabric rough under his palms where he gripped the armrests. Muffled voices leaked through the wall—Dr. Martinez with another patient, words indistinct but tone measured. He felt like he was waiting for execution.

His phone buzzed. Jordan's text: "You got this. She's a professional. Dad can't buy her."

Ethan wanted to believe that. He'd researched Dr. Sarah Martinez online last week during his limited computer time. University of Michigan Med School. Twenty-three years in practice. Published articles on adolescent autonomy and family systems. Her reviews mentioned words like "fair," "insightful," "doesn't take sides."

But his father had chosen her. That had to mean something.

The door to the inner office opened. A woman in her mid-forties appeared, gray blazer over a simple blouse, dark hair pulled back in a professional bun. Her expression was neutral, practiced.

"Ethan?"

He stood, wiping his palms on his jeans. "Yes."

"I'm Dr. Martinez. Come on in."

Her office was similar to the waiting room—designed for comfort, achieving clinical calm. A desk with her laptop and notebook, two armchairs facing each other at an angle, a couch against one wall. More abstract art. A shelf of books with titles about family therapy, adolescent development, custody evaluation.

She gestured to one of the armchairs. "Have a seat wherever you're comfortable."

He chose the armchair, not the couch. The couch felt too vulnerable, like lying down for surgery.

Dr. Martinez sat across from him, notepad in her lap but pen not yet touching paper. "So, Ethan. Do you know why you're here?"

Straight to it, then. "My father ordered a psychiatric evaluation as part of blocking my emancipation petition."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I think he's hoping you'll say I'm being manipulated so the judge won't grant emancipation."

Her expression didn't change. "And are you being manipulated?"

"No."

"Tell me why you're seeking emancipation."

He'd practiced this answer with Michael Chen, with Jordan, with himself. Keep it factual. Don't sound angry or emotional. Adults respond to logic, not feeling.

"We don't agree on... basically anything about my future." Ethan paused, trying to find the right words. "He's all about hockey—professional hockey. Like, that's the only option. I want MIT. Engineering. And he's using money and basically keeping me prisoner to make me do what he wants." He took a breath, steadied himself. "That's why I need emancipation. So I can actually choose."

Dr. Martinez wrote something in her notepad. "How long have you wanted to study engineering?"

"Since I was nine or ten. I've always been interested in how things work. Physics, math, design."

"And hockey?"

"I started skating when I was four. My father was a professional player. It's been part of my life always."

"Do you enjoy it?"

The question caught him off guard. Nobody asked that. "Sometimes. I'm good at it. But it's not what I want to do with my life."

"What does your father say about MIT?"

"That I'm throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. That I'm letting a girl manipulate me away from my potential. That I'll regret it when I'm older and my hockey window has closed."

Dr. Martinez looked up from her notes. "Tell me about the girl."

Here it was. The real reason for this evaluation.

"Her name is Sophia Chen. We've known each other since we were kids—we were nine. We reconnected last year when her family moved back to Winnipeg. She's smart, driven, talented. She's going to MIT too, but she made that decision independently. She got in on her own merit."

"How old is Sophia now?"

"Eighteen. She turned eighteen in February—Valentine's Day actually." Ethan felt his stomach tighten. Why was she asking about ages? "I'm still seventeen. Turn eighteen in August."

"Your father believes she's influencing your college choice."

"My father believes anyone who supports my goals instead of his is influencing me."

"That sounds like you're angry with him."

"I'm frustrated. There's a difference."

Dr. Martinez made another note. "Tell me about Sophia. How much time do you spend together?"

"We did. Before the restrictions."

"What restrictions?"

"After I filed for emancipation, my father implemented complete isolation. I can only call her once a week, supervised. I can't see her in person. He withdrew me from my prep school and hired tutors so I couldn't have contact with friends who might help us communicate."

"How does that make you feel?"

"Like I'm in prison."

"That's a strong word."

"It's an accurate word. I haven't left the house except for hockey practice in three weeks."

Dr. Martinez studied him for a moment, and Ethan felt his pulse quicken. This was the trap question. The one Robert would've coached her to ask. His leg started bouncing under the table—he forced it still.

"Ethan, I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me."

His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans, trying to look casual but probably failing. "Okay."

"Do you believe Sophia wants what's best for you, or what's best for herself?"

The room felt smaller. Tunnel vision creeping in at the edges. If he answered wrong, if he sounded defensive or obsessive or manipulated—everything could fall apart. He forced himself to breathe normally, to meet her eyes without looking desperate. His voice cracked slightly when he started to speak, had to clear his throat and try again.

"Both," he managed, the word coming out steadier on the second try. "I mean... the same way I want what's best for her and what's best for me. That's what... that's what caring about someone means, right?"

He held her gaze, heart hammering so loud he was sure she could hear it. His hands were trembling slightly—he pressed them flat against his thighs. Wondering if he'd just lost everything.

"And if you had to choose between MIT and Sophia? If you could only have one?"

"That's not a fair question. I'm not choosing between them. I'm choosing my own future, which happens to include both academic goals and personal relationships. Those aren't mutually exclusive."

She wrote something that looked like three lines of text. "Your father believes you're making a mistake that will impact the rest of your life."

"My father believes any choice that isn't his choice is a mistake."

"Help me understand your relationship with your father."

Ethan leaned back in the chair, trying to organize thirteen years into coherent summary. "He loves hockey. It's his entire identity. He was drafted at eighteen, played professionally until an injury ended his career at thirty-one. He's spent my whole life training me to have the career he lost. Every decision has been about hockey: where we live, what school I attend, how I spend my time, who I spend it with. When I told him I wanted to study engineering, he said I could do that after hockey. When I said I wanted to go to MIT now, he said I was wasting my potential. When I said I was filing for emancipation, he said I was being manipulated. He can't accept that I might want something different than what he wants for me."

"That must be difficult."

"It's suffocating."

Dr. Martinez set down her pen and looked at Ethan directly. "Before I continue, I need to tell you something professional. What you've described—complete isolation, surveillance of your relationships, using money as a control mechanism—these are recognized patterns of what we call coercive control. It's a form of emotional abuse."

Ethan's breath caught. Abuse. The word felt too big, too serious. He'd never let himself use that word.

"I'm not making a formal diagnosis," Dr. Martinez continued. "But you should know that what you're experiencing has a name. Parents can love their children deeply and still engage in controlling behaviors that cross the line into harm. Understanding that can help you make informed decisions about your own wellbeing."

She picked up her pen again. "Now, Ethan, I'm going to see you three times this week. Today, Wednesday, and Friday. After that, I'll compile my evaluation and submit it to the court. During these sessions, I'm not on your side or your father's side. I'm here to assess your decision-making capacity, your emotional state, and whether emancipation serves your best interests. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then let's start from the beginning. Tell me about meeting Sophia when you were nine."

The second session was Wednesday afternoon. Same waiting room, same calming aesthetics, same knot of tension in Ethan's chest.

This time, Dr. Martinez started with questions about his academic record. GPA, test scores, course selection, standardized testing. He recited the numbers: 4.0 unweighted, 1580 SAT, six AP courses so far.

"Impressive," she said, writing. "MIT is obviously a realistic goal academically. What do you want to study there?"

"Mechanical engineering, possibly with a focus on robotics or aerospace."

"Have you thought about career paths?"

"I've thought about a lot of paths. Research, design, maybe teaching eventually. The point is having options."

"And hockey doesn't provide options?"

"Hockey provides one option: play until you can't anymore, then figure out what to do with the rest of your life. I want to figure out my life now, while I have time to build it."

Dr. Martinez nodded, making notes. "Tell me about the science fair project I saw in your file. Something about prosthetics?"

He relaxed slightly, familiar territory. "It's like... okay, so prosthetics now are pretty basic, right? But what if we could connect them directly to nerves? Like, actually feel through them?" His voice picked up speed, enthusiasm breaking through the evaluation stress. "Current systems use muscle contractions or manual controls, but with better sensors and neural feedback processing, you could potentially restore near-natural movement. Maybe even sensation."

"That sounds complex."

"It is. That's why it's interesting."

"Did Sophia help you with this project?"

Back to that. "We worked on different projects. She did something with materials science—aerodynamics in badminton. We brainstormed together sometimes, but the actual work was independent."

"Your father's lawyer provided emails between you and Sophia about the science fair. A lot of emails."

"We're friends. Friends communicate."

"The emails show a significant amount of emotional support."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I'm not making judgments, Ethan. I'm trying to understand the nature of your relationship."

He chose his words carefully. "Sophia understands my goals because she has similar goals. We both want to attend top universities. We both care about academics and athletics. We both have parents who support us, though in very different ways. When my father was making things difficult, she listened. When I was stressed about applications, she helped. That's what friends do."

"Just friends?"

The question hung in the air. Ethan knew whatever he said here would end up in the report, would be analyzed for signs of "obsessive attachment" or "inappropriate influence."

"We care about each other," he said finally. "I don't know what label you want me to put on it. But whatever we are, it's mutual and it's healthy."

Dr. Martinez wrote something. "Your father believes the relationship is distracting you from opportunities."

"My father believes anything that isn't hockey is a distraction."

"Do you resent him?"

"I resent being controlled. I don't resent him wanting what's best for me. I just disagree about what 'best' means."

The session continued for another forty minutes. Questions about his daily routine, his relationship with Jordan, his plans for the future. Questions about whether he'd considered his father's perspective, whether he understood the financial implications of turning down NHL money, whether he'd thought about what happens if MIT doesn't work out.

"Yes," Ethan said to that last question. "I've thought about all of it. I'm not being impulsive. This isn't a rebellion. It's a choice."

"A choice to pursue education over professional sports."

"A choice to pursue my own path instead of someone else's."

Dr. Martinez closed her notepad. "Same time Friday. We'll talk more then."

Between Wednesday and Friday, Ethan existed in a strange limbo. His father was coldly polite, not mentioning the evaluation or the emancipation hearing. Jordan smuggled in messages from Sophia—brief texts through a Signal chat on Jordan's phone that Ethan could access when his brother was home.

Thursday morning: "hows it going with the doctor?"

Thursday evening: "okay i think. hard to tell. she doesn't give anything away"

Friday morning: "two weeks until nationals. first seed"

Friday afternoon: "youre going to destroy them"

The messages were lifelines. Proof that the world beyond his father's house still existed.

Friday's session started differently.

Dr. Martinez had papers spread across her desk when Ethan entered. "I want to go over something with you," she said, gesturing to the chair. "Your father provided me with documentation of your relationship with Sophia. Meeting dates, phone records, emails. There's a lot here."

Ethan's stomach tightened. "He's been tracking us."

"He's been documenting what he perceives as problematic behavior."

"We haven't done anything wrong."

"That's not what I'm investigating." She held up one paper. "Science fair night. February 15th. You were supposed to be home by ten. You arrived at midnight. Your father says you were with Sophia."

"We were celebrating. Both our projects won."

"Did you tell him where you were?"

"I texted that I'd be late."

"Two hours late?"

"I was seventeen. It was a special night. Nobody was hurt."

Dr. Martinez set down that paper, picked up another. "December 23rd. Your father found messages between you and Sophia planning to meet at a hockey rink. You told him you were doing extra practice."

"I did extra practice. She was there skating."

"So you lied about your plans."

"I omitted details he would have used to prevent me from going."

"That's called deception, Ethan."

He felt anger rising and pushed it down. "That's called survival. If I told him every time I wanted to spend time with someone he disapproves of, I'd never leave the house. Which, by the way, is exactly where I am now."

Dr. Martinez was quiet for a moment. "I understand you feel your father is controlling."

"He is controlling. That's not a feeling, it's a fact."

"Help me understand something. If emancipation is granted, what does your relationship with your father look like?"

The question caught him off guard. "I don't know."

"Do you want a relationship with him?"

"I want a relationship where he respects my choices."

"And if he can't do that?"

"Then I guess we don't have a relationship."

She wrote something that looked important. "That doesn't bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me. But staying under his control bothers me more."

The rest of the session covered logistics—his plans for housing if emancipated, financial aid options, support systems. By the end, Ethan felt wrung out, every answer scrutinized for hidden meanings.

"That's all for today," Dr. Martinez said finally. "I'll compile my report this weekend and submit it to the court Monday. Your hearing is scheduled for May 15th, correct?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll have my evaluation well before then."

"Can you tell me...?" He stopped, unsure how to ask.

"What I'm going to say?"

"If you think emancipation is justified."

Dr. Martinez closed her notebook. "I'm going to tell the court what I observe. That's all I can do."

Ethan didn't hear anything over the weekend. Monday morning, his father was silent at breakfast. Monday afternoon, nothing. By Monday evening, he was checking his phone every five minutes despite knowing the report would go to the lawyers first.

Tuesday morning, his father's lawyer called. Ethan wasn't supposed to hear the conversation, but he stood in the hallway outside his father's office, listening.

"I see." His father's voice, tight and controlled. "And her recommendation?"

Pause.

"That's... not what we discussed."

Longer pause.

"No. No, I understand. Yes. Thank you."

The phone call ended. Silence from the office.

Ethan knocked on the door frame. "Dad?"

"Come in."

His father sat behind his desk, Dr. Martinez's report in front of him. Multiple pages, stapled, official letterhead.

"Dr. Martinez completed her evaluation," his father said, voice carefully neutral.

"And?"

"She recommends the emancipation petition proceed. She finds you demonstrate 'exceptional maturity and clear autonomous decision-making.' She believes your relationship with Sophia is 'healthy and age-appropriate.' She sees no evidence of manipulation or undue influence."

The words should have felt like victory. Instead, Ethan saw his father's face and felt only dread.

"Dad—"

His father stood so abruptly the chair scraped against the floor. The report crumpled slightly in his grip before he forced his fingers to relax, smoothing the pages with deliberate care that barely masked fury.

"She doesn't understand." His voice was too controlled, the kind of quiet that preceded explosions. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "She spent three hours with you. I've spent seventeen years."

He set the report down with such precise, trembling care that Ethan knew if he wasn't controlling himself this carefully, the pages would be torn in half.

"She sees an articulate teenager who knows what he wants. I see my son throwing away everything we've built."

Ethan noticed his father's knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the desk. That terrified him more than yelling would have. This was Robert cornered, desperate, about to escalate to something worse.

"I'm not throwing anything away. I'm choosing something different."

"You're choosing a girl and a pipe dream over guaranteed success."

"I'm choosing my own life."

His father set down the report with careful precision. "Dr. Martinez has done her evaluation. Now we deal with reality."

"What does that mean?"

"It means a psychiatric assessment can't change financial facts." His father opened a folder, pulled out papers. MIT letterhead. "MIT costs approximately $80,000 per year. For four years, that's $320,000. I've been saving for your education since you were born. That money was intended for your future."

Ethan's chest tightened. "Was?"

"I'm not paying for MIT."

The words hung in the air, sharp and final.

"You can't—"

"I can. And I will. You want to be an adult? Adults face financial realities. You want to make your own choices? Make them without my money."

"The NHL draft is in June. You're projected first round. Signing bonus alone could be $800,000, plus entry-level contract worth three million over three years. That money is yours. Guaranteed. Real."

He slid another paper across the desk. A commitment letter, NHL prospect registration.

"Sign this, and your college education is covered. Play for three years, then go to MIT if you still want to. You'll have money, experience, and options. Refuse to sign, and you're on your own financially. Your choice."

Ethan stared at the papers. MIT acceptance letter. NHL commitment letter. Two futures, mutually exclusive.

"I need time to think."

"You have until May 1st. College decision day. Sign this, or sign the MIT acceptance without my support. But understand: if you choose MIT now, you're choosing massive student debt, financial struggle, and uncertainty. Is she worth that?"

The question was designed to make this about Sophia. It wasn't.

"This isn't about her."

"Everything has been about her since she came back."

"This is about me having the right to choose my own future."

"Then choose. NHL money and security, or MIT debt and struggle. You want to be emancipated? Fine. Prove you can handle adult consequences."

His father picked up the report, the one that should have been a victory. "Dr. Martinez says you demonstrate clear autonomous decision-making. Let's see if she's right."

Ethan left the office with his head spinning. In the hallway, Jordan was waiting.

"I heard," his brother said quietly.

"He's going to cut me off completely."

"Unless you sign the NHL commitment."

"I can't sign that. That's giving him exactly what he wants."

"So what are you going to do?"

Ethan looked at his phone. Three weeks until May 1st. Three weeks to figure out how to pay for MIT without his father's money. Three weeks to decide if freedom was worth $320,000 of debt.

"I'm going to find another way."

Jordan's expression was skeptical. "How?"

"I don't know yet. But I'm not signing away my future because he's holding money over my head."

"Ethan—"

"There has to be another way."

Jordan's phone buzzed on the desk. He glanced at it, then passed it to Ethan. Sophia's message on Signal: "nationals april 25-27. toronto. qualified first seed"

Sophia. Three weeks until her national championships.

"He'll never let you go," Jordan said, reading over his shoulder.

"I know."

"If you defy him on this, he'll go nuclear. The MIT money will be gone for sure."

"I know that too."

"So?"

Ethan looked at the message. First seed. National championships. Everything she'd worked for.

"I'm going anyway."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Jordan was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'll drive you."

"Jordan—"

"He can't control both of us. I'm in college, I have a car. He can threaten, but I have a scholarship. I'm not afraid of him anymore."

Ethan felt something shift. Not just him against his father. Him and Jordan. Together.

"April 26th," he said. "Toronto. We'll leave early."

"What about the NHL thing? The deadline?"

"I'll deal with that later. First, I'm going to watch her win a national championship."

"And Dad?"

Ethan looked back at his father's office, where the man was probably already planning his next move.

"Dad just played his financial card. He thinks money will control me the way hockey always did. He's about to learn he's wrong."

Jordan nodded slowly. "This is going to get worse before it gets better."

"I know."

"Emancipation hearing is May 15th."

"I know."

"What if you don't win?"

"Then I figure it out for a year and file again at eighteen."

"With no money, no support, and no guarantee MIT will still want you."

"Then I'll find another path. But I'm not giving up. Not now."

Jordan gripped his shoulder. "Okay. Toronto. April 26th. We'll leave at seven AM."

"Thank you."

"That's what brothers are for."

Robert Price sat alone in his office long after Ethan left, the psychiatric report spread across his desk like evidence of betrayal. Twenty-three years of practice, Dr. Martinez had. Twenty-three years, and she couldn't see what was right in front of her.

He picked up his phone, scrolled to a contact labeled "Investigator - Detroit."

"Mr. Price," the voice answered on the first ring. "I was expecting your call."

"You've been tracking them for three months. Tell me you have something more substantial than photos and emails."

"We have everything, Mr. Price. Every meeting location, duration, content when possible. The science fair incident you mentioned—we have security footage. The rink meetings in December. The coffee shop study sessions. But more importantly, we have the dates."

"The dates?"

"Miss Chen turned eighteen on February 14th. Your son remains seventeen until August 12th. In the eyes of the law, she's an adult in a relationship with a minor."

Robert felt something cold and certain settle in his chest. "Go on."

"There's more. The girl has been actively encouraging him to defy parental authority. We have messages where she supports his emancipation, helps him research financial aid, essentially coaching him through rebellion. In Michigan, that could be construed as interference with custody."

"Could be?"

"With the right prosecutor, the right presentation, it becomes a pattern of an adult manipulating a minor away from parental guidance. Contributing to delinquency. Interference with custody. The age gap may be small, but the law is the law."

Robert stood, walked to his window. Outside, the April evening was gray, fitting. "Send me everything. Organized, documented, ready for legal review."

"Already prepared, sir. I'll have it delivered tomorrow morning."

"Good."

He ended the call, stood at the window looking out at nothing. Ethan thought this was about control. He was wrong. This was about saving his son from the biggest mistake of his life, even if Ethan hated him for it.

The psychiatric evaluation said Ethan demonstrated exceptional maturity. Well, maturity meant understanding consequences. And consequences were coming.

Ethan went back to his room, closed the door, and pulled up the financial aid information for MIT. There had to be a way. Scholarships, loans, work-study. Emancipated students qualified differently for aid, Michael Chen had mentioned. He started researching, clicking through pages, taking notes.

His phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number.

"Your father hired us three months ago. We have everything. Every meeting, every call, every moment you thought was private. She's eighteen now. You're still seventeen. That changes everything."

The phone slipped from his hand.

They'd been watching. The whole time. And Sophia had turned eighteen without him even realizing what that meant legally.

Chapter 2: CHAPTER 2: RECRUITMENT

The MIT financial aid website was designed for clarity, but at 1 AM, the numbers blurred together into one overwhelming truth: even with aid, the cost was staggering.

Ethan sat at Jordan's desk—his temporary workspace in his brother's cramped apartment—laptop casting blue light across his face. The apartment smelled like the Thai takeout they'd had for dinner, mixed with the faint mustiness of a building that had seen better decades. Through the thin walls, he could hear the upstairs neighbor's TV, some late-night talk show laugh track punctuating his financial panic.

He rubbed his eyes, refocused on the screen. Expected Family Contribution: $65,000. Student Contribution: $8,000. MIT Grant: $7,000. Total remaining: $73,000 per year. Times four years: $292,000.

His neck cramped from hunching over the laptop. He rolled his shoulders, heard them crack. Three days since Toronto. Three days since his father had cut him off financially. Three days of living on Jordan's couch, eating Jordan's food, using Jordan's Wi-Fi to research how to afford the future he'd just committed to.

Even with the grant, he'd need loans for most of it. Federal loans maxed at $7,500 per year for undergrads. The rest would be private loans, at higher interest rates, requiring a co-signer he wouldn't have.

He pulled up his mobile banking app. Savings account: $4,247. Summer job money from the past three years. His checking account—the one his father had funded—showed $0.00. Access revoked, just like he'd promised.

The math didn't work.

Ethan opened another browser tab, the sixth one currently open, each containing a different piece of the impossible puzzle. "Financial aid for emancipated students." The results were more promising. Without parental income counted, his Expected Family Contribution dropped to zero. MIT's need-blind admission meant they'd cover demonstrated need. With emancipation, his need would be total.

Full ride possible, Michael Chen had written in the email now buried in Ethan's spam folder.

He clicked through to MIT's emancipated student guidelines, skimming information he'd already memorized. Documentation required: court order of emancipation, proof of self-support, verification of no parental financial assistance. Processing time: 4-6 weeks after emancipation granted.

May 15th hearing. June processing. June 30th first payment due.

It was tight, but possible. If everything went perfectly.

If he won the hearing. If the paperwork processed in time. If MIT accepted the updated financial aid application. If his father didn't find new ways to sabotage him.

A lot of ifs.

His phone buzzed, screen lighting up on the desk beside the laptop. Signal notification from Jordan: "still up?"

"yeah"

"dads on the phone with someone. sounds like nhl stuff"

Ethan's stomach tightened. He closed the laptop—the financial aid research would be there tomorrow—and stared at his phone. NHL stuff. More scouts. More pressure. More opportunities to say yes to the life his father had designed and no to the one he actually wanted.

He fell back onto Jordan's pull-out couch, springs creaking beneath him. The borrowed sheets smelled like generic laundry detergent, nothing like the expensive fabric softener his father's housekeeper used. Everything in his life now was temporary, borrowed, uncertain. And somehow, despite the fear and instability, it felt more his than anything in his father's house ever had.

But sleep didn't come easily. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the numbers. $292,000. Three hundred thousand dollars of debt versus three million dollars guaranteed.

His father's voice echoed in his head: "Adults face financial realities."

Yeah, well. He was facing them. He was just choosing which reality he'd rather live with.

Ethan turned over, pulled the scratchy blanket up, tried to quiet his mind. The apartment's radiator clanked and hissed. Somewhere down the hall, someone's dog barked. Normal sounds. Working-class sounds. Not the quiet perfection of his father's neighborhood where everything was controlled, managed, pristine.

Tomorrow. He'd figure it out tomorrow.

The next morning, Wednesday, April 10th. Ethan woke on Jordan's couch to his phone buzzing insistently on the coffee table. He grabbed it, squinting at the screen: Unknown number, Michigan area code.

He let it go to voicemail.

Thirty seconds later, it rang again. Same number.

"Hello?" His voice came out rough with sleep.

"Ethan Price?" A warm voice, friendly, professional. "Mike Hoffman, Director of Player Development for the Detroit Red Wings. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Ethan sat up, suddenly wide awake. NHL. His father must have given them his number. "Uh, no. I'm... I'm up."

"Excellent. Listen, I know you're probably getting a lot of calls right now, so I'll try to be respectful of your time. You got a few minutes to talk hockey?"

Through the phone, Ethan could hear office sounds—keyboards, conversations, the bustle of a professional sports organization. Real. Not theoretical anymore.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Great. So here's the thing, Ethan. We've had scouts at your games all season. League games, provincials, even a couple practices. My staff has watched probably forty hours of footage on you. And I'm going to be straight with you—we're impressed. Really impressed."

Ethan's mouth was dry. He reached for the water glass on the coffee table, found it empty. "Thanks."

"Your skating is elite level. NHL-ready right now. Your vision on the ice, the way you read plays developing before they happen—that's the kind of hockey IQ you can't teach. And your leadership? Kid, you made every player on your team better. That's rare. That's special."

Despite himself, despite everything, Ethan felt a flush of pride. He'd worked for that. Years of early morning practices, weekend tournaments, summer training camps.

"The draft is June 28th this year," Hoffman continued. "We're picking twelfth overall. You're on our shortlist. Actually, you're at the top of our shortlist. If you're still on the board when we pick, we're taking you. But I'm calling because we'd like to talk about pre-draft commitment. Get ahead of this, make sure you land where you want to land."

"What does that mean exactly?" Ethan asked.

"It means we want to sign you before the draft. Entry-level contract, three years, locked in. That way there's no uncertainty, no draft day stress. You know where you're going, we know we're getting our guy. It's a win-win."

Ethan heard his father's footsteps in the hallway outside Jordan's apartment. Checking on him probably. Making sure he was handling the financial reality of independence.

"What kind of contract are we talking about?" He had to ask. He had to know what he was turning down.

"Entry-level contract structure is pretty standard across the league, but we can make ours competitive. Three years, $925,000 per year base salary, plus performance bonuses that could add another $200K per year if you hit benchmarks. Signing bonus of $850,000 paid up front. That's two point eight million guaranteed over three years, potentially three point four if you perform well. Which, based on what we've seen, you will."

Ethan's brain tried to process the numbers. He'd been researching $292,000 in student loans last night. Now someone was offering him nearly three million dollars.

"And listen," Hoffman's voice dropped, more personal now. "I know money isn't everything. I know you're a smart kid, got academic interests. We respect that. So here's what else we're offering: full education package. After your hockey career—whether that's five years or fifteen—we pay for college. Any school, any degree. You want MIT? You play a few years of hockey first, bank a few million, then go to MIT debt-free with money in your account. Best of both worlds, Ethan."

It was smart. Targeting exactly his objection. Exactly his fear.

"You could be starting engineering school at twenty-two, twenty-three, with ten million dollars in the bank," Hoffman continued. "Versus starting at eighteen with three hundred thousand in debt. From a pure financial standpoint, there's no comparison."

Ethan's hand tightened on the phone. The math was irrefutable. The logic was sound. This was the adult decision, the responsible decision, the decision any rational person would make.

"I need to think about it," he said.

"Of course, absolutely. This is a big decision. But here's the reality—other teams are circling. Tampa called your dad yesterday. Chicago the day before. Colorado's sniffing around. You're a hot commodity, kid. Teams are going to make offers. The question is whether you want to control where you land or leave it up to draft day chance."

"How long do I have?"

"We'd like an answer by mid-May. Draft's June 28th, so we need time to make alternate plans if you're not interested. But between you and me?" Hoffman's voice went conspiratorial. "Don't wait too long. This offer won't be on the table forever."

Mid-May. After the emancipation hearing. After everything was decided.

"Your father's a legend, Ethan. I played against him back in the day—he was tough as nails. He knows what this career means, what this opportunity is. He understands the path because he walked it. That's valuable guidance, having someone who's been there."

The words landed wrong, a reminder that this call wasn't random. His father had orchestrated this. Timed it. Weaponized it.

"Thanks for the call," Ethan said. "I'll think about it."

"You do that. And Ethan? Your dad has my direct number. Any questions, any concerns, you call me. Day or night. We want you in Detroit. We think you could be special here."

The call ended.

Ethan sat on the couch in Jordan's apartment, holding his silent phone, trying to process what had just happened.

Three million dollars. MIT paid for. No debt. No financial desperation. No emancipation hearings and courtroom battles.

All he had to do was delay his life by three years. Play a sport he was good at but didn't love. Live in Detroit instead of Boston. Let his father win.

His phone buzzed. Text from his father: "Detroit made their offer. Smart money says you take it. Last chance to think clearly about your future."

Ethan deleted the message without responding.

Later that afternoon, Jordan returned to the apartment with groceries. Ethan was still on the couch, laptop open, researching summer jobs that would hire a seventeen-year-old with limited availability.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck," Jordan observed, setting bags on the kitchen counter.

"Detroit called this morning. Offered me a contract."

Jordan paused in unpacking canned goods. "And?"

"Three million guaranteed. Education package after I retire. MIT paid for if I play hockey first."

"That's... actually a good offer."

"I know."

"Are you considering it?"

Ethan closed the laptop. "For like five seconds, yeah. Then I remembered I'd be living Dad's dream instead of mine for the next three to five years. Maybe longer."

Jordan resumed unpacking. "For what it's worth, I think you're making the right choice. But it's going to be hard."

"Everything's hard now."

"True." Jordan pulled out a frozen pizza. "Dinner?"

"Yeah."

While Jordan preheated the oven, Ethan checked his Signal app. He and Sophia had switched to the encrypted messaging app after Toronto, one more way to communicate without his father monitoring. The messages deleted automatically after twenty-four hours, leaving no trail.

New message from Sophia: "how r u doing?"

He typed back: "detroit called. offered 3mil+"

"omg"

"told them i need time to think"

"are you actually thinking about it"

Ethan stared at the screen. Was he?

"no," he finally typed. "just needed to know what im turning down"

"thats a lot of money"

"yeah"

"still worth it though. right?"

"right"

Pause. Then: "training is intense. nationals in 2 weeks"

"i know. im coming"

"ethan your dad will lose it"

"he already lost it. cant get worse"

"famous last words"

"probably"

"i have to go. coach is calling team meeting"

"ok. talk later"

"miss you"

"miss you too"

The messages would disappear in twenty-four hours. Everything felt temporary now. Conversations, housing, financial security. The only permanent thing was the choice he'd made: MIT over NHL. Sophia over isolation. His future over his father's legacy.

He just had to survive long enough to get there.

The next two weeks moved in a strange rhythm. Ethan spent his days job hunting—finding a landscaping company that would hire him for the summer—and his evenings researching emancipation law and financial aid procedures. Jordan worked his regular schedule, gave Ethan space when he needed it, company when he didn't.

His father called twice more. Ethan didn't answer.

Scout calls continued. Tampa. Chicago. Colorado. Each one offering variations on the same theme: money, security, future. Each one making it harder to remember why he was choosing the difficult path.

But then Sophia would message him updates about training. Her coach thought she had a real shot at gold. The competition was fierce, but she was ready. And Ethan would remember: this was why. Not just her, but what she represented. The choice to pursue what you loved, not what was expected. The courage to risk failure for the chance at something authentic.

April 24th, two days before nationals. Jordan found Ethan on the couch, staring at his laptop.

"You've been looking at that screen for an hour," Jordan said. "What's going on?"

"Mapquest directions to Toronto."

"We're really doing this?"

"We're really doing this."

Jordan sat down beside him. "Dad's going to cut off my funding too, you know. He's already threatened it."

Ethan looked at his brother. "I can't ask you to risk that."

"You're not asking. I'm volunteering. Someone needs to stand with you." Jordan's voice was firm. "And honestly? I'm tired of watching him control everything. This isn't just your fight anymore."

"What about your apartment? Your tuition?"

"I have a scholarship. Covers tuition. I'll figure out the rest." Jordan pulled out his phone, opened a maps app. "Six hours to Toronto. We leave Saturday morning, 7 AM?"

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

Ethan felt something loosen in his chest. He wasn't alone in this. Whatever happened at nationals, whatever his father did in response, he had Jordan.

"Thank you," he said.

"That's what brothers are for."

They mapped the route together. I-94 to Detroit, cross the border at Windsor, take Highway 401 to Toronto. Six hours, give or take. Semifinals started at 3 PM. They'd have time.

Ethan sent a Signal message to Sophia: "confirmed. jordan and i leaving saturday 7am. there by 2pm"

Her response came quickly: "cant believe youre actually coming"

"wouldnt miss it"

"its going to cost you"

"i know"

"worth it?"

"definitely worth it"

Friday night, April 25th. Ethan lay on Jordan's couch, too anxious to sleep. Tomorrow they'd drive six hours to watch Sophia compete. Tomorrow his father would realize both sons had defied him. Tomorrow everything would escalate.

But Sophia would be competing for a national championship. And he would be there to watch.

That was worth whatever came next.

His phone lit up with a final message from Sophia: "see you tomorrow. cant wait"

"see you tomorrow"

Twenty-four hours later, the message would disappear. But the choice would remain.

Ethan closed his eyes, finally found sleep.

Six hundred miles away in Winnipeg, Sophia Chen wasn't sleeping. She was training.

The badminton club was nearly empty at 10 PM on a Friday night. Just her, two other national-level players grinding through late practice, and Coach Williams watching from the sidelines with his ever-present clipboard.

Sophia's lungs burned. Her legs screamed. She'd been doing footwork drills for forty minutes straight—lunges, split steps, defensive shuffles—and Coach wasn't letting up.

"Again!" he called. "Faster on the recovery!"

She lunged forward, racket extended, imagined the shuttle dropping just over the net. Pushed back, reset to center court, lunged again to the opposite corner. Her shirt was soaked through with sweat. The gym smelled like effort and rubber court shoes and the protein shake she'd chugged an hour ago.

"Thirty more seconds! Push through it!"

This was the part most people didn't see. The gold medals and championship matches were glamorous. The late-night training sessions where every muscle burned and your brain begged you to stop—those weren't Instagram-worthy. But they were where championships were won.

Twenty more seconds. Fifteen. Ten.

"Time!" Coach called.

Sophia collapsed onto the court, chest heaving. Beside her, Maya Wong—another national team hopeful—was equally destroyed.

"That was brutal," Maya gasped.

"That's nationals prep," Coach said, walking over. "The competition in Toronto isn't going to go easy on you. Rachel Kim has been training six days a week. Amy Chen is backed by the BC provincial program. If you want gold, you need to be better conditioned than everyone else."

Sophia pushed herself to sitting, grabbed her water bottle. The cold liquid was heaven on her raw throat. "How's my footwork looking?"

"Better. Your recovery speed is up. But your defensive lunge to the left is still half a second slower than your right. That's where Rachel will attack you."

Sophia nodded, already mentally drilling the left lunge. Nationals were two weeks away. Two weeks to eliminate every weakness, sharpen every strength, arrive in Toronto ready to win.

Her phone buzzed in her bag on the sideline. She ignored it. No phones during practice. That was the rule.

"Fifteen minute break," Coach said. "Then we're running match simulations."

The other players dispersed to the benches. Sophia finally checked her phone. Signal notification from Ethan: "confirmed. jordan and i leaving saturday 7am. there by 2pm"

Her heart jumped. He was really coming. Risking everything—his father's wrath, possibly his MIT funding, definitely whatever fragile peace existed between them—to watch her compete.

She typed back: "cant believe youre actually coming"

His response appeared immediately: "wouldnt miss it"

Maya noticed her smile. "Ethan?"

"He's driving to Toronto for nationals."

"From Michigan? That's like six hours."

"I know."

"His dad's going to freak."

"I know that too."

Maya shook her head, grinning. "That's either really romantic or really stupid."

"Can't it be both?"

"Fair point." Maya stretched her hamstrings. "You're going to be distracted."

"No, I won't."

"Sophia, your boyfriend is going to be in the stands watching you compete at nationals. You're going to be distracted."

"He's not my—" Sophia stopped herself. What was Ethan, exactly? They'd never officially defined it. Too much chaos, too much parental interference, too much everything. "It's complicated."

"Everything about you two is complicated." Maya stood, offered a hand to pull Sophia up. "But for the record? I think he's good for you. You smile more when you talk about him."

"I smile plenty."

"You smile like a competitive athlete who just won a match. When you talk about him, you smile like a person."

Coach Williams called them back to the court before Sophia could respond.

The next two hours were match simulations. Coach threw everything at them—scenarios where they were down match point, scenarios where they were up but their opponent was rallying, scenarios where they were exhausted and every point was agony but they had to dig deeper.

By midnight, Sophia could barely lift her arms.

"Good work tonight," Coach said as they packed up. "Tomorrow, rest day. Sunday, strategy sessions. Then we ramp up for the final week."

In the parking lot, Sophia's mom was waiting in the car, reading on her phone. Helen looked up as Sophia climbed in, sweaty and exhausted.

"Late night," Helen observed.

"Nationals prep."

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Sore. Ready."

Helen drove through quiet Winnipeg streets, streetlights casting moving shadows. "Your father and I have been talking. About Toronto, about everything."

Sophia's stomach tightened. "And?"

"And we want you to know we're proud of you. National championships, MIT acceptance, maintaining your grades through everything with Robert Price creating drama. You've handled more this year than most adults handle."

"Thanks, Mom."

"We also want you to be careful. Michael's worried about legal implications. The age difference, Robert's accusations of manipulation. It's all complicated."

"Everything's complicated."

"Some things are worth the complication. We just want to make sure you're protecting yourself."

Sophia leaned her head against the window, watching her city slide past. Winnipeg in late April was caught between winter and spring—patches of snow still clinging to shaded areas, but trees beginning to bud. Everything in transition.

"Ethan's coming to nationals," she said.

Her mother was quiet for a moment. "Michael said he might. That's a big risk."

"I know. But he's coming anyway."

"That means something."

"Yeah." Sophia closed her eyes. "It does."

At home, she showered, devoured leftover stir-fry straight from the container in the fridge, then collapsed into bed. Her muscles ached in that good way, the way that meant she'd pushed hard enough to improve.

Two weeks until nationals. Fourteen days to be ready for the biggest competition of her life so far.

And Ethan would be there to watch.

She fell asleep smiling.

8 PM. Ethan sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand, fifteen minutes allotted. His father leaned against the counter with his newspaper, not even pretending to read it anymore. Just watching. Listening.

Ethan's throat was tight before he even dialed.

Sophia's voice, when she answered, was careful. Controlled. "Hey."

Just one word, but he heard everything she couldn't say in it. Two weeks since they'd talked. Fourteen days of isolation. He closed his eyes, let himself just hear her for a second.

"Hey." His own voice came out rough. He cleared his throat. "How's training?"

Behind him, his father turned a page. The sound was deliberate, a reminder: I'm here. Watch what you say.

"Good. Intense." She paused, and he knew she was choosing words carefully too. "Coach thinks I have a real shot at gold."

What she meant: I'm surviving. I miss you. Are you okay?

What he heard: I'm here. I'm waiting. Don't give up.

His chest ached with everything he couldn't say. Not with his father listening. Not with fourteen days of isolation stretching between them like a chasm he couldn't cross.

"You're going to win. I know it."

"I hope so. What about you? How are things there?"

Careful code. Things meant his father, the pressure, the escalating war.

"Complicated. But manageable. I'm still coming to Toronto."

"Are you sure that's smart?"

"Probably not. But I'm coming anyway."

He could hear her smile. "Semifinals are Saturday at 3. Finals Sunday at 2."

"I'll be there for both."

"Your dad—"

"Doesn't get to decide this. I'm watching you compete. End of story."

His father turned a page of the newspaper, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Sophia's voice softened. "I miss you."

The words hit him harder than they should. Just three words, said quietly, but they carried two weeks of isolation in them.

"I miss you too." He kept his voice neutral when what he wanted was to tell her how the isolation was killing him, how every day without her felt like holding his breath underwater, how he counted hours until these monitored calls just to hear her voice.

But he couldn't say any of that. Not with his father listening.

So he said, "Two and a half weeks, then we figure everything out," and hoped she understood everything the words carried.

"May 1st. College decision day."

"I know what I'm choosing."

"Even without your dad's support?"

"Especially without his support. I'm not playing his game anymore."

"Ethan—"

"I'm sure. MIT, emancipation, freedom. That's the path."

"It's going to be expensive."

"I'll figure it out. Michael sent me information. If emancipation goes through, full ride is possible."

"Really?"

"Really. The numbers work. I just have to win the hearing."

"May 15th."

"May 15th."

His father cleared his throat. "Two more minutes."

Ethan checked the clock. Thirteen minutes down.

"I have to go soon," he told Sophia.

"I know. Good luck with everything. See you Saturday."

"See you Saturday. Go win a national championship."

"I'll do my best."

"Your best is going to be spectacular."

The call ended. Ethan set down the phone.

His father folded the newspaper. "Saturday. Toronto. That's when you're planning to defy me."

Not a question. A statement.

"I'm going to watch her compete."

"If you go to that tournament, the MIT money is gone. Not threatened. Gone. You understand that?"

"I understand."

"And you're going anyway."

"I'm going anyway."

His father studied him for a long moment. "You really think you can do this without my help. Pay for MIT, live independently, support yourself."

"I know I can."

"You're seventeen years old. You have no idea what financial independence means."

"Then I'll learn."

"You'll fail."

"Maybe. But it'll be my failure. Not yours."

His father's expression was unreadable. "You're so certain you're right."

"I'm certain I have the right to choose."

"Even if you choose wrong."

"Even then."

His father stood, picking up his newspaper. "Saturday. Toronto. Go if you want. But understand: when you walk out that door, you're walking away from more than MIT money. You're walking away from this family."

"Jordan's coming with me."

"Jordan is making his own mistakes."

"Or maybe we're both finally making our own choices."

His father left the kitchen without responding.

Ethan sat at the table, heart pounding, hands shaking slightly.

Three days until Toronto. Three days until he defied his father's ultimatum and drove six hours to watch Sophia compete for a national championship.

Three days until everything changed.

He picked up Jordan's phone, sent a message through Signal: "saturday. 7am. jordans driving. see you at 2"

Her response: "cant wait"

Neither could he.

Because for the first time in his life, he was choosing what mattered to him over what mattered to his father.

And that felt like the first step toward freedom.

Even if it cost him everything.

In his home office, Robert Price sat at his desk long after Ethan had gone to bed. The house was quiet—too quiet, the way it had been since Ethan moved out. Jordan's apartment wasn't far, but the distance felt vast. Two sons, both slipping away, both choosing defiance over family.

He opened his laptop, pulled up the folder labeled "Emancipation Case - Evidence." Fourteen months of documentation. Photographs, text messages, location data, witness statements. Everything organized, indexed, ready for court.

But court was May 15th. Three weeks away. Too long to wait while Ethan drove to Toronto to watch that girl compete, while his sons conspired against him, while everything he'd built for them crumbled because they couldn't see what was best.

His phone sat on the desk. Three contacts were at the top of his recent calls: Mike Hoffman (Detroit), Bill Peters (Tampa), David Morrison (his lawyer).

He dialed Morrison.

"Robert. Late night."

"I need options. Legal options."

"For?"

"Ethan's going to Toronto this weekend. To watch Sophia compete. Against my explicit instruction."

"He's seventeen. You can't physically prevent him."

"I know that. What I'm asking is: what consequences can I implement that are legal?"

Morrison was quiet for a moment. "You've already cut him off financially."

"Yes."

"That's the main lever parents have. Beyond that, you're into territory that starts looking like harassment or coercion."

"What about her? What about charges?"

Another pause. Longer this time. "We've discussed the age gap issue. She turned eighteen in February. He's seventeen until August. Depending on the jurisdiction and specific actions, there could be grounds for contributing to delinquency, interference with custody."

"Could be? Or would be?"

"That depends on what evidence supports. The relationship itself isn't illegal in Michigan—age of consent is sixteen. But if we can demonstrate she encouraged him to defy parental authority, facilitated truancy, maintained contact after you explicitly forbade it—those start building a case."

Robert leaned back in his chair. His office smelled like leather and expensive whiskey, the trappings of success. He'd built this life through discipline, through understanding that sometimes you had to make hard choices for the people you loved, whether they understood it or not.

"How solid is the case?"

"Honestly? Borderline. A prosecutor might take it, might not. Depends on how aggressive they're feeling, how sympathetic the defendant is. An eighteen-year-old girl with perfect grades and a national championship? That's not an easy target."

"But possible."

"Possible." Morrison's voice carried a warning. "Robert, I have to ask: is this really the path you want to take? Criminal charges against your son's girlfriend? That's scorched earth."

"He's making a mistake that will destroy his future. Sometimes scorched earth is what love requires."

"Or sometimes it destroys the very thing you're trying to protect."

Robert ended the call.

He sat in his office, looking at the photographs spread across his desk. Ethan and Sophia at science fairs, at games, at coffee shops. His son, smiling in ways he hadn't smiled in years. Happy in ways that had nothing to do with hockey, nothing to do with the path Robert had laid out so carefully.

And Robert felt something crack in his chest—was it fear? Was it grief?—before he locked it away and returned to his planning.

Saturday, Ethan would go to Toronto. Sunday, he'd watch her win or lose. And Monday, Robert would make sure there were consequences that would finally, finally make his son understand: defiance had a cost.

Even if that cost was everything between them.

He opened a new document, began typing. Subject: "Formal complaint regarding pattern of interference with parental custody."

The words came easily. He'd been preparing them for months.

Chapter 3: CHAPTER 3: CHAMPIONSHIPS

Saturday morning, April 26th, 7:03 AM. Ethan slipped out of Jordan's apartment building carrying a backpack with two days of clothes, phone charger, and MIT financial aid documents he'd printed for obsessive review during sleepless hours.

Jordan's car—a ten-year-old Honda Civic with a dent in the passenger door and a "Michigan Engineering" sticker fading on the back window—idled at the curb, exhaust visible in the cool morning air.

Ethan climbed into the passenger seat. The car smelled like old coffee and the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. "Ready?"

"Let's go before I change my mind," Jordan said, but he was smiling.

They pulled away from the apartment complex, navigating empty morning streets toward the highway. The sunrise was just beginning, painting the eastern sky in shades of rose and gold. Spring in Michigan meant unpredictable weather—yesterday had been warm, today promised rain—but right now, everything felt possible.

"Six hours," Jordan said, merging onto I-94 East. "We'll stop once for gas and food in Michigan. Should be there by two."

Ethan pulled out his phone. No messages yet from his father, but that would change once Robert woke and realized both sons had left. He checked Signal—Sophia had sent a message at 6:30 AM: "team breakfast. so nervous i cant eat. cant believe today is happening"

He typed back: "on the road. youre going to be amazing"

"Six hours is so long"

"itll go fast"

"what if i lose"

"you wont. but even if you do, youre a national semifinalist. thats incredible"

"i want gold though"

"i know. youre going to get it"

Pause. Then: "thank you for coming. means everything"

"wouldnt miss it"

Ethan put his phone in the cup holder and watched Michigan slide past. Farmland, small towns, billboards advertising truck stops and Jesus. The highway was quiet this early on a Saturday, mostly long-haul truckers and a few other travelers with places to be.

"You ready for the fallout?" Jordan asked after they'd been driving for twenty minutes.

"No. But I'm going anyway."

"That's the spirit." Jordan adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. "For the record, this is either the most romantic or the most stupid thing I've ever done."

"Can't it be both?"

"Probably is." Jordan turned up the radio—some indie rock station from Detroit—then turned it down again. "You know Dad's going to cut off my housing money after this."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm making this choice. He doesn't get to control both of us forever."

Ethan looked at his brother. "What are you going to do? About the apartment?"

"I've been thinking about it. My scholarship covers tuition. I can pick up more hours at work, maybe find a roommate to split costs. It'll be tight, but doable." Jordan glanced over. "We'll figure it out. That's what we do."

Forty minutes into the drive, Ethan's phone buzzed. His father's name on the screen.

"That was fast," Jordan said.

Ethan answered, putting it on speaker. "I'm with Jordan. We're fine. I'll be back Sunday night."

"Where are you going." Not a question. His father already knew.

"Toronto. Sophia's national championships."

"Turn around." The voice was cold, controlled, dangerous.

"No."

"Ethan, if you go to that tournament—"

"The MIT money is gone. You've said that. I understand. I'm going anyway."

"You're making a mistake that will follow you for the rest of your life."

"I'm watching someone I care about compete at the highest level. That's not a mistake. That's what decent people do."

His father's voice dropped lower, more menacing. "You have two hours to come back. After that, there are consequences beyond money."

"I'm seventeen years old traveling with my twenty-one-year-old brother. That's legal. You can't stop me."

"I can make your life very difficult."

"You're already doing that. How much worse can it get?"

The silence on the other end felt heavy, pregnant with threat. Then: "Your emancipation hearing is May 15th. You better hope you win, because you're getting nothing from me after this. Nothing."

"I know."

"Do you? Do you really understand what you're throwing away? Not just money. Your family. Your father. Your future. Everything."

"I understand I'm choosing my own path. If you can't accept that, if you'd rather destroy me than let me make my own choices, that's your decision. Not mine."

His father hung up.

Ethan lowered the phone, hands shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs, tried to steady his breathing.

"Well," Jordan said after a moment. "That was about as bad as expected."

"He sounded... cold. Like he's already decided something."

"Probably has. But we're already an hour out. We're not turning back now."

Ethan leaned back in the seat, watching Michigan landscape roll past. His phone buzzed repeatedly over the next hour—texts from his father, increasingly hostile, each one a variation on the same theme: come back, you're making a mistake, there will be consequences.

He turned off his phone completely and tucked it in his backpack.

For the next five hours, he was free.

They crossed into Canada at the Windsor-Detroit border just after 10 AM. The customs agent looked at their IDs, asked about the purpose of their visit.

"Badminton tournament," Jordan said. "Watching a friend compete."

"How long will you be in Canada?"

"One night. Leaving tomorrow evening."

The agent waved them through.

Ontario looked remarkably like Michigan—flat farmland, similar weather, same highway monotony. But as they drove east on Highway 401, Ethan felt something shift. Distance from his father. Distance from the house that had felt like a prison. Every kilometer put more space between him and the life Robert had tried to force him into.

"Feel better?" Jordan asked.

"Yeah. Actually, yeah."

They stopped for lunch at a Tim Hortons somewhere between London and Milton. The place was packed with families, highway travelers, teenagers on road trips. Ethan ordered a sandwich and coffee, sat in a booth by the window watching traffic stream past.

"Five more hours and we'll be there," Jordan said, checking his phone. "Tournament starts at 3 PM. We'll have time."

Ethan pulled out his own phone, powered it back on. Seventeen messages from his father. He deleted them all unread. One Signal message from Sophia: "warmup in 30 min. getting real now"

"youre going to kill it"

"scared"

"you got this. ill be there cheering"

"cant wait to see you"

"same. two more hours"

He put his phone away and finished his sandwich. The coffee was terrible but necessary. He hadn't slept well, anxiety about the drive and the competition and whatever his father was planning keeping him awake until past 2 AM.

Back on the highway, the landscape started to change. More traffic, more urban sprawl. They were entering the Greater Toronto Area, one of the largest metro regions in North America. Office parks, strip malls, residential developments stretched for miles.

"Toronto's huge," Ethan said.

"Fourth largest city in North America," Jordan replied. "Nearly three million people in the city proper, six million in the metro. Makes Detroit look small."

They hit Toronto proper at 1:47 PM, navigating increasingly dense traffic toward Scarborough. The Toronto Pan Am Sports Centre was on the eastern edge of the city, a massive modern facility built for the 2015 Pan American Games.

Jordan found parking while Ethan checked his phone. Twenty-one messages from his father now, three from unknown numbers that were probably scouts or lawyers.

And one from Sophia: "just finished warmup. semifinals at 3, court 2. cant believe youre actually here"

He typed back: "parking now. see you in 5 min"

They walked toward the entrance, backpacks slung over shoulders. The facility was enormous—glass and steel and concrete, clean lines and modern architecture. Tournament banners hung outside: "Badminton Canada National Championships 2025."

Inside was controlled chaos.

The sports centre hummed with energy that hit Ethan like a physical force. The smell struck him first—a mixture of sweat, sports tape, the rubber of court shoes against polished floors, and something else he couldn't quite identify. Determination, maybe. Competition.

Multiple badminton courts filled the massive space, matches already in progress on several. The distinctive thwack of shuttles being hit echoed through the facility, mixed with referee calls, coach instructions, and crowd reactions. Athletes warmed up in designated areas, their movements sharp and focused. Parents and coaches clustered in viewing sections, phones out, recording every moment.

Overhead, the PA system called match updates: "Court 3, women's doubles quarterfinals now beginning. Court 5, men's singles semifinals in ten minutes."

Ethan scanned the space, trying to orient himself. The facility was enormous—he counted at least twelve courts, all with matches or warmups happening simultaneously. Tournament brackets were posted near registration, showing the day's schedule.

"There," Jordan pointed to a digital display showing court assignments. "Court 2. Women's Singles Semifinals at 3 PM."

They navigated through the crowd toward Court 2. The bleachers were already half-full, parents and fans claiming good viewing spots. A livestream camera was being set up courtside—Badminton Canada would be streaming the semifinals and finals on YouTube, archived for coaches and scouts to review later.

Ethan scanned the warm-up area. Athletes in team uniforms stretched, practiced footwork, shadow-swung their rackets. Team Manitoba wore blue and white. British Columbia was red. Ontario gold. Quebec black and white. Every province represented, every athlete at this level representing years of training and sacrifice.

And then he saw her.

Ethan scanned the warm-up area and found her.

Sophia stretched near the court entrance, wearing Team Manitoba blue and white, hair pulled back in a competition braid, face focused. She was checking her phone, probably looking for his text, and hadn't seen him yet.

For a second, Ethan just watched her. Two weeks since he'd seen her in person. Two weeks of isolation had been photographs and monitored phone calls and messages smuggled through Jordan. Now she was right there, twenty feet away, real and solid and—

She looked up. Saw him.

The smile that broke across her face made the six-hour drive, the furious voicemails, all of it worth it.

She crossed the distance between them quickly, and suddenly they were hugging, fierce and relieved, her racket bag hitting his shoulder, her hair smelling like tournament venue and hotel shampoo and something that was just her.

"You came," she said into his shoulder.

"Always." His arms tightened around her. Two weeks of isolation breaking in one hug. He'd forgotten what this felt like—being close to her, being allowed to just be close without supervision or countdown timers or his father listening from another room.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, still in his arms. Her eyes were bright, maybe tears held back, maybe just overwhelming relief. "I can't believe you're actually here."

"I can't believe it either." His heart was still racing. "I know, but after everything—"

She stopped herself, glancing past him. "Hi, Jordan."

"Hey, Sophia. Go win this thing."

"I'll try."

Her hand was still on his arm. She noticed, started to pull away, but he covered her hand with his own, holding it there for a second longer.

"How do you feel? Ready?"

"Terrified. But less terrified now."

The previous match ended, players shaking hands, exiting the court. An official called for semifinals players to take positions.

"That's me," Sophia said. "I have to—"

"Go." He made himself let go, even though every instinct said to hold on. "We'll be up there." He pointed to the bleachers. "Go win."

She grabbed her bag, squeezed his hand once more, then jogged toward the court entrance. Ten feet away, she looked back, grinning.

Then Michael Chen emerged from the team area, and his expression when he saw Ethan was complicated—concern, resignation, maybe a little relief too. He nodded at Ethan, a small gesture that said I'm glad you're here even if this makes everything more complicated.

Sophia ran back to her coach, grabbed her racket, stepped onto the court, but Ethan could still feel the warmth of her hand in his.

Ethan and Jordan climbed into the bleachers, finding seats with clear view of the court. Around them, other spectators settled in, cameras ready, coaching notes open.

The announcement came over the speakers: "Women's Singles Semifinals, Court 2. Sophia Chen, Manitoba, first seed, versus Rachel Kim, British Columbia, defending national champion. Best of three games. First serve to Rachel Kim."

Rachel was taller than Sophia, athletic and powerful, confidence radiating from her stance. She'd won this tournament last year. She expected to win it again.

Sophia took her position, racket ready, expression calm.

The serve came hard and deep. Sophia returned it down the line, testing Rachel's backhand. The rally developed, both players probing for weakness.

Fifteen shots in, Rachel smashed. Sophia dove, got her racket on it, popped it high. Rachel smashed again, unreturnable.

1-0, Rachel.

"She's strong," Jordan murmured.

"Sophia's faster," Ethan said.

The match progressed, tight and competitive. Rachel's power against Sophia's speed and strategy. Every point felt earned, neither player giving anything easy.

At 8-7 Rachel, Sophia adjusted tactics. Instead of trying to match power, she started using angles, drop shots, deceptive clears. Making Rachel move, forcing errors, controlling tempo.

11-8, Sophia.

"There we go," Jordan said.

Rachel called timeout, conferred with her coach. When play resumed, she'd adjusted too, mixing up her shots, varying pace.

The first game stayed tight. 18-17 Sophia. 19-19. 20-19 Rachel. Game point.

Rachel's serve, hard and low. Sophia returned it, Rachel smashed, Sophia defended, Rachel smashed again. The shuttle seemed impossible to reach, but Sophia extended, barely got her racket on it, sent it looping back over the net.

Rachel moved forward for the kill shot, but the shuttle dropped short. She lunged, hit the net.

20-20.

Sophia's serve now. She kept it simple, deep and high. Rachel returned with a clear, Sophia dropped it short, Rachel ran forward, returned cross-court, Sophia was waiting, smashed down the line.

21-20, Sophia.

Game point again. Rachel's face showed frustration now, control slipping.

Long rally, back and forth, both players breathing hard. Then Sophia saw the opening, drop shot perfectly placed, Rachel ran but couldn't reach it.

21-19. Sophia took the first game.

In the bleachers, Ethan released breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Beside him, Jordan was grinning.

"One more game like that," Jordan said.

But the second game was different. Rachel came out aggressive, angry, determined. She'd lost the first game. She wasn't losing the match.

Her smashes found corners. Her serves caught Sophia off-guard. The power game that Sophia had neutralized in game one worked in game two.

10-5, Rachel.

15-9.

Sophia called timeout. Michael Chen met her at the side, water bottle and quiet words. Ethan couldn't hear what was said, but he saw Sophia nod, shake out her arms, refocus.

When play resumed, she was different. More patient. Defending everything, making Rachel work for every point. The power shots kept coming, but Sophia wasn't trying to match them anymore. She was surviving them, waiting for Rachel to make mistakes.

17-14, Rachel.

19-16.

20-17. Game point for Rachel.

But Sophia defended the kill shot, defended the next smash, defended until Rachel went for too much angle and hit it out.

20-18.

Sophia's serve. Rachel attacked it, Sophia defended, Rachel smashed, Sophia lobbed it high, Rachel smashed again, Sophia got under it, returned it, Rachel hit the net.

20-19.

The crowd was loud now, invested in the comeback.

But Rachel closed it out on the next point, smash that Sophia couldn't reach.

21-19. Rachel won the second game.

1-1. Third game to decide who went to finals.

Ethan's heart pounded. Jordan was leaning forward, elbows on knees, watching intently.

On the court, both players looked tired. This was the moment of truth. Whoever had more left, whoever wanted it more, whoever could push through fatigue and pressure.

The third game started cautiously, both players testing. 3-2 Sophia. 5-4 Rachel. 7-7.

Neither could establish dominance. Every point was a battle.

At 10-10, something shifted. Sophia found another gear. Maybe the crowd energy, maybe something internal, but she started moving faster, hitting harder, playing with certainty.

13-10 Sophia.

16-12.

18-14.

Rachel tried to rally, got two points back. 18-16. But Sophia closed the door. Three straight points, perfect execution, no mistakes.

21-16. Sophia won the semifinals.

The crowd erupted. Sophia bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard. Then she straightened, shook Rachel's hand at the net, thanked the officials.

As she left the court, her eyes found Ethan in the bleachers.

He was clapping, standing, overwhelmed with pride.

She'd done it. Beaten the defending champion. She was going to finals.

After the match, Ethan waited near the warm-up area. Officials and coaches moved around, preparing for the next matches. Sophia emerged from the athlete area, changed into warm-up clothes, hair damp from a quick shower.

She saw him and smiled, the exhausted but happy smile of someone who'd just won something important.

"That was incredible," Ethan said.

"Thanks. I can't believe you saw it."

"I wouldn't have missed it."

They stood there, aware of people watching, coaches and officials and other athletes. Not the place for the reunion they wanted.

Michael Chen approached, carrying Sophia's equipment bag. He looked at Ethan, expression complicated.

"That was a hell of a drive," he said.

"Six hours. Worth it."

"Your father's going to be furious."

"He already is."

Michael sighed. "You two need to be careful. Finals are tomorrow at 2 PM. Sophia needs to rest, recover, prepare. No distractions."

"I'm not a distraction," Ethan said.

"That's not what I meant." Michael's voice softened. "I'm glad you're here. I'm glad she has support. But tomorrow is the most important match of her life so far. Let her focus."

"I will."

"We're staying at a hotel near the venue. Team accommodations. Sophia needs to stay with the team tonight."

Sophia started to protest, but Michael raised a hand. "Non-negotiable. You have curfew, nutrition plan, strategy session. This is nationals, not a social visit."

"Dad—"

"Tomorrow after the match, you'll have time. Tonight, you're an athlete. Understood?"

She nodded reluctantly.

Jordan appeared with hotel information on his phone. "Ethan and I got a room a few blocks away. We'll be here tomorrow at 1 PM for warm-up."

"Good," Michael said. He looked at both of them. "I hope you know what you're risking. Both of you."

"We know," Ethan said.

Michael nodded, then guided Sophia back toward the team area. She looked back once, small wave, then disappeared into the building.

"Her dad's protective," Jordan observed.

"He's a lawyer. He understands what my father can do legally."

"Can he help?"

"I think he wants to. But it's complicated."

They left the sports centre, found their hotel, checked in. The room was basic but clean, two beds, view of Toronto traffic. Ethan showered, changed, tried to eat dinner, but his mind was elsewhere.

Tomorrow. Finals. National championship.

And somewhere in Michigan, his father was planning his next move.

Ethan's phone had been silent since they'd arrived in Toronto, which meant his father had moved past angry texts to strategic thinking. That was more dangerous.

But tomorrow, none of that mattered.

Tomorrow, Sophia was competing for gold.

And Ethan was going to watch her win.

Sunday, April 27th, 1:00 PM. The sports centre was more crowded than yesterday, finals drawing bigger audiences. Ethan and Jordan arrived early, found seats close to the court.

The bracket update showed Sophia's opponent: Amy Chen from Vancouver, no relation, who'd won the other semifinal yesterday in straight games.

At 1:30, athletes began warming up. Sophia appeared in competition gear, Team Manitoba uniform, hair braided back. She looked focused, in the zone, but when she spotted Ethan in the stands, she allowed herself a small smile.

He smiled back.

You've got this.

At 1:50, officials called finalists to the court. The announcement echoed through the facility: "Women's Singles National Championship Final. Sophia Chen, Manitoba, versus Amy Chen, Vancouver. Best of three games."

The stands were packed now, hundreds of spectators, cameras, live streaming setup. This was the highest level of badminton competition in Canada. The winner would be national champion, get funding, international competition opportunities, national team consideration.

The championship would be live-streamed on Badminton Canada's YouTube channel, archived for recruiting coaches and national team scouts to review. The stands were full of parents with phones raised, recording every point for personal archives and social media. Instagram stories and TikToks were already appearing with #NationalsFinals tags.

Ethan had turned off his Instagram account weeks ago, one less thing for his father to monitor. He wouldn't be posting celebration videos or tagging Sophia in victory photos. This moment would exist for them, not for public consumption.

Everything Sophia had trained for.

The match began.

Amy came out aggressive, powerful smashes, deep clears, testing Sophia immediately. First game started fast.

3-1 Amy.

5-2.

Sophia adjusted, started playing her game. Speed, angles, strategy. By 8-7, she'd taken the lead.

The first game was tight, both players elite level, neither giving ground easily. 18-17 Amy. 19-19. 20-19 Sophia.

Game point.

Sophia served, Amy returned hard, rally developed. Twelve shots, both players sprinting, diving, fighting. Then Sophia saw her moment, cross-court drop shot, perfectly weighted.

Amy lunged, couldn't reach it.

21-19. Sophia took the first game.

In the stands, Ethan breathed. One game up. One game away from gold.

But Amy wasn't done. The second game, she came out determined. Her smashes found corners, her defense was impenetrable.

8-4 Amy.

12-7.

Sophia called timeout, conferred with her coach. When she returned to the court, she looked calmer, more patient.

But Amy had momentum. She closed out the second game efficiently, clinical.

21-17 Amy.

1-1. Everything would be decided in the third game.

Ethan's heart hammered. Jordan was gripping the seat in front of him. Around them, the crowd was electric.

Third game. National championship on the line.

Both players looked tired, matches over two days taking their toll. But neither showed any sign of quitting.

The game started cautiously. 3-3. 6-5 Sophia. 8-7 Amy.

Neither could break away. Every point was earned, every rally exhausting.

At 11-10 Amy, they switched sides. Brief break, towels, water, both players breathing hard.

Play resumed.

Sophia started finding her rhythm. Her drop shots were landing perfectly, her defense reading Amy's smashes. She started pulling away.

14-11 Sophia.

16-12.

18-14.

Amy tried to rally, got one point back. 18-15. But Sophia was in control now, playing with confidence and precision.

19-15.

20-16.

Championship point.

Sophia served. Amy returned aggressively, trying to prevent the winning shot. Rally developed, long and brutal. Both players sprinting, both exhausted, both refusing to lose.

Twenty shots. Thirty. Sophia defending, defending, waiting for the opening.

Then she saw it. Amy slightly off-balance, recovering from a lunge.

Sophia's drop shot, perfectly placed, cross-court, untouchable.

Amy dove, fully extended, but couldn't reach it.

21-16.

Sophia won.

National Champion.

The crowd exploded. Sophia dropped her racket, bent over, hands on knees, lungs burning, legs shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline. The arena lights seemed too bright, sounds washing over her in waves—cheering, applause, her name being called.

Disbelief and joy crashed through her simultaneously. She'd done it. She'd actually done it.

Her coach reached her first—Coach Rivera sprinting onto the court, tears streaming down her face, pulling Sophia into a fierce embrace. "National champion! I knew you could do it!"

Then Maya tackled them both, screaming. Then the rest of the team—everyone crying and laughing and shouting. Sophia couldn't breathe but she didn't care, surrounded by teammates who'd supported her through three months of the hardest training of her life.

The weight of the moment hit her: national champion. The gold medal. The recognition. Everything she'd worked for since switching from hockey at age nine.

Officials were clapping, Amy crossing the court to shake her hand, genuine congratulations despite her own disappointment. "That was incredible. You earned it."

"Thank you," Sophia managed, voice hoarse from exertion. "You played amazing."

And in the stands, Ethan was standing, clapping, overwhelmed with pride and joy.

She'd done it.

National Champion.

All hers, earned through her own talent and work and determination.

The victory ceremony was ten minutes later, but first came the media gauntlet.

Photographers positioned Sophia with the trophy—heavy gold-plated metal that caught arena lights, Badminton Canada logo engraved on the base. She held it up, grinning so wide her face hurt, cameras clicking from every angle.

"Smile bigger! Hold it higher! Look this way!"

Behind the photographers, teammates held up phones recording TikToks and Instagram stories. Maya was already live-streaming, commentary breathless with excitement: "National champion, you guys! Sophia freaking Chen!"

The trophy was heavier than Sophia expected, substantial weight of accomplishment. Her arms shook slightly from match exhaustion, but she kept holding it up, kept smiling, this moment too important to let fatigue show.

"Team photo!" Coach Rivera called. Team Manitoba clustered around Sophia, trophy in the center, everyone grinning and crying. Multiple phones capturing the same moment from different angles, immortalizing victory for Instagram feeds and family albums and future recruiting portfolios.

Sophia's phone was somewhere in her equipment bag, buzzing constantly. She could imagine the flood: congratulations messages, social media notifications, texts from friends who'd watched the livestream. Later she'd scroll through it all, save the screenshots, reply to the messages.

But right now, she was living it.

She pulled out her phone briefly—one message she needed to see. Ethan's text: "NATIONAL CHAMPION. I knew you would. I'm so proud of you."

She was still smiling, still reading his message, still feeling the weight of the trophy in her hands when her mother's expression changed. When Jordan's hand gripped her shoulder with sudden urgency. When she looked up and saw Robert Price walking toward her across the arena floor.

The victory ceremony happened in a daze.

Three podiums set up on the court, bronze and silver finalists already in position. Sophia tried to refocus, tried to be present for this moment she'd worked three years to reach.

When they called her name for gold, she stepped onto the top podium. The official placed the gold medal around her neck—cold metal against her throat, red and white ribbon, maple leaf embossed on the face. The national anthem played, and she stood at the highest level of her sport, hand over heart.

Her eyes swept the crowd, found Ethan in the bleachers.

Their eye contact held across the distance.

This moment was hers. This achievement was hers. The medal was hers.

But Robert's presence in the building tainted everything, victory turning hollow before she'd even stepped off the podium.

The ceremony ended. Photographs, interviews, official business. Sophia moved through it mechanically, smile painted on, mind racing about what Robert's appearance meant.

Ethan waited near the lobby area with Jordan and her parents, their faces reflecting the same worry she felt.

Finally, she emerged from the athlete area, gold medal still around her neck, smile radiant.

Ethan met her halfway, and they hugged, fierce and relieved and celebrating.

"You did it," he said.

"I did it."

"National Champion."

"National Champion."

Jordan appeared with congratulations, then Michael and Helen Chen, both beaming with pride. For a few minutes, it was celebration, happiness, victory untainted by outside pressures.

Then Ethan's phone buzzed. Unknown number, Michigan area code.

He ignored it.

The phone buzzed again. Same number.

"You should answer that," Michael said quietly.

Ethan stepped away, answered. "Hello?"

"Ethan Price?" Professional voice, official.

"Yes?"

"This is David Morrison, representing Robert Price in the emancipation proceeding. Is your father with you?"

"No."

"I see. Are you currently in Toronto?"

Ethan's stomach tightened. "Why?"

"Your father is here. At the sports centre. He'd like to speak with you. Outside the main entrance."

The celebration froze.

"He's here?"

"Yes. He arrived an hour ago. If you could join him outside, that would be appreciated."

The call ended.

Ethan lowered the phone. Sophia was watching him, joy draining from her expression.

"What's wrong?"

"My father's here."

The words fell like stones.

"Here? In Toronto?"

"Outside. He wants to talk."

Michael's face went professional, lawyer mode. "Don't go alone."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"It's not about fear. It's about witnesses. I'll come with you."

Jordan nodded. "Me too."

They moved toward the entrance, celebration evaporating into dread. The lobby was still crowded with post-tournament athletes and families, but they cut through to the main doors.

Outside, under gray April sky threatening rain, Robert Price waited.

He wasn't alone. Two men in business attire stood with him—expensive suits, briefcases, professional demeanor radiating authority. Lawyers or investigators, Ethan guessed. Probably both.

His father's expression was controlled, cold, dangerous calm that was worse than anger.

"Ethan."

"Dad."

"You defied me."

"I came to watch Sophia compete."

"You chose her over your family."

"I chose to support someone I care about. That's not mutually exclusive with family."

His father stepped closer, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. Close enough that Ethan could smell his cologne—expensive, suffocating. The same cologne from every childhood memory, now associated only with threat.

"You left Michigan against my direct order. You ignored seventeen phone calls. You crossed international borders to be with her. You prioritized a relationship over your future, your family, everything I've built for you."

"I prioritized being a decent human being over your control."

Jordan moved to Ethan's side, protective stance. Michael Chen positioned himself between Robert and Sophia.

The unspoken battle lines drawn on a Toronto parking lot outside a badminton tournament.

One of the men with his father stepped forward, handed Ethan a document. "This is notification of change to your financial support status. Effective immediately, college funding is terminated. Your access to family accounts is revoked. You're financially independent as of today."

Ethan took the document, scanned it. Legal letterhead, official language, his father's signature.

"You're disowning me."

"I'm giving you what you wanted," his father said. "Independence. Adult responsibility. You think you can manage without my support? Prove it."

Michael stepped forward. "Robert, this is extreme."

"Stay out of this, Michael. This is between me and my son."

"This is between you and your need for control," Michael said. "You're punishing him for having autonomy."

"I'm teaching him consequences."

"You're destroying your relationship with him."

His father's expression didn't change. "If he wants a relationship, he knows what to do. Sign the NHL commitment. Respect the path I've laid for him. Otherwise, he's on his own."

Ethan found his voice. "The emancipation hearing is May 15th."

"I know."

"I'm still filing."

"I know that too." His father's smile was cold, sharp as broken glass. "You better hope you win. Because you're getting nothing from me after this. Not college, not housing, not support of any kind."

He turned to leave, the two professionals following like shadows. Five steps away, he stopped, looked back.

His eyes found Sophia—still in her Team Manitoba warm-up jacket, gold medal visible around her neck.

"Miss Chen," Robert said, voice pleasant, poisonous. "Congratulations on your championship. Impressive performance."

Sophia's hand found Ethan's, squeezed tight.

Robert's smile widened. "Enjoy it. Because after your eighteenth birthday, supporting a minor in defying his parents has legal implications. Criminal implications. My attorneys have been reviewing the statutes. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Interference with custody. Fascinating reading."

Michael Chen went rigid. "Robert, don't—"

"May 15th," Robert continued, ignoring Michael entirely. "The emancipation hearing. I'll see you both in court. And Sophia? I'd recommend consulting a criminal defense attorney. You're going to need one."

Then he was gone, disappearing into Toronto afternoon, leaving his threat hanging in the cold April air.

The parking lot felt silent despite traffic noise, other families loading into cars, normal life continuing around them while theirs imploded.

Ethan stood there, document in hand, world tilting.

Sophia appeared beside him, gold medal still around her neck, victory already feeling distant.

"What did he do?"

"Cut me off financially. Completely."

"Can he do that?"

"He just did."

Michael took the document, read it quickly. "This is legally binding. He's terminated all financial support effective immediately."

"So I'm independent now."

"Involuntarily, yes."

"Does that help with emancipation?"

"It complicates it. You're already unsupported, which removes one of the main reasons for emancipation. But it also proves his control tactics."

Ethan's mind raced. "If I'm financially independent already, do I still qualify for the MIT aid package?"

"You'd need the court to officially recognize your independence. That's the emancipation hearing."

"Which is May 15th."

"Right."

"And MIT's first payment is due June 30th."

"You're cutting it very close."

Jordan put a hand on Ethan's shoulder. "We'll figure it out."

But Ethan saw his father's strategy now. Cut him off, force financial desperation, make emancipation both necessary and difficult to prove. Make him dependent on Sophia's family, which would feed the "manipulation" narrative.

Every move calculated.

Every escape route narrowed.

Sophia took his hand. "We'll figure it out," she echoed Jordan's words.

Ethan looked at her—gold medal glinting in gray afternoon light, Team Manitoba jacket, national champion—and felt the weight of what his father had just done.

What he was threatening to do.

Criminal charges. Prison time. Sophia's MIT acceptance revoked. Engineering career destroyed before it started.

All because she'd supported him. All because she'd believed he deserved to choose his own future.

Last happy moment, his father had said.

The words echoed, prophetic and poisonous.

Sophia's face had gone pale, processing the threat. Her hand trembled in his, the gold medal around her neck suddenly feeling like a target, marking her as someone who'd achieved something beautiful right before Robert tried to destroy her for it.

"Let's get out of here," Ethan said, voice rough.

They left the sports centre, Toronto afternoon gray and cold despite being late April. The championship was won but the celebration was destroyed, victory tainted before Sophia had even left the building.

In the car—Jordan driving, Michael and Helen following in their own vehicle—Sophia stared at her gold medal.

National Champion. The title she'd worked three years to earn. The achievement that should have been pure joy, pure accomplishment.

Instead, it felt hollow. Dangerous. Like holding proof of everything Robert could take away.

Her phone buzzed. Instagram notifications flooding in—congratulations from friends, teammates celebrating, her championship photo being shared and liked and commented on.

Normal people having normal reactions to a normal victory.

While she processed the threat of criminal charges for the crime of supporting someone she cared about.

She turned off her phone and closed her eyes, gold medal cold against her throat.

National Champion.

And possibly, soon, criminal defendant.

The bill for freedom, she was learning, kept getting higher.

And payment was due in two weeks.

Chapter 4: CHAPTER 4: SIGNING DAY

May 1st, 5:47 AM. Sophia woke three minutes before her alarm, heart already racing.

The nightmare had been vivid—courtroom, handcuffs, her MIT acceptance letter burning in someone's hands. She'd woken with the taste of fear in her mouth, sheets tangled around her legs, gray dawn light creeping through her bedroom window.

National College Decision Day.

Also: fourteen days until criminal charges.

She rolled over, grabbed her phone from the nightstand. Instagram showed dozens of overnight notifications—more congratulations on her national championship from Sunday, photos of the gold medal ceremony being shared and reshared. Her championship photo had 847 likes now. Comments: "So proud!" and "National champion!" and "MIT is lucky to have you!"

They didn't know. None of them knew that MIT might revoke her acceptance before she ever set foot in Cambridge. That a criminal record could destroy her engineering career before it started. That supporting Ethan's right to choose his own future might cost her everything.

She turned off Instagram and opened her conversation with Ethan. No new messages since last night's "See you this afternoon." They'd agreed to meet at 3 PM to sign their commitment letters together—romantic gesture that now felt weighted with desperation.

What if they were signing documents that would be meaningless in two weeks?

Sophia tried to go back to sleep. Failed. Her mind kept circling: Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Interference with custody. Criminal harassment. Robert's attorney had listed them like menu items, casual recitation of charges that could mean jail time.

At 6:15, she gave up on sleep entirely. Showered, dressed, went downstairs to the kitchen where her mother was already making breakfast.

"You're up early," Helen said, then saw Sophia's face. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Nightmares."

"About today? Or about May 15th?"

"Both."

Helen poured tea, slid the mug across the counter. "Your father's been researching. The charges Robert's threatening—they're difficult to prove. You'd need clear evidence of intent to harm, pattern of behavior, documented interference. Robert has surveillance and timeline, but that's not the same as criminal intent."

"But it's possible," Sophia said. "He could file charges. The prosecutor could accept them. I could actually be criminally charged for—for what? Supporting my boyfriend? Encouraging him to think for himself?"

"For being eighteen when he's seventeen. That's what Robert's weaponizing. The age difference."

"It's five months. I turned eighteen in February, he turns eighteen in August. Five months."

"I know, sweetheart. It's not fair. It's not right. But Robert's lawyers are good at finding technicalities."

Sophia wrapped her hands around the tea mug, seeking warmth. Her stomach churned too much for food. The kitchen smelled like toast and coffee—normal breakfast smells on the least normal morning of her life.

"What if MIT finds out?" she asked quietly. "What if they revoke my acceptance because I'm facing criminal charges?"

"You're not facing charges yet. And you might never face charges. This could be entirely bluff and intimidation."

"It doesn't feel like a bluff."

Helen was quiet for a moment. Then: "Are you still sure? About MIT? About Ethan? About all of it?"

Sophia looked at her mother—genuinely asking, not pressuring, giving her space to doubt.

"I'm sure about MIT," she said. "I've wanted this since I was fourteen. Engineering degree, research opportunities, everything."

"And Ethan?"

"I'm sure about him too. About supporting him. About us trying to make this work."

"Even if it costs you?"

Sophia thought about that. Really thought about it. Criminal charges. Court dates. Legal fees. Possible jail time. Criminal record. Everything she'd worked for put at risk.

"Yeah," she said finally. "Even then. Because what Robert's doing is wrong. And if I walk away now, I'm saying it's okay for parents to control their kids like this. I'm saying money and threats are enough to destroy someone's autonomy. And I can't—I can't live with that."

Her mother's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "That's very brave."

"That's very stupid."

"Both things can be true."

They sat in the kitchen as dawn brightened to full morning. At 7:30, Sophia's father came downstairs, already in lawyer mode—he'd been researching legal precedents until past midnight.

"Good morning," he said, then looked at Sophia. "Did you sleep?"

"Not really."

"Me neither." He poured coffee, joined them at the table. "I've been reviewing Romeo and Juliet laws—close-in-age exemptions for relationships involving minors. Michigan has one. So does Manitoba. In both jurisdictions, if you're within five years age difference and the younger party is above age of consent, it's legal. You and Ethan are five months apart, both above sixteen. Robert's criminal charges would have to prove more than just age difference."

"What would they have to prove?"

"That you intentionally interfered with his parental authority. That you encouraged illegal behavior—like truancy. That you maintained contact against explicit parental instructions. That's harder to prove, but possible if Robert has documentation."

"He has fourteen months of surveillance."

Michael's expression darkened. "Which is its own kind of disturbing. But surveillance of you and Ethan being together isn't the same as evidence of criminal intent. You'd need a very aggressive prosecutor to move forward with charges this weak."

"But it's possible."

"It's possible."

Sophia's phone buzzed. Ethan's text: "you awake?"

"yeah you?"

"couldn't sleep"

"is today really happening"

"today is really happening"

She put her phone down, looked at her parents. "Ethan and I are meeting at 3 PM to sign our commitment letters. Together. At The Forks. Where we reconnected in September."

"That's romantic," her mother said.

"That's terrifying," Sophia replied.

"Both things—" Helen started.

"—can be true," Sophia finished. "I know."

Meanwhile, two hundred miles southwest in Jordan's Winnipeg apartment, Ethan sat at the kitchen table staring at two documents on his laptop screen.

Left tab: MIT acceptance letter. Unsigned commitment form. Deadline: 11:59 PM tonight.

Right tab: Email from NHL Central Scouting. Final reminder about draft-eligible players. Commitment window closing May 5th.

11:59 PM. Fifteen hours and twelve minutes to decide his future.

The coffee in front of him was cold, third cup of a morning spent researching financial aid, emancipation procedures, backup plans. Jordan's apartment was quiet, his brother already at work, giving Ethan space to think.

His phone buzzed. Text from Sophia:

"you awake?"

"yeah you?"

"couldn't sleep" "is today really happening"

"today is really happening"

"i'm scared"

"me too"

"what if we're making a mistake"

Ethan looked at the MIT letter. Everything he wanted. Everything he'd fought for.

"we're not," he typed. "this is right. we know it's right"

"then why am i terrified"

"because its real now. because theres no going back after today"

Pause. Then: "have you signed yet?"

"no. you?"

"no. keep staring at it"

"same"

"want to sign together? later?"

Ethan's chest tightened with something that felt like hope. "where?"

"the forks? 3pm? where we met when we were nine"

"ill be there"

"bring your decision letter. ill bring mine"

"deal"

The messages ended. Ethan closed his phone, looked back at the MIT acceptance.

National College Decision Day. May 1st. The day thousands of high school seniors across the country committed to their futures.

For most of them, it was exciting. Celebrating their choices, posting acceptance letters on social media, wearing college sweatshirts, planning dorm rooms.

For most of them, social media would be flooded today. Instagram posts with MIT graphics, "I'm going to..." captions, college decision TikToks, Snapchat geofilters at signing events. Friends commenting congratulations, parents posting proud parent moments, the whole performative celebration of college commitment day.

For Ethan, it meant none of that. No Instagram post. No celebration video. No college sweatshirt photos. His father monitored his social media obsessively, would screenshot anything as evidence, twist celebration into proof of defiance. Ethan's Instagram had been deactivated for weeks, one less way for Robert to track his life.

His commitment would be silent, private, shared only with Sophia and the MIT admissions portal.

The absence of performance didn't make it less real. If anything, it made it more his own.

For Ethan, it was choosing between two futures: one safe and funded by surrendering his autonomy, one uncertain and purchased with massive debt and legal battles.

He clicked over to his financial aid summary. If the emancipation hearing on May 15th went in his favor, MIT would cover everything. Full ride, room and board, fees. All of it.

If the hearing failed, he'd need $73,000 in loans just for the first year. Loan applications required co-signers. He had no one to ask.

Adult decisions, adult consequences.

He opened a new tab, started drafting an email to MIT financial aid. Subject: "Emancipation Pending - Aid Timeline Questions."

This was his life now. Navigating bureaucracy, legal proceedings, financial impossibilities. All because he wanted to choose his own path.

All because his father couldn't accept that path was different from his own.

Meanwhile, six hundred miles northeast in Winnipeg, Sophia sat at her desk with the same MIT acceptance letter open on her laptop.

Her parents were downstairs making breakfast, voices carrying up the stairs. Her badminton equipment was piled in the corner, gold medal from nationals hung on her wall where she could see it every morning.

National Champion.

MIT-bound.

If she could just sign the letter.

Her hand hovered over the touchpad, cursor on the "Submit Commitment" button.

One click. That's all it took. One click and she was officially committed to MIT, to Boston, to September, to Ethan, to everything they'd fought for.

But her father's words from last week echoed: "Robert's not done. Men like that don't accept losing. He'll escalate."

How much worse could it get?

Knock on her door. Her mother entered with tea, familiar morning ritual.

"You're up early," Helen said.

"Big day."

"MIT decision day."

"Yeah."

Helen sat on the edge of the bed. "You're still sure?"

"I'm sure. I'm just... processing."

"Processing the fight it took to get here?"

"Processing what comes next. Emancipation hearing in two weeks. Robert's threats. The money situation."

"We can help with money if needed."

"It's not your responsibility."

"You're my daughter. Of course it's my responsibility."

Sophia felt emotion tighten her throat. "I don't want this to cost you anything."

"Supporting you isn't a cost. It's a privilege."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

"Are you scared?" Helen asked.

"Terrified. Excited. Both."

"That sounds about right for MIT."

Sophia laughed, slightly shaky. "Ethan and I are meeting this afternoon. 3 PM at The Forks. We're going to sign our letters together."

Helen's expression was soft. "That's romantic."

"That's terrifying."

"Both things can be true."

After her mother left, Sophia pulled up the letter again. The "Submit Commitment" button waited, patient and final.

September in Boston. MIT. Ethan. Engineering and badminton and everything she'd dreamed about.

If they could survive the next two weeks.

She closed the laptop, checked the time. Six and a half hours until 3 PM.

Six and a half hours until everything became real.

The Forks at 2:50 PM was alive with spring energy—first truly warm day of May, winter finally releasing its grip on Manitoba. Families walked along the Red River, joggers on the paths, food trucks setting up for evening crowds. Trees showed early green, buds opening, everything promising renewal.

The water flowed with late snowmelt, ice long gone, river reflecting gray sky that threatened rain later but held off for now.

Ethan arrived first, Jordan dropping him off with promise to return at 5 PM. He stood on the pedestrian bridge where they'd stood in September, where everything had restarted.

Seven months ago, Sophia had appeared in the community center—unexpected, impossible, someone from his past who'd somehow become his future. Seven months of reconnection, complications, escalation. Seven months of fighting for the right to choose their own paths.

And now: decision day.

He pulled the printed MIT acceptance letter from his backpack. Heavy paper stock, official MIT letterhead, "We are pleased to offer you admission to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology" in formal typeface. The signature line at the bottom waited, blank, for his commitment.

One signature. That's all it took. His future, determined by his own hand instead of his father's plans.

The bridge had memorial plaques along the railing—Winnipeg history, significant dates, names of people who'd shaped the city. Ethan leaned against the railing, looking at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers. The Forks. Where two paths met and became something new.

Fitting place for this.

"Hey."

He turned. Sophia approached from the parking area, carrying a manila envelope, her expression nervous and determined simultaneously.

She was wearing her MIT sweatshirt—the one she'd ordered the day after getting accepted, gray with the MIT logo and "Class of 2030" on the back. Ethan had the same sweatshirt in his backpack, unworn, waiting for today to make it official.

"Hey." His voice came out rougher than intended.

They stood facing each other on the bridge, letters in hand, river flowing sixty feet below, Winnipeg spring happening around them while their futures hung in balance.

"This is really happening," Sophia said.

"This is really happening."

She glanced around—families passing by, joggers, normal people having normal Tuesday afternoons. "Should we sit?"

There was a bench nearby, weathered wood with a view of both rivers. The same bench, Ethan realized, where they'd sat at nine years old during hockey tournaments. Back when everything was simple—skating and competition and friendship uncomplicated by control and threats and impossible choices.

They sat there now, seventeen and eighteen, deciding futures that their families had tried to prevent.

Sophia pulled out her acceptance letter—identical to his, same letterhead, same formal language. Her hands trembled slightly as she held it.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

"Terrified. You?"

"Same." She looked at the signature line, blank and waiting. "This morning I had a nightmare that MIT revoked my acceptance. That the criminal charges went through and they sent me a letter: 'We regret to inform you...'"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"No," Ethan admitted. "But I know we're making the right choice. MIT, engineering, our own futures—that's right. Whatever happens with my father, with the emancipation hearing, with the threats—we're choosing what's right for us."

Sophia's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "What if it costs us everything?"

"Then we rebuild. Together."

Two identical letters in their hands. Two identical deadlines: 11:59 PM tonight. Two futures that had been separate for six years, now intertwining again.

"Are you sure?" Sophia asked quietly. "Really sure? Because once we sign, it's binding. No taking it back."

"Are you?"

"I asked first."

Ethan looked at the letter in his hands—heavy paper, official seal, words that represented everything he'd wanted since realizing engineering was possible, since understanding he could have a future beyond hockey.

"I'm sure," he said. "I want this. MIT, engineering, building my own life on my own terms. Research, innovation, maybe grad school, maybe startup companies—I don't know exactly what yet, but I know it starts here. And I want—" He paused, meeting her eyes. "I want to try this. Us. At MIT. See if what we have now can survive distance, can grow into something more. I'm sure."

"Even without your father's support? Even with the emancipation hearing and the financial uncertainty and all of it?"

"Especially without his support. That's the whole point. Choosing my own path instead of following the one he decided for me when I was five years old."

Sophia looked down at her own letter, reading words she'd memorized weeks ago. "My dad warned me Sunday night. After Toronto. He said your father will escalate, that men like that don't accept losing. He said it might get worse before it gets better."

"He already has escalated. Cut me off financially, showed up in Toronto, threatened criminal charges against you, sabotaged the emancipation case. I don't know what worse looks like."

"What if we lose?" Her voice was small. "What if the emancipation fails and you can't get financial aid? What if Robert actually files charges and I end up with a criminal record? What if MIT revokes our acceptances or we can't afford it or—"

"Then we handle it." Ethan took her hand, the one not holding her letter. "Together. We defer for a semester, we regroup, we find another path. But giving up now, letting him win without even trying—I can't live with that. Can you?"

Sophia was quiet, processing. River water flowing below them, spring breeze carrying the smell of thawing earth and new growth. Around them, Winnipeg continued—joggers, families, teenagers on skateboards, all the normal chaos of life happening while they decided their futures on a bridge in the middle of the city.

"No," she said finally. "I can't live with that either. I can't let Robert's threats determine my choices. That's exactly what he wants—for me to be so scared of consequences that I walk away, leaving Ethan isolated and alone. And I won't do it."

She looked at Ethan, determination replacing fear in her expression. "Okay. Together."

They opened their letters simultaneously, though they'd both already memorized every word.

"On three?" Sophia said, pulling a pen from her bag—MIT blue ink, of course, purchased specifically for this moment.

"On three." Ethan had his own pen ready, black ink, ordinary, borrowed from Jordan's kitchen counter this morning.

"One."

Ethan's hand trembled slightly as he positioned his pen above the signature line. His handwriting would commit him to MIT, to engineering, to a future built on massive debt and legal uncertainty and hope that the emancipation hearing would succeed. His signature, his choice, his future.

"Two."

Sophia's eyes met his across the bench, both of them on the edge of something irreversible. Her hand was shaking too, pen hovering, breath held.

Around them, Winnipeg was beautiful—spring afternoon, river flowing, sky clearing, everything promising possibility.

"Three."

They signed.

Ethan Price, his signature taking longer than usual because his hand was shaking, because the weight of the moment made the pen feel heavy, because this was everything.

Sophia Chen, her signature slanting slightly upward the way it always did when she was emotional, her face bright with determination and terror and hope all at once.

For three seconds, they just sat there. Holding their signed letters. Staring at their own handwriting committing them to futures Robert had tried to prevent, to paths they'd chosen despite threats, to MIT together against all odds.

The letters felt different now. Heavier. More real.

Binding.

"Done," Ethan said, voice rough with emotion he was trying to control.

"Done," Sophia echoed, and her voice broke on the word.

Then she was crying—happy tears, overwhelmed tears, relief and fear and joy all mixed together. Ethan pulled her against him, both of them still holding their letters, and she pressed her face into his shoulder while her whole body shook.

"We did it," she said into his jacket. "We actually did it."

"We did it." Ethan's own eyes were burning. He blinked hard, not quite crying, but close.

They pulled up MIT's commitment portal on their phones with fumbling fingers. Uploaded photos of the signed letters. Hovered over "Submit."

"Together?" she asked.

"Together."

They pressed submit simultaneously.

Loading icon spinning. Ethan's heart hammered. This was it. Official. Binding. No taking it back after this.

Then his screen refreshed: "COMMITMENT RECEIVED - Ethan Price, Class of 2030."

And hers: "COMMITMENT RECEIVED - Sophia Chen, Class of 2030."

Sophia made a sound between a laugh and a sob. "We did it."

"We actually did it." Ethan felt something break loose in his chest—relief, disbelief, overwhelming joy threatening to crack him open. "September in Cambridge. Both of us."

She was crying, he realized. Happy tears running down her face, and she was laughing at the same time, overwhelmed and relieved and terrified all at once. Then she was in his arms and he was holding her tight, both of them shaking with the magnitude of what they'd just done.

"We're going to MIT," she said into his shoulder, words muffled but joyful.

"We're going to MIT," he confirmed, and his own voice cracked.

They pulled apart, both grinning despite wet eyes, despite everything. And then they were kissing—brief but meaningful, sealing the commitment with more than just signatures. Seventeen and eighteen years old, choosing their futures on a bridge over the Red River, making promises they intended to keep.

When they broke apart, Ethan kept his forehead pressed to hers, both of them breathing hard, still processing reality.

"I can't believe we did it," Sophia whispered.

"Believe it." He pulled back, showed her his phone screen again. Her name. His name. Class of 2030. Official. Binding. Real. "It's done."

Sophia looked at her own phone, the confirmation screen glowing. Then she glanced at her Instagram notifications—still muted from the morning, but the badge showed 127 unread. She opened it briefly.

Her feed was flooded with college decision posts. Friends from school, teammates from badminton, people she'd competed against over the years. Everyone posting their commitment photos: acceptance letters, college sweatshirts, graphics with university logos and "I'm going to..." captions.

Normal kids making normal posts about normal college decisions.

DecisionDay trending. #MIT2030 showing dozens of posts from students across the world. Everyone celebrating, everyone excited, everyone's futures looking bright and uncomplicated.

Sophia could post her commitment. Could share her acceptance letter, could add to the #MIT2030 feed, could participate in the collective celebration happening across social media.

But Robert monitored everything. A public post would give him more ammunition, more evidence of "defiance," more fuel for whatever he was planning.

So she saved the confirmation screenshot to her camera roll—private archive, not public celebration—and put her phone away.

"You're not posting?" Ethan asked quietly. He'd seen her scroll through the Decision Day posts.

"Are you?"

He shook his head. "My Instagram's been deactivated for weeks. One less thing for my father to weaponize."

"Same reasoning. I want to post. I want to celebrate like everyone else. But—"

"But we can't. Not without consequences."

"Yeah."

They sat there, commitment letters in hand, official MIT confirmations on their phones, unable to share the moment the way their peers were sharing theirs.

Silent celebration. Private victory.

Another cost of choosing their own paths.

They sat there, hands clasped, commitment letters between them, both overwhelmed by what had just become official.

Against everything. Against his father's threats and financial control and psychiatric evaluations and isolation.

They'd chosen their own future.

Together.

"What now?" she asked.

"Now we survive the next two weeks until emancipation hearing. Then I get official financial independence, apply for full aid, and figure out logistics."

"That simple?"

"That complicated."

"And if the hearing doesn't go your way?"

"Then I file again at eighteen. My birthday's August 29th. Worst case, I defer MIT for a semester and file as a legal adult."

"You've really thought this through."

"I've had to."

They walked along the river, hands linked, discussing plans. Housing in Boston, course selection, move logistics. The conversation felt surreal—planning a future that yesterday had been uncertain, today was committed.

At 4:30, Jordan texted: "Ready for pickup?"

"Not yet. Few more minutes."

They found a café near the river, ordered coffee, sat in a corner booth away from other customers.

"Two weeks," Sophia said. "May 15th."

"I know."

"Are you nervous?"

"Terrified."

"What if he brings more evidence? More pressure?"

"Then I present my case. Dr. Martinez's evaluation. Financial records showing he cut me off. Proof that I can support myself independently."

"Can you? Support yourself independently?"

Ethan paused. "I'm staying with Jordan now. That's not permanent. I need to find summer work, save money, apply for financial aid. It's going to be tight. But possible."

"My dad could help—"

"No." Ethan's voice was firm. "I can't take help from your family. That feeds into my father's manipulation narrative. I need to prove independence, not trade one dependency for another."

"That's not fair."

"It's strategic. If I want the emancipation to hold, I need to demonstrate I'm self-sufficient."

Sophia stirred her coffee, thinking. "After the hearing. After you're officially emancipated. Then we can talk about practical help."

"Maybe."

"Definitely. You're not doing this completely alone."

"I have Jordan."

"You have me too."

Their eyes met across the table. The weight of what they'd chosen settling over them.

"September," Ethan said. "MIT. Fresh start."

"No more Robert controlling everything."

"No more isolation and monitored calls."

"Just us and engineering and Boston."

"And badminton. You'll play for MIT's team."

"And hockey. You'll find a club team."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

They stayed in the café until 5 PM, planning and dreaming and avoiding thinking about the next two weeks. When Jordan texted again, they reluctantly left.

Outside, Jordan's car idled at the curb. Sophia walked Ethan to it, goodbye hug that lasted a beat too long.

"See you soon," she said.

"Two weeks."

"We can do this."

"We can do this."

Ethan climbed into Jordan's car, watched Sophia wave as they pulled away.

"MIT?" Jordan asked.

"MIT. Both of us. Signed and submitted."

"That's huge. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

"Now you just have to survive the emancipation hearing."

"Now I just have to survive the emancipation hearing."

They drove toward Jordan's apartment, traffic light, sky darkening toward evening. Ethan checked his phone—confirmation email from MIT, welcoming him to the class of 2030, outlining next steps.

Everything he'd wanted. Everything he'd fought for.

Now he just had to hold onto it.

7:43 PM. Ethan was at Jordan's apartment making dinner when Jordan's phone rang. Their father's name on the screen.

"Don't answer," Ethan said.

Jordan declined the call. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again.

"He's persistent," Jordan said.

The call went to voicemail. Jordan put the phone on the counter, and they heard the message play on speaker.

"Jordan, this is your father. I know Ethan is with you. Tell him I need to see him. Tonight. At the house. It's important. Not negotiable."

The message ended.

"Absolutely not," Ethan said.

"Agreed."

"It's a trap. He wants to pressure me about MIT."

"Probably."

But five minutes later, another call. This time, a text: "I'm coming to your apartment. Be there in fifteen minutes. We need to talk."

"He's coming here?" Ethan's chest tightened.

"This is my place. He can't force entry."

"He's your father."

"He's not my landlord."

Thirteen minutes later, knock on the door. Jordan checked the peephole, confirmed it was their father.

"Don't open it," Ethan said.

Jordan cracked the door, chain lock engaged. "Dad."

"I need to speak with Ethan."

"He doesn't want to speak with you."

"It's not optional. This is important."

"Everything's important to you. That doesn't make it mandatory."

Their father's patience frayed. "Jordan, this is serious. Open the door."

"No."

"I'm your father."

"And this is my apartment. You're not invited."

Ethan stepped into view behind Jordan. "What do you want?"

His father's expression was controlled, dangerous calm. "I want you to come home. Both of you. We need to talk. As a family."

"We don't have anything to talk about."

"You signed MIT today. Against my advice, against your best interests. That has consequences."

"I know. You've made that clear."

"You don't know. Not yet. But you will. Come home. Hear me out."

"I'm not coming home. I don't live there anymore."

"You're seventeen. You live where I say you live."

"Actually, I live where Jordan lets me live. You cut me off financially, remember? Made me independent."

His father's jaw tightened. "The emancipation hearing is May 15th. Two weeks. You think you're going to win?"

"Dr. Martinez recommended it proceed."

"One evaluation. I have fourteen months of documentation. Every boundary you've crossed, every lie you've told, every time you've chosen Sophia over family. The court will see a teenager making terrible decisions, influenced by someone who doesn't have his best interests at heart."

"The court will see a young adult making autonomous choices about his future."

"We'll see. May 15th. Courthouse. 10 AM. Be ready."

His father turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. Come to the house tomorrow. Noon. There's something you need to see. Something about your case. About her."

"I'm not playing your games."

"It's not a game. It's evidence. Evidence the court will see if you don't see it first."

"What evidence?"

"Tomorrow. Noon. Come alone."

Then he was gone, footsteps receding down the hall.

Jordan closed the door, locked it. "That was ominous."

"He's bluffing."

"Maybe."

"What evidence could he possibly have?"

"I don't know. But he sounded confident."

Ethan pulled out his phone, started texting Sophia. Then stopped. What would he even say? "My dad has mysterious evidence about you?"

Jordan noticed. "You should tell her."

"Tell her what? That my dad is threatening something vague?"

"That something's coming. She should be prepared."

Ethan stared at his phone, cursor blinking in an empty message. Finally he typed: "My dad wants to meet tomorrow. Says he has evidence about the case. I don't know what it is."

Her response came quickly: "Evidence about what?"

"He said about you. About us. I don't know details."

"Should we be worried?"

"I don't know."

"Let me know what happens."

"I will."

But Ethan felt unease settling in his chest. His father didn't make empty threats. If he said there was evidence, there was evidence.

The question was: evidence of what?

May 2nd, 11:47 AM. Ethan stood outside his father's house—former home, now enemy territory—debating whether to go inside.

Jordan had offered to come, but Ethan refused. This was between him and his father.

He knocked. His father answered immediately, like he'd been waiting.

"Come in."

The house smelled the same, looked the same, felt completely foreign. Ethan followed his father to the office, the room where so many battles had been fought.

Two men were already there, the same professionals from Toronto. Lawyer and investigator, Ethan guessed.

"Sit," his father said.

Ethan sat. The three men remained standing, dominant position.

On the desk: folders, documents, photographs.

"You signed MIT yesterday," his father said. "Committed to a future based on a relationship I believe is unhealthy and manipulative."

"We've had this argument."

"We have. But you've never seen the full picture. The evidence I've been gathering since last March. Fourteen months of documentation."

He opened the first folder. Photographs spilled out.

Ethan recognized them immediately. Him and Sophia at the science fair. At hockey games. At coffee shops. At the park near school.

"You've been following us."

"I've been documenting concerning behavior."

More photos. Them studying together. Her at his games. Him at her tournaments. Every moment of their relationship, catalogued.

"This is stalking."

"This is parenting. Monitoring a minor child's relationships."

The investigator spoke for the first time. "We've been documenting since March of last year. Phone records, location data, social media, witness statements. Creating a complete picture of the relationship timeline."

"A relationship isn't a crime."

"No," his father said. "But there are concerning patterns."

He opened the second folder. Emails. Printed conversations between Ethan and Sophia about meeting after school, avoiding his father's restrictions, planning around supervision.

"Every time you lied about your location. Every time you met her against my instructions. Every time she facilitated contact that violated boundaries I'd set as your parent."

"Those boundaries were unreasonable."

"They were parental authority. She helped you violate them."

The third folder: text messages. Months of conversations between Ethan and Sophia, including messages about the emancipation, about fighting his father's control, about plans to attend MIT together.

"She encouraged emancipation," his father said. "Encouraged you to defy me, to fight for what she called 'freedom' but what I call manipulation."

"She encouraged me to think for myself."

"She encouraged a minor to rebel against his parent."

The fourth folder: school records. Ethan's attendance, showing days he'd missed, classes he'd skipped. Cross-referenced with location data showing him with Sophia during those times.

"Truancy," the lawyer said. "Facilitated by an adult who knew he should be in school."

"She's seventeen too. Same age as me."

"She turned eighteen in February," his father said. "She's been a legal adult for two and a half months. You're still a minor for three more months."

The words landed like a punch.

Ethan hadn't realized. Sophia's birthday had passed during the worst of the isolation, unnoticed in the chaos of provincial championships and emancipation filing.

She was eighteen. He was seventeen.

"So what?" Ethan said. "Two months difference doesn't change anything."

"It changes the legal framework," the lawyer said. "An adult in a relationship with a minor, encouraging that minor to defy parental authority, facilitating truancy, maintaining contact against parental instruction—that's legally significant."

"We didn't do anything wrong."

"You did many things wrong. The question is whether she broke the law."

The fifth folder. Legal documents. Statutes, case law, precedents.

The lawyer walked Ethan through them:

Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. When an adult encourages illegal behavior (like truancy) in a minor. Up to six months jail time.

Interference with custody. When someone interferes with a parent's legal right to control their minor child's activities and relationships. Can be escalated to felony. Up to two years.

Criminal harassment under Canadian law. Maintaining unwanted contact with a family member of someone who's set boundaries. Fines and possible jail time.

"These are all potential charges," the lawyer said. "Based on the documented evidence."

Ethan's blood went cold. His hands started shaking. He had to set down the folder he was holding before he dropped it.

"You're going to press charges against Sophia." His voice came out hollow, disbelieving.

"I'm going to protect my son," his father said. "From someone who's been manipulating him for fourteen months. Someone who encouraged rebellion, defiance, legal action against his family."

"She didn't manipulate me. She supported my choices."

"Choices that aligned with her goals. MIT together. Emancipation that would free you from my influence. Every decision pushing you toward her future, away from yours."

"MIT is my future. Engineering is my future."

"You wanted both until she came back. Then suddenly hockey was the enemy, I was the enemy, everything that wasn't her was the enemy."

"That's not true."

"The evidence says otherwise."

His father laid out the final folder. A legal document, formal and typed, signatures ready at the bottom.

"Criminal complaint," the lawyer explained. "Detailing the charges against Sophia Chen. Contributing to delinquency, interference with custody, harassment. Based on fourteen months of documented evidence."

Ethan tried to read the complaint, but the words blurred together into nightmare reality. His hands were trembling so badly the pages shook.

Sophia. Criminal charges. Prison time. Criminal record. MIT revoked. Engineering career destroyed.

All because she'd supported him.

"These will be filed with the prosecutor's office on May 14th," his father said. "The day before your emancipation hearing. The prosecutor will review and decide whether to press charges. Given the documentation, I'm confident they will."

Nausea hit him hard and sudden. Ethan stood up too fast, the room tilting.

"You can't do this." His voice cracked.

"I can. And I will. Unless."

There it was. The trap.

"Unless what?"

"Unless Sophia ends all contact with you. Permanently. Documented in writing, legally binding. She stays in Winnipeg, you stay in Michigan. She goes to Toronto for university, you reconsider MIT. No contact, no relationship, no influence."

"I'm going to MIT. We signed yesterday."

"MIT accepts deferrals. Take a gap year, revisit the decision when you're eighteen and legally independent."

"I'm not doing that."

"Then she faces criminal charges. Contributing to delinquency is a misdemeanor, up to six months jail time. Interference with custody can be a felony, up to two years. Harassment is misdemeanor, fines and possible jail time. Even if she's not convicted, a criminal record follows you forever. She wants to be an engineer? Many employers won't hire someone with a criminal record, especially in fields requiring security clearances."

The words kept landing, each one worse than the last.

"This is insane."

"This is protective. I'm protecting you from someone who's been manipulating you for over a year."

"She hasn't manipulated me!"

"The court will decide that at the emancipation hearing. But the criminal charges are separate. Those go to the prosecutor. Based on this evidence, Sophia faces real legal jeopardy."

Ethan looked at the photographs, the emails, the texts. Fourteen months of their relationship, weaponized.

"You're saying drop MIT and her, or she goes to jail."

"I'm saying she ends contact, or she faces the legal consequences of her actions."

"Her actions were supporting me."

"Her actions were interfering with my parental authority over a minor child."

The investigator spoke again. "The deadline is May 15th, 9 AM. One hour before the emancipation hearing. If Sophia provides written statement ending all contact, permanently and irrevocably, the charges won't be filed. If she doesn't, the complaint goes to the prosecutor's office at 10 AM, during your hearing."

"So during the hearing, while I'm fighting for emancipation, she's being charged with crimes."

"Correct."

"And if I withdraw the emancipation petition?"

His father's expression didn't change. "The charges still proceed unless she ends contact. This isn't about the emancipation anymore. This is about protecting you from someone who's been a negative influence for fourteen months."

"This is about control."

"This is about consequences."

Ethan stood, legs unsteady. "I need to tell her."

"Yes," his father said. "You do. Tell her she has thirteen days. May 15th, 9 AM. Written statement ending all contact, or criminal charges. Her choice."

"This is blackmail."

"This is parenting."

"This is abuse."

"This is love. I'm trying to save you from making mistakes that will haunt you for the rest of your life."

Ethan looked at his father—the man who'd raised him, trained him, shaped his entire childhood—and saw a stranger. Someone so convinced of his righteousness that he'd destroy a teenage girl's future to maintain control.

"You're going to lose me," Ethan said quietly. "Whether emancipation happens or not, whether she ends contact or not, you're going to lose me. Because I'll never forgive this."

"You'll understand when you're older."

"I understand now. I understand you'd rather destroy us both than accept that I want something different than what you want for me."

His father didn't respond.

Ethan left the office, walked through the house that used to be home, stepped outside into cold spring air.

Thirteen days.

May 15th, 9 AM.

Sophia had to choose: end things permanently and let him face emancipation alone, or maintain contact and face criminal charges that could destroy her future.

Either way, his father won.

Either way, they lost.

Ethan pulled out his phone, hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it. This news was too big for text, too devastating for typing.

He called Sophia.

She answered on the second ring, voice bright—probably still riding the high of committing to MIT together three hours ago. "Hey! I was just looking at dorm options—"

"We need to talk." His voice came out flat, dead. "In person. As soon as possible."

Silence. Then, carefully: "What happened?"

"Not on the phone. Can you meet me? The Forks. One hour."

"Ethan, you're scaring me."

"I know. I'm sorry. Just—please. One hour."

"I'll be there."

The call ended.

Ethan stood on the sidewalk outside his father's house—former home, now enemy territory—and tried to steady his breathing.

Fourteen months of surveillance. Photographs of them together. Text messages encouraging emancipation. School records showing truancy. Location data. All of it weaponized, all of it twisted into evidence of manipulation instead of support, criminal intent instead of care.

And the legal documents. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Interference with custody. Harassment. Charges that could mean jail time, criminal record, MIT revoked, engineering career destroyed before it started.

All because Sophia had turned eighteen in February while he was still seventeen until August.

Five months. That's all the difference was. Five months of age gap that Robert's lawyers had found a way to weaponize.

Ethan started walking. Didn't call Jordan for a ride, needed the movement to process the nightmare his father had just unveiled. Michigan streets quiet in late afternoon, spring evening settling in, everything looking normal while his world imploded.

An hour later, he stood on the same bridge where they'd signed their MIT letters that afternoon. The bench where they'd committed to their futures together, celebrating in private because public celebration would cost too much.

Now even private celebration was poisoned.

Sophia appeared at 4:47 PM, out of breath from running. She'd changed out of her MIT sweatshirt into a hoodie, hair pulled back, face showing worry that turned to fear when she saw his expression.

"What happened?" she asked immediately. "What did your father do?"

Ethan handed her the folder. Five sections. Fourteen months of documentation. Legal statutes. Proposed criminal charges.

She read in silence, face going progressively paler, until she had to sit down on the bench. The same bench where they'd signed their futures three hours ago.

"Criminal charges," she said finally, voice hollow. "He's actually going to file criminal charges against me."

"Unless you end all contact. Permanently. Written statement, legally binding. Due May 15th at 9 AM—one hour before the emancipation hearing."

"So during your hearing, I'll be—what? Signing away our relationship? Or being charged with crimes?"

"That's the choice he's giving you."

Sophia stared at the legal documents. Her hands trembled holding them. "Contributing to delinquency. Interference with custody. Harassment. I could go to jail. I could have a criminal record. MIT could revoke my acceptance—"

Her voice broke. She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide with horror.

"We just signed our commitment letters," she whispered. "Four hours ago. We committed to MIT together. And now—"

"Now he's found a way to destroy that." Ethan sat beside her, feeling numb. "Unless you walk away. Unless you sign the statement ending all contact, leaving me to face the emancipation hearing alone."

"And if I don't sign?"

"Criminal charges filed May 15th. Prosecutor reviews. With Robert's documentation, they'll probably accept the case. You'd need a criminal defense attorney, court dates, legal fees. Even if you win, the record follows you. Background checks for jobs, security clearances for engineering positions—all of it affected."

"Because I'm eighteen and you're seventeen."

"Because you're eighteen and I'm seventeen and he has fourteen months of surveillance proving you encouraged me to defy him."

Sophia looked at the documents in her lap. At the bench where they'd signed their futures. At the river flowing below. At Ethan, sitting beside her, both of them seventeen and eighteen years old and facing choices no one their age should face.

"We committed to MIT today," she said. "Together. Class of 2030."

"I know."

"And now he's saying I have to choose between that future and—and you. Between my entire life and supporting you."

"That's what he's saying."

Sophia's eyes were bright with tears she was fighting. "What do we do?"

"I don't know."

"Thirteen days until May 15th."

"Thirteen days."

Her phone buzzed. Instagram notification: someone congratulating her on the national championship, asking if she'd decided on college yet. Normal question, normal conversation, normal life continuing around them while theirs crumbled.

She turned off her phone completely.

They sat on the bench as evening shadows lengthened, commitment letters to MIT signed and submitted, criminal charges looming in thirteen days.

"We did it," Sophia said finally, voice bitter. "We chose our own futures. We committed to MIT. We signed the letters four hours ago."

"Four hours ago," Ethan echoed.

"And now it might all be for nothing."

Ethan took her hand. It was shaking. "We'll figure it out. We have to."

"How? How do we figure out a choice between criminal charges and abandoning you?"

"I don't know yet. But we have thirteen days. Maybe—maybe your dad can help. He's a lawyer, he understands—"

Sophia's phone rang, cutting him off. Michael Chen's name on the screen.

She answered, put it on speaker. Her father's voice was tense, urgent: "Sophia, where are you?"

"At The Forks. With Ethan. Why?"

"Robert's attorney just called me. Courtesy notification that criminal complaints have been drafted and will be filed May 15th unless you sign the termination of contact. He wanted me to know that he's offering one opportunity for you to consult legal counsel before making your decision."

"Dad, what do I do?"

Michael was quiet for a long moment. "Come home. We need to talk. All of us. This is serious, sweetheart. More serious than I feared."

"How serious?"

"Come home. Now. Please."

The call ended.

Sophia and Ethan sat on the bench in deepening twilight, their MIT commitment letters signed and official, their futures together committed, and Robert's criminal charges looming like a countdown timer.

May 15th.

Thirteen days.

The choice impossible, the consequences devastating either way.

And somewhere in Michigan, Robert Price was waiting, confident that Sophia would choose self-preservation over supporting Ethan.

That fear would win over love.

That threats would succeed where control had failed.

The countdown had begun.

And everything they'd fought for hung in the balance.