The Boy Who Knew Me First

Season 1

Episode 10

by Joxy

The Boy Who Knew Me First - Season 1, Episode 10: Commence

Chapter 1: Chapter 1: The Morning After

I woke to golden light slanting through my bedroom window and the unfamiliar weight of an arm around my waist.

For one disoriented second, I forgot everything. Then it crashed back: the courthouse, Judge Harrison's signature, the emancipation papers, the NHL contract in Ethan's email, his confession in this very room, falling asleep talking about futures that suddenly seemed possible.

Ethan was still here.

Still in yesterday's clothes, still half-tangled in my comforter, still breathing slowly against my shoulder like he'd finally, finally let himself rest.

My heart did this weird flutter thing—part excitement, part terror. We'd slept in the same bed. Nothing happened, just talking until we both passed out, but still. His arm was around me. I could feel his chest rise and fall. There was a warm spot where our bodies were pressed together that made my whole skin feel hyper-aware.

I turned carefully, not wanting to wake him but needing to see his face. The movement made me conscious of morning breath and bedhead and the fact that I probably had mascara smudged under my eyes from yesterday's emotional overload.

In sleep, he looked younger than seventeen—younger than he'd looked in months. The tension that lived permanently in his jaw was gone. His hair was a complete disaster, falling across his forehead in dark waves that I wanted to touch but didn't. There was a crease on his cheek from my pillowcase.

He looked peaceful.

I'd spent eight months watching Ethan Mercer carry the weight of his father's expectations like Atlas holding up the sky. I'd seen him rigid with control, vibrating with suppressed anger, hollow with exhaustion. But I'd never seen him like this.

Relaxed. Safe. Free.

"You're staring," he mumbled without opening his eyes.

My face went hot. "You're still here."

His eyes opened—gray-blue in the morning light, clear and calm. A small smile pulled at his mouth. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know." I traced the edge of his jaw with one finger, still half-convinced he might disappear. His skin was rough with stubble, which was weirdly intimate. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and you'll have... like, disappeared back into Robert's plan or something."

His hand caught mine, pressed it flat against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, and the warmth of him through his wrinkled shirt. "I'm legally free to stay exactly where I am."

"For now. Until you have to go home and—" I stopped. "Wait. Where did you even tell your mom you were?"

"I texted her last night. After you fell asleep." He smiled slightly. "Told her I was with you, that I was safe, and that I'd see her this morning."

"And she was, like... okay with that?"

"She said, and I quote, 'You just got emancipated. I can't exactly ground you anymore.'" His smile widened. "Then she said 'Be respectful of Sophia's parents and make good choices.'"

I laughed despite myself. "Did you make good choices?"

"We fell asleep fully clothed talking about contract law and engineering programs. I think we made, like, extremely boring choices."

"The most responsible almost-adults ever."

"Terrifyingly responsible." He shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. The movement made me aware of how close we were, how his face was only inches from mine. Morning-Ethan was doing things to my ability to think clearly. "What time is it?"

I glanced at my phone on the nightstand. "6:47."

"Your parents up?"

"Probably. Dad's an early riser." Reality started seeping back in. My parents. Ethan staying over. The conversation we were definitely about to have. "Oh god."

Ethan's expression shifted—not quite panic, but definite apprehension. "Are they gonna, like... kill me for staying over?"

"You really did get emancipated yesterday, right? You're a legal adult now?"

"Technically."

"Then they can't ground you either." I sat up, immediately missing the warmth, running fingers through my disaster of bed-head. The morning-after awkwardness was hitting hard. We'd never done this before—woken up together, had to face parents together, existed in each other's space in daylight. "But we probably shouldn't, like, test their patience. Come on."

We made my bed together in silence—a weirdly domestic moment that felt both strange and natural. Smoothing comforters, straightening pillows, his hand accidentally brushing mine and both of us going still for a second before continuing. Erasing evidence of the night we'd spent just talking and existing in the same space.

When we headed downstairs, my father was already in the kitchen with coffee and the newspaper. He looked up as we appeared, took in our rumpled clothes and awkward expressions, and said nothing for a long moment.

My stomach dropped to somewhere around my knees.

"Coffee?" he finally offered.

"Please," Ethan said. His voice had that careful quality it got when he was trying very hard to be respectful.

Dad poured two mugs, slid them across the counter, and returned to his paper. The silence stretched. I wrapped both hands around my mug even though it was too hot, just to have something to do.

"Mr. Liu," Ethan started, "I want to—"

"You stayed over after one of the most emotionally intense days of your life," Dad interrupted, not looking up from the sports section. "You're both fully clothed, you clearly didn't sleep much, and my daughter looks happy." He finally looked at us over his reading glasses. "I'm choosing to be calm about this."

The relief was almost physical. Ethan's shoulders dropped about two inches.

"Dad—" I began.

"But," he continued, and there it was, "we need to talk about what happens next."

Ethan nodded, fingers wrapped around his coffee mug like it might anchor him. "Yes, sir."

"Sit."

We sat at the kitchen table like students called to the principal's office. My mother appeared with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast, kissed the top of my head—which somehow made me want to cry—and gave Ethan a look I couldn't quite read before sitting down across from us.

"Ethan," Dad said carefully, "I respect what you did yesterday. Taking legal control of your own life at seventeen takes courage."

"Thank you, sir."

"But emancipation means you're responsible for every decision now. Every consequence." Dad's voice wasn't harsh, just... serious. Worried. "There's no safety net."

"I know."

"Do you?" Dad's tone wasn't harsh, just genuinely questioning. "Because $2.5 million dollars and MIT aren't, like, choosing between pizza toppings. These are life-altering decisions, and you have—what—two weeks to make them?"

Ethan's hand found mine under the table, squeezed tight. "June 1st deadline. Sixteen days."

"Have you read the contract?"

"I opened it last night. Around midnight, after Sophia fell asleep." He paused, and I felt his hand tighten even more. "I... I didn't get very far. The numbers are... they're huge."

Mom spoke for the first time, her voice gentle but concerned. "What are you thinking about doing?"

"I don't know yet." His voice was steady but honest. I could feel the slight tremor in his hand. "Three months ago, I knew exactly what I wanted. Or I thought I did. I wanted to play hockey at the highest level, go pro as soon as possible, make my father proud. The NHL offer was literally the dream."

"And now?" Dad asked.

"Now I'm not sure if it was even my dream." Ethan looked at me briefly, then back at my parents. "Sophia showed me there's, like... more than one way to be excellent. That being smart isn't something to hide or apologize for. That you can be good at multiple things and it doesn't make you less dedicated to any of them."

"But?" Mom prompted gently. She had that look she got when she was holding back tears—eyes bright, jaw tight.

"But $2.5 million dollars is... it's generational money. It's security for my mom, for my future, for—" He stopped. "It's real. Like, actually real."

"So is an MIT education," I said quietly.

"So is not living your life for someone else," Dad added. "Even if that someone else is paying very well."

My mother stood, refilled everyone's coffee. Her hands were shaking slightly. "Ethan, can I tell you something? Parent to... almost-adult?"

"Please."

She sat back down, wrapped her hands around her own mug. "When I was twenty-two, I had two job offers. One was in Toronto with a major badminton organization—coaching, training, building a program. It paid well, it was exactly what I'd trained for, and everyone told me I'd be crazy not to take it."

I blinked. I'd never heard this story.

"The other offer was in Winnipeg," Mom continued, her voice getting quieter, "with a smaller organization, less money, less prestige. But your father had just gotten a job here, and I had to... I had to choose between the career I'd planned and the relationship I'd found."

"What did you do?" Ethan asked.

"I chose Toronto." Mom smiled at Dad, but it was sad. "Broke both our hearts. Took the prestigious job, told myself love would wait, that this was my one chance."

"But you're here," I said. "In Winnipeg. Together."

"I quit after eight months." Mom's voice cracked slightly. "The job was everything I wanted on paper. But I was miserable. I'd chosen resume over reality, and it felt wrong every single day. I cried myself to sleep. I called your father drunk at 2 AM multiple times. I was... I was so unhappy."

"You regretted it," Ethan said softly.

"I learned from it," Mom corrected. "I learned that the right choice isn't always the obvious one. That sometimes the path that looks less impressive is actually more honest to who you are."

Dad reached across and took her hand. "She showed up at my apartment in February with two suitcases and a job offer from the Winnipeg club that paid about half what Toronto did."

"Best decision I ever made." Mom was definitely crying now, but smiling through it. "Not because the relationship was more important than my career, but because I finally chose what I actually wanted instead of what looked good to everyone else."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. I could see him processing, turning it over. "You think I should choose MIT."

"I think you should choose honestly," Mom said. "If the NHL is what you genuinely want—not what Robert wants, not what looks impressive, but what feels right when you're quiet and honest with yourself—then take it. But if you're choosing it because you're afraid to disappoint people or because the money seems too good to refuse, you'll regret it. And that regret... it's heavy, honey. It stays with you."

"How do I know the difference?"

"You ask yourself which choice you're making because you want to, and which choice you're making because you're afraid," Dad said. "Fear is a terrible decision-maker. But it's also really loud."

My phone buzzed on the table. Then Ethan's. Then his again, rapid-fire.

He glanced at the screen and went pale. Actually pale, like the blood drained from his face. "Forty-seven missed calls."

"From?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Robert. Caroline. Detroit scout. My lawyer." He scrolled through voicemails, his expression darkening with each one, jaw getting tighter. "My father is... he's furious."

"Is he threatening you?" Dad asked sharply.

"No. Just... disappointed. Loudly disappointed." Ethan set his phone down carefully, like it might explode. "He wants to meet. Says we need to discuss my 'impulsive decision' before I 'throw away my future.'"

"Are you going to meet him?"

"My lawyer says I should. In a public place, on my terms, with clear boundaries." He looked exhausted again, the peace from earlier dissolving like it had never existed. "I probably should, right? Like, clear the air. Hear him out."

"You don't owe him anything," I said.

"I know. But he's still my father." Ethan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "This is gonna be the rest of my life, isn't it? Every decision, every choice, he's gonna have an opinion. Even when he has no legal right to control me, he's just... he's gonna be there."

"Not if you don't let him," Mom said firmly. "Emancipation gave you legal freedom. Now you have to claim emotional freedom. That's harder. That's the work."

Dad stood up, collected dishes. "Ethan, you're welcome to stay here as long as you need. But you should probably call your mother. Let her know you're okay."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

As my parents moved into the living room, giving us space, Ethan pulled out his phone and stared at it like it might bite him.

"Want me to, like, leave you alone for this?" I asked.

"No. Stay." He found Caroline's number, pressed call, put it on speaker.

She answered on the first ring. "Ethan. Oh, thank god."

"Hi, Mom."

"Are you alright? Are you safe? Robert's been calling me all morning, screaming about you ruining your life and throwing away opportunities and—" Her voice was shaking.

"I'm fine. I'm at Sophia's. Her parents know I'm here." He looked at me. "I'm completely fine."

"The contract? The NHL offer? Robert said you're going to decline?"

"I... I don't know yet. I haven't decided."

"But you're considering it. Turning down $2.5 million dollars." Caroline's voice wasn't angry, just shocked. Disbelieving. "Ethan, that's—"

"Generational money. I know. Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because it's true."

"So is MIT. So is having a choice for once in my life." He took a breath. "Mom, what do you think I should do?"

Long silence. I could hear Caroline breathing, gathering words, maybe crying.

"I think," she said finally, voice strengthening, "I think I spent seventeen years letting your father make decisions for our family. For you. And I'm not going to start making them now that you're finally free."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is." Her voice strengthened even more. "Ethan, you asked what I think. I think you're brilliant enough to succeed at whatever you choose. I think you're brave enough to make hard choices. And I think for the first time in your life, you get to decide what you actually want. Not what I want. Not what your father wants. What you want."

"What if I choose wrong?"

"Then you choose wrong, and you learn, and you choose differently next time. That's called being an adult. It's terrifying and messy and sometimes you make mistakes."

Ethan laughed despite himself. "You're terrible at reassurance."

"I'm excellent at honesty." Caroline paused. "Can I see you today? I'd like to talk. Not about the contract, just... about everything else."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at a hotel. The Embassy Suites on Portage. I left your father last night." She said it quietly, like she still couldn't quite believe it. "I filed for divorce this morning. He was served about an hour ago."

Ethan's hand went white-knuckled around mine. "Mom—"

"Don't. I should have done it years ago." I heard her take a shaky breath. "You weren't afraid to choose yourself. I'm finally doing the same. I'm scared out of my mind, but I'm doing it."

"Does he know where you are?"

"No. And he doesn't have the right to know anymore." Steel entered her voice. "Neither of us belong to him now."

"Are you okay? Financially, I mean—"

"I'm a forty-two-year-old woman with a business degree and seventeen years of architectural experience I never used because your father wanted me home. I'll figure it out." She laughed softly. "I'm terrified. But I think that means I'm doing the right thing."

"Fear means you understand what you're risking," Ethan said.

"Exactly. Now tell me about this contract. What are you really thinking?"

Ethan looked at me, at my parents reading the newspaper in the living room but definitely listening, at the kitchen where we'd made coffee together like normal people with normal lives.

"I'm thinking," he said slowly, "that I need to actually read it. All of it. Understand what I'd be agreeing to."

"Good. When?"

"Today. Can you come here? To Sophia's? Her parents said I could stay, and I—I'd like you to help me think through it."

"I'll be there in an hour."

After he hung up, we sat in silence. The house smelled like coffee and toast and May morning. Through the window, I could see neighbors walking dogs, kids riding bikes, normal Saturday unfolding like the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

"Your mom left him," I said quietly.

"She left him." Ethan sounded dazed. "Filed for divorce. Moved out."

"Because of you."

"Because of herself." He looked at me. "That's what she said. Because I chose myself first, and she realized she could too."

"How do you feel?"

"Terrified. Relieved. Guilty." He counted on his fingers. "Proud of her. Worried for her. Afraid he's gonna make her life hell and it'll be my fault."

"He can't control her anymore. Just like he can't control you."

"Legal freedom doesn't mean he'll stop trying." Ethan's voice went quiet. "He's really good at control, Sophie. Like, really, really good."

"I know."

His phone buzzed again. This time, unfamiliar number. Detroit area code.

"That's probably the scout," Ethan said. "Jim Morrison. He's been... respectful. Actually helpful, which is weird."

"You should answer it."

"I don't know what to tell him."

"Tell him the truth. That you need time to decide."

Ethan stared at the phone until it stopped ringing, then immediately started again. Same number. Persistent.

He answered. "This is Ethan."

"Ethan, Jim Morrison with the Detroit Red Wings. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Yes, sir."

"First—congratulations on your emancipation. That took guts."

"Thank you."

"Second—I'm assuming you got the contract we sent over. Have you had a chance to review it?"

Ethan looked at me. I nodded encouragement. "I opened it, but I haven't, like, read it thoroughly yet. I only got legally emancipated yesterday, and I... I need time to process everything."

"Completely understand. It's a big decision." Jim's voice was steady, professional, kind. Not pushy. "Can I ask what you're thinking? Generally?"

"Honestly? I'm thinking this is the most money I've ever seen in my life and the biggest opportunity I've ever had, and three months ago I would have signed immediately without even reading it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm trying to figure out if I want it because it's what I actually want, or because it's what I was raised to want." The words came out raw, honest. "And I don't... I don't know yet."

Jim was quiet for a moment. "That's a more mature question than most eighteen-year-olds ask."

"I'm seventeen."

"Even more impressive." I could hear Jim typing on a keyboard. "Look, I'm going to be honest with you because I think you can handle honesty. This offer is real. The money's real. The opportunity's real. But it's not your only opportunity."

"What do you mean?"

"You're good, Ethan. Really good. Scouts have been watching you since you were fourteen. If you don't sign with us now, you'll have other chances. Maybe not $2.5 million, maybe not Detroit, but you're talented enough to play professionally whenever you decide you're ready."

Ethan's breath caught. "You're telling me to turn you down?"

"I'm telling you to make the choice that's right for you. If that's signing with Detroit, fantastic. If that's going to MIT and playing college hockey first, also fantastic. Either way, you're going to be fine."

"Most scouts wouldn't say that."

"Most scouts haven't been around as long as I have." Jim chuckled. "I've seen too many kids sign too early and burn out by twenty-five. I've also seen kids go to college, develop as people, and have longer, healthier careers because they waited."

"What would you do? If you were me?"

"I'd make sure I was choosing for the right reasons. Not money, not pressure, not fear of missing out. But what I actually wanted my life to look like at twenty, twenty-five, thirty." He paused. "You have until June 1st to decide. That's sixteen days. Take all of them. Read the contract. Talk to people you trust. Figure out who you are when nobody's telling you who to be."

"Thank you, sir."

"Call me if you have questions. And Ethan? Whatever you decide, good luck. You're going to need it—MIT and the NHL are both brutal in their own ways."

After he hung up, Ethan set his phone down very carefully. "He told me to take my time. To make sure I was choosing for the right reasons."

"He sounds like a good person."

"He sounds like someone who wishes he'd made different choices." Ethan looked at the contract pulled up on his phone—hundreds of pages of legal language and life-changing numbers. "Do you want to read this with me? Before my mom gets here?"

"Are you sure?"

"You're the smartest person I know. And you ask better questions than anyone else." He opened his email, pulled up the PDF. "Besides, if I'm gonna make a decision this big, I want you to know exactly what I'm considering."

So we sat at the kitchen table as Saturday morning light streamed through the windows, and we read the contract that could change everything.

ENTRY-LEVEL CONTRACT Detroit Red Wings / Ethan James Mercer

Signing Bonus: $2,500,000 (paid upon execution of contract) Base Salary: $925,000 per year (3 years) Performance Bonuses: Up to $850,000 per year Training Camp: August 1, 2025 - September 15, 2025 Season: October 2025 - April 2026 (82 games scheduled)

The numbers swam in front of my eyes. $2.5 million. I'd never seen that much money written down before. It didn't even look real.

Ethan's breathing had changed. Shorter. Faster.

"Hey," I said softly. "You okay?"

"That's... that's so much money, Sophie." His hands were shaking slightly. He set the laptop down, pressed his palms flat against the table like he needed to feel something solid. "That's more money than my mom will probably make in ten years. That's more than most people see in a lifetime."

I watched his chest rise and fall, too fast. His face had gone pale again.

"Breathe," I said. "Just breathe."

"I am breathing."

"You're hyperventilating." I put my hand over his. "Look at me."

He did. His eyes were wide, almost panicked.

"It's just numbers on a screen," I said. "They're not real until you make them real. Right now, they're just... possibilities."

"Possibilities that could change my mom's entire life."

"Or possibilities that could change yours in ways you don't want." I squeezed his hand. "Keep reading. Don't decide based on the first page."

He nodded, took a deeper breath, pulled the laptop back.

"August 1st," I read. "That's the same day as MIT orientation."

"Mutual exclusivity," Ethan read further down, voice steadier now. "Cannot defer to complete education. Must report to training camp within 48 hours of contract execution."

"So if you sign, you're all-in. No MIT this year."

"Maybe no MIT ever." He scrolled through pages of medical provisions, performance requirements, behavioral clauses. "It says here I'd be subject to random drug testing, mandatory media appearances, code of conduct violations that could void the contract..."

"You'd be a professional athlete. That's the job."

"Yeah." He kept reading. "Minimum 82 games per season, plus playoffs if we make it. Travel 41 games on the road. Training six days a week. Basically no life outside hockey."

"That's what you'd be signing up for."

"That's what my father always wanted me to sign up for." He looked at me. "What do I actually want?"

Before I could answer, my mom appeared with more coffee and a plate of cinnamon rolls from the bakery down the street. "I heard voices. Thought you might need sustenance for the heavy reading."

"Thank you, Mrs. Liu," Ethan said.

"Mom," I corrected. "You're reading his potential life-altering contract in our kitchen at 7 AM on a Saturday. We're past formalities."

"How much of it have you gotten through?" Mom asked.

"About fifteen pages. There are three hundred and forty."

She winced. "You're definitely gonna need more coffee."

We read for another hour. Dad joined us eventually, offered his perspective on the legal language. Mom pointed out clauses about injury protection and contract termination. By the time Caroline knocked on the door at 10:47, we'd made it through the financial sections and into the behavioral requirements.

Caroline looked smaller than I remembered—dressed in jeans and a sweater, hair pulled back, no makeup. She looked like she'd cried recently and might cry again soon. There was something raw about her, like a layer of polish had been stripped away.

Ethan stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped over. "Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart." She pulled him into a hug that lasted a long time. When they separated, both had wet eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for letting things get as bad as they did."

"You're here now. That's what matters."

"I should have protected you better. I should have left years ago. I should have—"

"You did what you could. He's—" Ethan stopped. His jaw tightened in that way it did when he was thinking about Robert. "He's very good at control."

"Too good." Caroline noticed the rest of us and straightened, trying to compose herself. "Mr. and Mrs. Liu, Sophia—thank you for letting Ethan stay here. I know this is unusual."

"Unusual times," Dad said. "Coffee?"

"Please. God, yes."

We made space at the table. Caroline sat next to Ethan, took in the contract on his laptop screen, the printed pages covered in our notes and questions.

"You're actually reading the whole thing," she said, surprised.

"Seemed important."

"Most people just sign where their agents tell them to."

"I don't have an agent. I have a lawyer who told me to read everything before I commit to anything." Ethan turned the laptop toward her. "What do you think?"

Caroline read in silence for several minutes. Her expression shifted from neutral to troubled to something close to anger. Her hands tightened on the edge of the table.

"This is very restrictive," she said finally.

"It's a professional contract. They're investing millions in me."

"They're buying your next three years." She pointed to a clause we'd highlighted. "Look at this—you can't engage in 'high-risk activities' including skiing, motorcycle riding, or 'any recreational sport with significant injury potential.' Ethan, that's your entire personality."

"I'd be playing professional hockey. That's high-risk by definition."

"Sanctioned high-risk. Their high-risk." She kept reading, anger building in her voice. "And this—media obligations at the team's discretion. You could be required to do promotional appearances on your off days. They own your time, honey."

"That's normal for professional athletes."

"Normal doesn't mean good." Caroline looked at him, and there was something fierce in her eyes I'd never seen before. "Honey, I'm not trying to talk you out of this. I'm trying to make sure you understand what you'd be agreeing to. Because I spent seventeen years agreeing to things without reading the fine print, and I'm not watching you do the same."

"I'm starting to understand." Ethan pulled the laptop back, scrolled to a section we'd flagged. "This is the part that bothers me most. Educational deferrals require written approval from team management, and can be denied for performance or team needs."

"Meaning MIT would have to wait," I said. "And they might not wait."

"They hold acceptances for one year maximum," Ethan said. "After that, I'd have to reapply. There's no guarantee I'd get in again."

"Could you do both?" Mom asked. "Play in Detroit and take online classes?"

Caroline shook her head. "The schedule wouldn't allow it. Training camp alone is 45 days of full-time commitment. Then 82 games over seven months, plus travel, plus training. There's a reason most NHL players don't have college degrees."

"But some do," I pointed out. "Some guys play college hockey first, then go pro."

"At twenty-two or twenty-three," Ethan said. "Four or five years older than me. After they've, like, lived a little."

We sat in silence. Outside, a lawn mower started up. Normal Saturday sounds for an abnormal Saturday conversation.

"Can I tell you what I see when I look at this contract?" Caroline said quietly.

"Please."

"I see my son at eighteen years old, signing away his autonomy to another organization that will tell him where to be, what to do, how to behave." She met his eyes. "You just fought for the right to make your own choices. This contract takes a lot of those choices away. Maybe not in the same way Robert did, but... you'd still be controlled."

"It's not the same as Robert," Ethan protested, but his voice wavered.

"Isn't it? Different master, same lack of control."

"It's a job. All jobs have requirements."

"True. But most jobs don't own you 24/7 for three years straight." Caroline touched his hand gently. "I'm not saying don't do it. I'm saying make sure you're choosing it, not defaulting to it because it's what you've been trained to want your entire life."

Ethan looked at me. "What do you think?"

"I think," I said carefully, "that three months ago, you would have signed this without reading it."

"Yeah. Definitely."

"And I think the fact that you're reading every word, asking questions, and looking for the catch means you're not the same person who would have signed blindly."

"So I should turn it down?"

"I didn't say that." I chose my words carefully. "I think you should keep reading. Finish all three hundred and forty pages. Ask your lawyer to review it. Talk to people who've lived this life. And then ask yourself one question."

"What question?"

"Is this the life you want, or the life you were taught to want?" I held his gaze. "Because they might not be the same thing. And you need to figure out which is which."

Caroline smiled at me. "You're very wise for seventeen."

"I'm observant. And I've watched what control does to him." I looked at Ethan. "I don't want to watch him trade one form of control for another, even if the new one comes with nicer benefits."

"Even if the new form comes with $2.5 million dollars?" Ethan asked.

"Especially then. Because money makes it harder to walk away when you realize you're miserable. It makes you feel trapped in gold handcuffs."

My mom started crying quietly. Dad passed her a tissue.

"Sorry," Mom said, dabbing at her eyes. "That just... that reminded me of myself at twenty-two. The prestigious job that paid well but felt wrong every single day. How hard it was to quit because everyone thought I was crazy for not being grateful."

"Were you grateful?" Ethan asked.

"For the opportunity? Yes. For the experience? Absolutely. For learning that prestige and happiness aren't the same thing?" Mom smiled through tears. "Most grateful of all for that lesson."

We kept reading. Page by page, clause by clause, parsing the contract that represented everything Ethan had been raised to want and everything I was afraid would consume him.

By noon, we'd finished. Three hundred and forty pages of legalese, financial projections, behavioral requirements, and fine print.

Ethan closed his laptop very carefully. Sat back. Stared at nothing.

"I need to walk," he said finally. "Clear my head. Can we—" He looked at me. "Want to walk?"

"Always."

We left our parents talking in the kitchen—about divorce lawyers and contract attorneys, about supporting kids through impossible choices, about their own decisions made decades ago that still resonated.

Outside, May in Winnipeg was perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. Trees budding into green. Neighbors working in yards. Kids playing street hockey in driveways, the familiar sound of stick on pavement.

We walked without direction, just moving. Past the park where we'd studied for math competitions when we were nine. Past the coffee shop where we'd spent Saturday mornings solving problem sets this year. Past the rink where I'd learned to skate and he'd taught me slapshots.

"I don't know what to do," Ethan said finally.

"I know."

"Everyone keeps asking me what I want, like it's a simple question. Like I'm supposed to just, like, know."

"It's the hardest question in the world."

"Three months ago, it was easy. I wanted to play professional hockey. Make my father proud. Be excellent at the thing I was good at." He kicked a stone down the sidewalk. "Now I don't know if any of that was actually mine, or if it was just... programming."

"What feels like yours?"

"You." He said it simply, certainly. "You feel like mine. My choice, my person, my future I actually want."

"I'm not a future plan. I'm a person you're dating."

"You're the person who made me realize I could want things Robert didn't want for me." He stopped walking, turned to face me. "I spent eight months watching you be excellent at multiple things. Badminton and academics, strategy and execution, science and sport. You didn't pick one and sacrifice everything else. You figured out how to be, like, whole."

"I'm not in the NHL."

"No. But you're happy. And I'm not sure I've ever seen my father happy. Successful, yes. Accomplished, absolutely. But happy?" He shook his head. "I don't think he knows how. I don't think he even wants to be."

"Is that what you're afraid of? Becoming him?"

"I'm afraid of signing that contract and waking up at twenty-five realizing I built someone else's life. That I'm successful and miserable and don't even remember who I actually am." He started walking again, faster now, like he needed to move. "But I'm also afraid of turning it down and waking up at twenty-five realizing I threw away my only shot. That I'm broke and bitter and wondering what if."

"Those are both valid fears."

"Extremely helpful, Sophie."

"I'm not here to make your decision. I'm here to walk with you while you figure it out."

We ended up at the park, sitting on swings like we had back in September when everything was simpler. When we were just the girl who was good at badminton and the boy who was good at hockey, figuring out if we could be friends.

"Can I ask you something?" Ethan said.

"Always."

"If you got an offer right now—some amazing badminton opportunity that conflicted with MIT—what would you do?"

I thought about it. Really thought. "I'd ask myself which opportunity I could create again later, and which one only happens once."

"And?"

"MIT only happens once. I'm seventeen. I got into the best engineering program in the world. That acceptance doesn't wait." I dragged my feet through the mulch under the swing. "But badminton? If I'm good enough for a major opportunity now, I'll be good enough later. Maybe better, after I've learned more and grown more."

"So you'd choose MIT."

"I'd choose education first, sport second. Because for me, that's what feels honest." I looked at him. "But I'm not you. You might feel differently."

"I think I feel the same." He said it quietly, like he was testing the words. "I think hockey will always be there. Maybe not Detroit, maybe not $2.5 million, but I'm good enough to play if I want to. Jim Morrison said so himself."

"But?"

"But walking away from that much money feels insane. Like, actually crazy."

"It is insane. By any normal metric, it's absolutely nuts." I pushed off gently, swinging slowly. "But you're not making a normal decision. You're making a decision about who you want to be."

"Who do I want to be?"

"You tell me."

Ethan was quiet for a long time. Swinging gently, thinking hard, working through seventeen years of conditioning and eight months of revelation.

"I want to be someone who's excellent because I choose to be, not because I'm afraid not to be," he said finally. "I want to be someone who's good at multiple things and doesn't apologize for it. I want to be someone who makes decisions based on what actually makes me happy, not what looks impressive to other people or makes them proud."

"That sounds like MIT to me."

"It does, doesn't it?" He stopped swinging. Looked at me. "But I have sixteen more days to decide. I'm not gonna rush this. I can't."

"Good. Don't."

"Will you help me? Over the next two weeks? Like, ask me hard questions, make me think it through, call me out if I'm choosing for the wrong reasons?"

"What are the wrong reasons?"

"Fear. Money. Pressure. Proving something to my father." He looked at me. "The right reason would be genuinely wanting that life. And I don't know if I do. I really don't."

"Then you have two weeks to figure it out."

We swung in companionable silence as the sun climbed higher and the day warmed around us. Somewhere in the distance, a hockey game was happening—I could hear the familiar sounds of sticks on puck, skates on ice, players calling plays.

Ethan heard it too. Smiled slightly.

"I still love it," he said. "Hockey. Even after everything, I still love the game."

"Good. Love doesn't have to mean sacrifice."

"Doesn't it though? Like, love means commitment. Commitment means choosing."

"Love means choosing, yes. But it doesn't mean choosing yourself out of existence." I stopped swinging, turned to face him fully. "You can love hockey and still want other things. You can be excellent at something and still be whole."

"You really believe that."

"I have to. Otherwise what's the point?"

He reached across the space between swings and took my hand. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being here. For reading that contract with me. For not telling me what to do."

"I don't get to tell you what to do. Nobody does anymore. That's the whole point."

"Terrifying freedom," he said.

"The best kind."

We stayed at the park until early afternoon, then walked back to my house where our parents were still talking. Caroline had apparently called her divorce attorney from our living room, and my dad had helped her understand some financial documents Robert had hidden from her for years.

"Your father has been moving money into accounts I didn't know existed," Caroline told Ethan, her face pale but determined, anger making her voice shake. "My lawyer says I have grounds for forensic accounting. He's been hiding assets, preparing for this."

"Is that expensive?" Ethan asked.

"Very. But necessary." She smiled tightly. "Turns out your emancipation was perfectly timed. I'm not alone in standing up to him anymore."

We ordered pizza for lunch—normalcy in the middle of chaos. Sat around the living room like some kind of weird blended family support group. Ate and talked and planned.

"What happens next?" Mom asked. "For both of you?"

Caroline set down her pizza slice, wiped her hands on a napkin. "I need to find an apartment. Get a job. Figure out how to be a forty-two-year-old single woman after seventeen years of marriage to a controlling man."

"We can help with that," Dad said. "My firm is always looking for people with business experience. If you're interested, I can make some calls on Monday."

"I don't have recent references. I haven't worked in almost two decades."

"You managed a household, raised a child, navigated a complex marriage, and made it out alive with your dignity," Mom said. "That's a resume. That's survival skills."

Caroline's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. Really. You don't have to—"

"We know," I said. "But we want to. You're helping him. Let us help you."

Ethan was very quiet, processing everything. The contract still sat on my dining room table, three hundred and forty pages of possibility and constraint.

"I'm gonna call my lawyer," he said eventually. "Have him review the contract professionally. Get his take on what I'm missing."

"Good idea," Caroline said.

"And I'm gonna talk to Coach Williams. Ask him about players who've made similar choices."

"Also good."

"And I'm gonna finish reading MIT's course catalog. Actually look at what I'd be studying, what opportunities exist, what life would look like there. Make it real instead of just, like, theoretical."

"Even better," I said.

He looked at the contract. At his mother. At me. "But I'm not deciding today. Today I'm just gonna exist. Be seventeen. Be emancipated. Be someone who doesn't have to answer to anyone."

"What does that look like?" Caroline asked.

"Honestly? I have no idea. I've literally never done it before."

So we spent the rest of Saturday doing absolutely nothing productive. Watched a movie. Played board games. Ate dinner together—both sets of parents, me and Ethan, just existing in the same space without crisis or deadline.

At nine o'clock, Caroline went back to her hotel. At nine-thirty, my parents went upstairs with meaningful looks that suggested Ethan and I should wrap up our evening soon.

At ten, we were on the front porch in the dark, moths batting against the porch light, spring sounds all around.

"Thank you," Ethan said. "For today. For your parents. For not freaking out when I showed up at 6 AM still in yesterday's clothes."

"They like you. Even my dad, and he doesn't like anyone."

"Your mom cried, like, four separate times."

"She's emotional about big decisions. Reminds her of her own." I leaned against the porch railing. "Are you okay? Really?"

"I'm terrified and relieved and completely overwhelmed." He smiled slightly. "So basically, yeah. I'm okay."

"Where are you staying tonight? You can't go back to your dad's."

"Caroline's hotel has a spare bed. She said I could stay with her until she finds an apartment." He paused. "It's weird. I've never lived with just my mom. It's always been both of them, or just Robert controlling everything."

"Might be nice. Getting to know her as a person instead of just as your father's wife."

"Yeah. I think it will be."

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it and immediately tensed—whole body going rigid like he'd been shocked.

"Robert," he said, voice flat.

"Calling or texting?"

"Text. He wants to meet tomorrow. Says we need to talk about my 'reckless decision-making' and my 'future.'"

My stomach dropped. "Are you gonna respond?"

"Should I?"

"That's up to you. You're emancipated. You don't owe him contact. You don't owe him anything."

Ethan stared at the text for a long moment. I could see his jaw working, could practically see the war happening inside him—years of conditioning saying "respond to your father" versus new freedom saying "you don't have to."

Then he put his phone away without responding.

"Not tonight," he said. "Tonight he doesn't get to control my mood."

"Good choice."

"Is it though? Like, eventually I'll have to deal with him, right? He's not just gonna disappear."

"Eventually. Not today." I pushed off the railing, moved closer. "You survived emancipation. You read your contract. You supported your mom through filing for divorce. You made it through an entire day without your father dictating your schedule. That's enough for one Saturday."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You were just too distracted by hockey to notice."

He laughed, pulled me into a hug that felt like coming home. "I don't know what I'm doing, Sophie."

"Nobody does. We're all just pretending."

"Your parents seem to have it figured out."

"They're forty-five. They've had, like, practice." I pulled back enough to see his face. "You're seventeen. You're allowed to not know."

"I'm legally an adult now. Don't I have to have answers?"

"You have to make decisions. Answers come later, after you've lived with the consequences long enough to know if they were right."

"Terrifying."

"Welcome to freedom."

He kissed me then—soft and careful, like we had all the time in the world and no reason to rush. Like we weren't standing on my front porch with the moths and the spring sounds and the weight of impossible choices hanging over everything.

When we separated, he was smiling. "Two weeks to decide my future, huh?"

"Sixteen days. But who's counting?"

"Me. Definitely me." He pulled out his phone, made a note. "June 1st. Decision day."

"What are you gonna do until then?"

"Think. Research. Ask questions. Talk to people who've made similar choices." He pocketed his phone. "And spend time with you. Normal time. Dating time. No crisis, no deadline, just us figuring out what us looks like when nobody's trying to keep us apart."

"I like that plan."

"Me too."

He left a few minutes later, driving the car Caroline had rented. Watching him pull away felt different than all the times he'd left before. This time he was choosing to leave. Choosing to stay with his mother. Choosing to come back tomorrow.

Everything was a choice now.

Inside, my parents were pretending not to have been watching from the living room window.

"He's a good kid," Dad said.

"He's figuring out how to be," I corrected.

"That's what makes him good." Dad folded his newspaper, stood up. "You did well today, Sophia. Supporting him without trying to control his decision."

"It's not my decision to make."

"Exactly. That's hard to remember when you care about someone." He kissed the top of my head. "I'm proud of you."

After they went to bed, I sat in the kitchen with the contract still open on the table. Three hundred and forty pages. $2.5 million dollars. Three years of his life.

On paper, it was the obvious choice. Financial security. Professional success. Everything he'd trained for since he was four years old.

But Ethan had changed. Eight months of friendship, revelation, crisis, and choice had transformed him from the controlled hockey player into someone who questioned, who analyzed, who chose for himself.

I didn't know what he'd decide. Honestly, I wasn't sure he knew yet.

But for the first time, I knew the decision would be his.

Really, truly, completely his.

And that was everything.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Decision Time

The next two weeks moved in strange rhythms—simultaneously too fast and impossibly slow.

Ethan had sixteen days to make a decision that would define the next decade of his life. Every morning he woke up counting down. Every night he went to sleep no closer to certainty.

May 17th started with Robert.

Ethan's lawyer had advised him to meet in a public place, on his terms, with clear boundaries. So Ethan chose the upscale steakhouse downtown—expensive enough that Robert wouldn't make a scene, public enough that he couldn't try to physically control anything, neutral enough that neither of them had home advantage.

I offered to come with him. He said no.

"This is between me and him," Ethan said that morning over coffee at the shop near campus. Final exams were next week, but neither of us could focus on studying. "I need to face him alone. Prove I can."

"You don't have to prove anything."

"I do, though. To myself." He stirred his coffee absently. "If I can't stand up to him in a restaurant with witnesses, how am I supposed to make impossible decisions about my entire future?"

"Fair point."

"Besides, Caroline's coming with me. She'll be at a different table, but close enough." He smiled slightly. "Moral support from a distance."

"Your mom's brave."

"She filed for divorce from a man who's controlled her for seventeen years and moved into a hotel with two suitcases and a checking account he doesn't know about." Ethan's smile widened. "She's the bravest person I know."

The dinner was scheduled for seven o'clock. Ethan texted me at 6:58: Going in. Wish me luck.

I responded: You don't need luck. You need boundaries. Hold them.

At 7:47, my phone rang.

"How bad?" I asked without preamble.

"Bad." Ethan sounded exhausted. "He's... he brought a contract analyst. And a financial advisor. Turned dinner into a business presentation."

"About the NHL contract?"

"About everything I'm 'throwing away' by even considering MIT." I heard car sounds in the background—he was driving. "The analyst broke down exactly how much money I'd make over a ten-year NHL career versus a four-year degree. It's not even close, Sophie."

"Money isn't everything."

"It's $15-20 million dollars versus student debt and uncertainty." He sighed. "The numbers are real."

"So is living a life you actually chose."

"That's what I told him. He said I was being naive. That 'authentic self-actualization' doesn't pay for Caroline's divorce lawyer or buy houses or fund retirement."

I winced. "He's trying to make you responsible for your mom's financial security."

"He's good at finding pressure points." Ethan pulled into my driveway—I heard the engine cut off. "Can I come in? I don't want to be alone with my thoughts right now."

"Of course."

He looked drained when I opened the door. Still in the button-down shirt and slacks he'd worn to dinner, tie loosened, hair disheveled from running his hands through it.

"My father is extremely good at making terrible arguments sound reasonable," he said, collapsing onto the couch.

"What did he say?"

"That he understands I'm angry. That emancipation was an 'emotional decision' he respects even if he disagrees with it. That he wants what's best for me." Ethan stared at the ceiling. "Then he spent forty-five minutes explaining why what's best for me is signing with Detroit, deferring MIT for one year, and 'gaining maturity' before starting college."

"You can't defer MIT and play for Detroit. The contract explicitly prohibits it."

"I pointed that out. He said I could renegotiate that clause. That Detroit would be flexible for the right player." Ethan looked at me. "He made it sound so reasonable. So possible. Like I could have both if I just tried hard enough."

"But?"

"But I asked the Detroit scout about it yesterday. Jim Morrison was very clear—they're investing in a full-time player, not a part-time student. No deferrals. No compromises. Hockey only."

"So your father is lying to you."

"He's telling me what he wishes were true and hoping I won't fact-check him." Ethan sat up, rubbed his face. "The worst part? It almost worked. For like ten minutes, I was sitting there thinking maybe I could do both, maybe there was a middle path."

"What changed your mind?"

"Caroline." He smiled slightly. "She was at the next table over, supposedly reading a book but clearly listening. When Robert's analyst started talking about deferral options, she texted me: 'Call Jim. Verify. Don't trust him.'"

"She's good at this whole supportive mom thing."

"She's learning fast." His phone buzzed. He glanced at it and grimaced. "Robert. Again. Sixth call since I left the restaurant."

"You don't have to answer."

"I know." But he stared at the phone anyway. Years of conditioning rising in his body—the automatic tensing of shoulders, the way his breath got shallower, the familiar nausea that came from knowing Robert was angry.

I watched his face change. Saw the old patterns trying to reassert themselves.

"Hey." I moved closer. "Look at me."

He did. His jaw was clenched tight.

"You're not that kid anymore. The one who had to answer every time he called. The one who had to manage his moods."

"I know that." But his hand was still reaching for the phone.

"Do you? Because your body doesn't." I took the phone from his hand, set it face-down on the coffee table. "You met with him. You listened. You don't owe him more than that."

Ethan's shoulders dropped slightly. He took a deeper breath. "He says we're not done talking."

"You say you are."

"It's not—" He stopped himself. Tried again. "You're right. It's my choice. Conversations happen when I agree to them."

I watched him fight the old programming. It was like seeing someone push against invisible chains.

"What did you tell him?" I asked. "At the end of dinner? What did you say?"

"I thanked him for his time and input. I said I'd consider everything he'd presented." He met my eyes. "I did not say I'd sign the Detroit contract. I did not agree to defer MIT. I gave him nothing."

"How did he react?"

"Badly." Something flickered across Ethan's face—old fear, quickly suppressed. "He said if I don't sign by June 1st, I'm making the biggest mistake of my life and I shouldn't expect him to fix it when I fail."

The words came out flat, emotionless. But I saw his hands clench into fists.

"Then he said MIT would 'crush me' because I'm not as smart as I think I am." Ethan's voice went quieter. "Just adequately intelligent with good grades because he made sure I had the best tutors."

My hands clenched too. "He's trying to—"

"Undermine my confidence. Yeah." Ethan pulled his phone back, scrolled through messages with shaking hands. "Look at this. He sent me articles about NHL players who went to college first and 'never reached their full potential.' Case studies of athletes who chose education over professional opportunity and 'regretted it for the rest of their lives.' Financial projections showing how much money I'd lose by waiting four years."

"He's campaigning."

"He's waging psychological warfare." Ethan set the phone down again. The screen lit up with another incoming call. He ignored it, but I saw the way his body tensed. Seventeen years of Pavlovian conditioning—phone rings, stomach drops, pulse spikes.

I wanted to throw the phone out the window.

"And the terrifying thing is," Ethan continued, "some of his points are valid. The money is real. The opportunity is huge. Starting at eighteen versus twenty-two does make a difference in professional sports."

"But?"

"But I keep coming back to what you said on Saturday." He leaned back, stared at the ceiling again. His breathing was still too fast, too shallow. The conversation with Robert had rattled him more than he was admitting. "Is this the life I want, or the life I was taught to want?"

"And?"

"And I still don't know the answer."

Over the next week, Ethan worked methodically through his decision-making process like he was solving a complex engineering problem.

He made lists. Actual, detailed pro-and-con lists that covered both sides of my dining room table.

MIT PROS: - Education with long-term value - Multiple skill development - Intellectual community - Start college with Sophia - Time to mature as person - Keep playing hockey (club level) - Flexibility to change directions - Prove I'm more than an athlete - Learn who I am without Robert - Build life where I make decisions

MIT CONS: - Walk away from $2.5M signing bonus - Delay NHL dream 4+ years - Might never get another offer - Disappoint scouts who believed in me - Robert's "I told you so" if I struggle - Risk of not being smart enough - Student debt (unless I get scholarships) - Starting career at 22 instead of 18

NHL PROS: - Financial security immediately - Fulfill childhood dream - Professional athlete at 18 - Prove I can make it at highest level - Set up Caroline financially - No student debt - Start earning peak salary early - Status and recognition - Make scouts who invested in me proud

NHL CONS: - Miss MIT opportunity (maybe forever) - Leave Sophia for training camp/season - All eggs in one basket (injury risk) - Pressure to succeed immediately - Prove Robert right - Hockey 24/7 with no other development - Short average career (5.5 years) - No plan B if I get hurt - Trade one form of control for another

On May 20th, I found him in the school library during study period, staring at these lists like they might spontaneously produce answers.

"Notice anything interesting?" I asked, sitting down across from him.

"My MIT cons are all about other people. My NHL cons are about me."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

He traced a finger down the NHL cons column. "Miss MIT opportunity. Leave Sophia. Injury risk. Pressure. Trade control. No plan B. All of these are about what I'd lose or what could go wrong for me personally."

"And your MIT cons?"

"Disappoint scouts. Robert's 'I told you so.' Walking away from money. Might not be smart enough." He looked up. "All about what other people will think or how I'll be perceived."

"So what does that tell you?"

"That I'm afraid of choosing MIT because other people will judge me for it. But I'm afraid of choosing the NHL because of what it would do to me." He sat back. "Those aren't the same kind of fear."

"No, they're not."

He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You asked me once which choice I was making because I wanted to and which I was making because I was afraid."

"I remember."

"I think... I'm afraid to choose MIT because people will think I'm crazy. And I'm afraid to choose the NHL because I'll lose myself."

"Which fear matters more?"

"Mine. Always mine." He folded up the lists, set them aside. "Other people's opinions end. But I have to live with myself for the rest of my life."

Later that afternoon, Ethan got a call from Jim Morrison.

"Just checking in," the scout said. "You've got twelve days left. How are you feeling?"

"Honestly? Completely torn."

"That's fair. Can I ask what you're weighing?"

Ethan put him on speaker so I could hear. "Money and security versus education and growth. Immediate success versus long-term development. The known path versus the uncertain one."

"Those are all real considerations." Jim paused. "Can I be more honest with you than I probably should be?"

"Please."

"You're a smart kid, Ethan. Really smart. I read your academic record when we were scouting you. 4.2 GPA, MIT acceptance, math competition winner. You're not just a hockey player who happens to be decent at school. You're genuinely brilliant."

"Thank you, but—"

"Let me finish. I've been a scout for twelve years. I've seen hundreds of kids with your talent. Most of them signed early, played hard, burned out by their mid-twenties." Jim's voice got quieter. "You know what they all have in common? They wish they'd gone to college first."

Ethan's hand tightened around his phone. "All of them?"

"The smart ones. The ones who are thirty years old with two knee surgeries and no degree and no idea what to do next. They tell me, 'I wish I'd waited. I wish I'd gotten an education. I wish I'd had something to fall back on.'"

"How many of them got second chances? To go back to school?"

"Some. But it's harder at thirty with a family and medical bills and no recent academic experience." Jim sighed. "Look, I'm telling you this because I like you. And because Detroit will survive without you. We'll find another player. But you? If you pass up MIT, you might not get another shot at that particular opportunity."

"But I might not get another shot at the NHL either."

"True. But you're eighteen years old and talented as hell. If you want to play professional hockey at twenty-two, you'll have options. Different team, different contract, different numbers—but options." He paused. "MIT doesn't work that way. They don't just take anybody who reapplies four years later."

After the call ended, Ethan sat very still.

"He basically told you to turn them down," I said.

"He told me to choose honestly. To think long-term. To value education." Ethan looked at me. "He's trying to help me."

"He's trying to give you permission to choose yourself."

"Why would a scout do that? His job is to sign players."

"Maybe because he's been where you are. Made choices he regrets. And he doesn't want you to repeat his mistakes."

On May 22nd, Ethan met with Coach Williams—his high school hockey coach who'd been teaching him since he was fourteen.

He came to my house afterward with new information and fresh confusion.

"Coach played in the minors," Ethan said. "Did you know that?"

I didn't. "How long?"

"Three years. Got drafted by Vancouver, signed a contract, moved away from his girlfriend and his college acceptance." Ethan pulled out his phone, showed me photos Coach had shared. "He was twenty. Played hard. Got injured in his third season—torn ACL, complications, never fully recovered."

"What happened then?"

"He was twenty-three, washed up, no degree, no prospects. Spent five years figuring out what to do next. Eventually went to college, got a teaching degree, became a coach." Ethan scrolled through more photos. "He told me it was the hardest five years of his life. Watching his friends graduate and start careers while he was starting over."

"Did he regret going pro?"

"He said he regretted not having a backup plan. That hockey was his entire identity, and when it ended, he didn't know who he was." Ethan pocketed his phone. "He told me to go to MIT. To keep playing hockey but build a life that's bigger than one thing."

"What did you say?"

"I asked him if he'd choose differently if he could go back. He said yes without hesitation. He'd choose college first, hockey second, relationship always."

"The girlfriend he left?"

"They broke up after six months. Long distance plus pressure plus him being twenty and stupid, his words." Ethan smiled sadly. "He married someone else eventually, but he said he always wondered what would have happened if he'd chosen her the first time."

The conversations kept coming. Teachers. Former players. Caroline's new coworkers who'd made similar choices in their own fields. Everyone had stories. Everyone had regrets.

And almost everyone told Ethan the same thing: choose education. Choose growth. Choose the option that makes you more than one thing.

On May 24th, my badminton coach pulled me aside after practice.

"Sophia, you've been invited to the national training program."

I stopped mid-stretch. "What?"

"Summer intensive in Toronto. Elite coaching, national team players, Olympic preparation track." Coach handed me a folder. "It's selective. Only twenty athletes in the country. You're one of them."

I opened the folder with shaking hands. National Badminton Development Program. Elite Summer Training. July 20th - August 10th.

Three weeks. Right before MIT.

Right before moving to Boston with Ethan.

"This is incredible," I said carefully.

"It's career-defining. Athletes who go through this program have a direct path to national team selection." Coach watched my face. "But you'd have to commit. Three weeks, full-time. Miss any days and you're out."

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course. But I need an answer by June 1st."

The same deadline as Ethan's NHL decision. The universe had a twisted sense of timing.

I told Ethan that evening. We were at The Forks, walking the river trail, supposedly studying for finals but mostly just existing together.

"You have to do it," he said immediately.

"It's three weeks away from you. Right when we'd be packing for MIT."

"Sophie, you just won nationals. This is the logical next step."

"So is MIT. So is moving to Boston with you. So is—"

"So is all of it." He stopped walking, turned to face me. "You can't stop developing because we're together. That's not how this works."

"But the timing—"

"The timing sucks. But when does timing ever not suck?" He took my hands. "You're going to Toronto. You're training with the national team. You're taking this opportunity."

"We'd be apart all summer. Right after graduating. Right when we finally—"

"Right when we finally proved we can handle hard things," he interrupted. "Three weeks apart after everything we've survived? We'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"I'm terrified. But yeah, I'm sure." He smiled. "Besides, if I choose MIT and you don't do the national program, you'll resent me for being the reason you didn't go. I know you well enough to know that."

He was right. I would.

"So we both choose what we actually want," I said. "And we trust that we're strong enough to handle it."

"Exactly. That's the whole point." He kissed my forehead. "We both choose ourselves first. And then we choose each other anyway."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I've been hanging out with this really smart badminton player. She's rubbing off on me."

On May 27th, Caroline invited Ethan to dinner at her new apartment.

She'd found a small one-bedroom in a quiet building near downtown. Modest, affordable, hers. Ethan helped her move in over the weekend—watching his mother build a life separate from Robert for the first time in seventeen years.

That Wednesday, she cooked dinner. Pasta and salad, nothing fancy, but made with care.

"I need to tell you something," Caroline said as they ate.

Ethan set down his fork. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not. It's just... honest." She took a breath. "I gave up architecture for your father. Did you know that?"

"You've mentioned you had a degree in architecture."

"I had more than a degree. I had a job offer. A really good one, with a firm in Vancouver. Designing sustainable buildings, working on projects I cared about." She smiled sadly. "But Robert wanted to stay in Winnipeg for his hockey management career. And he wanted a wife who was available, not one who worked sixty-hour weeks."

"He made you choose."

"He suggested it would be better for our family. Better for you, when you came along. Better for his career if I could support him fully." She pushed food around her plate. "I told myself it was my choice. That I was choosing family over career. But really? I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of finding out I wasn't good enough. If I never tried, I never had to fail." Caroline met his eyes. "I spent seventeen years wondering what would have happened if I'd been braver."

Ethan set down his fork completely. "Are you telling me not to make the same mistake?"

"I'm telling you that not choosing is still a choice. And living with regret is harder than living with the consequences of honest decisions." She reached across the table, took his hand. "I'm telling you that I see the way you light up when you talk about MIT. Engineering problems, research opportunities, being challenged intellectually. And I see the way you look when you talk about the NHL contract. Obligated. Pressured. Like you're trying to convince yourself you want it."

"The money is real, though. $2.5 million. That would set you up. Help with the divorce costs, let you—"

"Stop." Caroline squeezed his hand. "You are not responsible for my financial security. I made choices that led me here. I'm making new choices now. But they're mine to make, not yours to fix."

"But—"

"Ethan. Listen to me." She waited until he met her eyes. "If you sign that contract because you think I need you to, I will never forgive myself. Do you understand? That money would destroy me. Every dollar would be a reminder that I failed you."

His eyes widened. "You didn't fail me."

"Then let me prove it now. Let me show you that I can stand on my own two feet. That I can rebuild. That I'm strong enough to handle the consequences of leaving your father without needing you to rescue me."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"What would you have done?" Ethan asked finally. "If you could go back to that moment. Twenty-five years old, job offer in Vancouver, Robert asking you to stay?"

"Architecture. Definitely." No hesitation. "The money would have been less steady, the hours would have been brutal, but it was mine. That matters more than I knew at twenty-five."

"Do you regret having me?"

"Never. Not for one second." She squeezed his hand again. "But I regret not showing you that people can be multiple things. That you can be a parent and have a career. That you can love hockey and also love learning. That you don't have to sacrifice yourself to be excellent."

"You're showing me now."

"I'm trying." She smiled. "I got a job interview, did I tell you?"

Ethan's eyes widened. "Where?"

"Small architectural firm downtown. They need someone with business management experience to help run the office side while the partners focus on design." She laughed. "It's not designing buildings. But it's in the field. It's a start."

"Mom, that's incredible."

"It's terrifying. I haven't worked in seventeen years. I don't know if I remember how."

"You'll remember. You're brilliant."

"I'm rusty and scared and completely out of my depth." Her smile widened. "But I'm doing it anyway. Because you showed me that scared doesn't mean impossible."

She stood up, went to the small desk in the corner of her living room, and came back with a folder. "I want to show you something."

Inside were architectural sketches. Buildings with clean lines and innovative features, sustainable designs, detailed notes in careful handwriting.

"I've been drawing again," Caroline said quietly. "At night, after work hunting and apartment searching. Just... sketching ideas. Things I might design if I had the chance."

Ethan looked through the sketches slowly. They were beautiful. Professional. The work of someone who'd spent seventeen years away from their passion but hadn't forgotten how to dream.

"These are amazing."

"They're practice. Rust-removal." She took the folder back. "But they remind me that I was good at this once. That I could be good at it again if I chose to try."

"Is that what you want? To go back to architecture?"

"I don't know yet. Maybe. Or maybe I want something different now." She set the folder aside. "The point is, I have options. And I'm choosing to explore them instead of being afraid of what happens if I'm not good enough anymore."

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Robert spent seventeen years making you believe you needed him. That you couldn't survive without his income, his plans, his control."

"Yes."

"And you're proving him wrong."

"Every day. It's hard and scary and I cry a lot." Caroline smiled through tears now. "But I'm doing it. And so can you."

"I'm not sure I'm as brave as you."

"You filed for emancipation. You're considering turning down $2.5 million to go to college. You're making impossible choices at seventeen." She wiped her eyes. "You're braver than I ever was. Don't let Robert convince you otherwise."

After dinner, Ethan helped her wash dishes. They talked about practical things—her job interview outfit, his upcoming finals, summer plans if he chose MIT. Normal parent-child conversation, the kind they'd never really had with Robert controlling every interaction.

At the door, Caroline hugged him tight.

"Whatever you choose," she said, "choose it for yourself. Not for me. Not against Robert. For you."

"What if I choose wrong?"

"Then you'll learn from it. But at least it will be yours."

On May 29th, two days before decision day, Ethan couldn't sleep.

I knew because he texted me at 2:17 AM: You awake?

I called him instead of texting back.

"What's wrong?" I asked, voice rough with sleep.

"I can't stop thinking about the money." He sounded wrecked. "Sophie, it's $2.5 million dollars. That's generational wealth. That's—" He broke off. "That's stupid amounts of money."

"I know."

"Do you? Like, really understand what I'm walking away from?"

I sat up in bed, turned on the lamp. "Tell me what you're thinking right now. Exactly what's in your head."

"I'm thinking that I could sign this contract and never have to worry about money again. Ever. I could take care of Caroline. I could invest and be set for life. I could—" His breath hitched. "I could be someone. Important. Professional athlete. People would know my name."

"You already are someone."

"I'm a high school hockey player with good grades. That's not—" He made a frustrated sound. "In four years, if I go to MIT, I'll be a college graduate with a degree and no pro experience. Starting over at twenty-two while everyone else is four years ahead. What if I can't make it then? What if this is my only chance?"

"Is that Robert talking or you?"

Silence. Then, quieter: "I don't know anymore. He's been in my head for so long, I can't tell which thoughts are mine."

"Okay. Let's try something." I grabbed a notebook from my bedside table. "I'm going to ask you questions. Answer with the first thing that comes to mind. Don't think about what you should say or what sounds right. Just... gut reaction. Okay?"

"Okay."

"What do you want to do tomorrow?"

"Sleep in. Have breakfast with you. Not think about this for like five minutes."

"What do you want to do in September?"

"Move to Boston. Start classes. Meet my roommate. Figure out MIT."

"What do you want to do in five years?"

Pause. Then: "I don't know. But I want to have options. I want to be able to choose."

"What do you want right now? This second?"

"To stop being terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of making the wrong choice. Of disappointing everyone. Of being broke and stupid and proving Robert right." His voice cracked. "Of losing you."

"You're not going to lose me."

"But what if I choose wrong and I'm miserable and I resent you for being part of why I chose MIT? What if—"

"Ethan. Stop." I took a breath. "Are you thinking about signing the contract right now?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I have the laptop open. The digital contract. There's a button. 'Accept and Sign.' I've been staring at it for twenty minutes."

My heart stopped. "Don't."

"The money would solve everything."

"It wouldn't solve anything. It would just trade one set of problems for another."

"You don't know that."

"I know you. And I know that if you sign that contract at 2 AM because you're scared and tired and second-guessing yourself, you'll regret it. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not next month. But eventually."

"How do you know?"

"Because you've spent two weeks researching this decision. You've made lists. You've talked to everyone who would listen. You've thought it through from every angle. And every time—every single time—you come back to MIT." I heard him breathing on the other end. "This fear? This 2 AM panic? This isn't new information. This is your brain freaking out because the deadline is close and the stakes are huge."

"What if my brain is right? What if I am making a huge mistake?"

"Then you'll survive it. You'll learn from it. You'll pivot." I softened my voice. "But Ethan, listen to me. If you sign that contract right now, in this state, you'll wake up tomorrow and hate yourself. Close the laptop."

"Sophie—"

"Close. The laptop."

I heard rustling. A click. Then a long exhale.

"It's closed," he said.

"Good. Now step away from it."

"I'm in bed. Laptop's on the desk."

"Okay. Now talk to me about something else. Anything else."

We stayed on the phone for another hour. Talked about nothing important—prom plans, what movies we wanted to see this summer, whether he should get a haircut before graduation. Normal things. Easy things.

Eventually his breathing evened out. The panic in his voice faded.

"Thank you," he said finally.

"For what?"

"For not letting me do something stupid at 2 AM."

"That's what I'm here for. Preventing 2 AM catastrophic decisions."

"I'm still terrified."

"I know. But you're going to make this decision tomorrow when you're rested and clear-headed. Not tonight when you're exhausted and spiraling."

"What if I still don't know what to do?"

"Then you trust the work you've already done. You trust the choice you've been moving toward for two weeks."

"MIT."

"MIT," I confirmed.

"I'm going to choose MIT, aren't I?"

"I think you already did. You just need to admit it out loud."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm going to choose MIT."

"How does that feel?"

"Terrifying. And right. Both at the same time."

"That sounds about perfect."

"I love you," he said suddenly. Then, like he surprised himself: "I mean—not like—I just mean—"

"I know what you mean." My heart was racing. "Go to sleep, Ethan. We'll deal with everything else tomorrow."

After we hung up, I lay awake in the dark for a long time, thinking about those three words he'd stumbled over. About what they meant and when we'd actually say them for real.

But mostly I thought about how close he'd come to signing that contract. How one click could have changed everything.

And how grateful I was that he'd texted me instead.

On May 31st—decision eve—Ethan showed up at my house at sunset.

"Tomorrow I have to call Detroit," he said.

"I know."

"I've made a decision."

My heart stopped. "Tell me."

"Can we walk first? I want to explain my reasoning."

We walked to the park, the same swings where we'd had this conversation two weeks earlier. The May evening was perfect—warm but not hot, light breeze, birds settling into trees for the night.

Ethan didn't sit on the swings. He paced.

"I've spent two weeks researching. Asking questions. Making lists. Talking to everyone who would listen." He kicked at the mulch. "And I keep coming back to the same conclusion."

"Which is?"

"I've been playing hockey since I was four years old. Seventeen years of skating, shooting, training, competing. I've been doing what other people tell me to do for just as long—coaches, trainers, Robert, always someone directing me."

"And?"

"And I'm good at it. Really good. The NHL offer proves that." He stopped pacing, faced me. "But here's what I realized at 3 AM last night when I almost signed the contract—"

"Wait, you almost signed it?"

"I had it open. Cursor over the button. Then I texted you." He smiled slightly. "You saved me from myself."

"Anytime."

"But what I realized is that the NHL will always be there. Maybe not Detroit, maybe not $2.5 million, but I'm talented enough to play professionally if I want to. Jim Morrison said so. Coach Williams said so. Even Robert said so, back when he wasn't trying to control my decision."

"But?"

"But I might not always be smart enough for MIT. I got in now, at seventeen, with perfect timing and the right application and some luck. If I defer and reapply in four years? No guarantee. The opportunity is now."

My chest tightened. "You're choosing MIT."

"I'm choosing MIT." He said it firmly, certainly. "Education first. Being more than just an athlete. Giving myself time to figure out who I am when nobody's telling me what to be."

"Are you sure?"

"No. I'm absolutely terrified I'm making a massive mistake." He smiled slightly. "But I'm sure I made this choice for the right reasons. Not because of you, not because of Robert, not because I'm afraid of the NHL. But because when I imagine myself at twenty, twenty-five, thirty—I see someone who chose growth over money. Someone who built a life instead of just a career."

"Your dad is going to lose his mind."

"My dad already lost his mind. This is me finding mine."

I pulled him into a hug that lasted a long time. When we separated, he was crying—quiet tears that he didn't bother hiding.

"I'm walking away from $2.5 million dollars," he said.

"You're walking toward something better."

"How do you know?"

"Because you chose it. Really chose it. Not because someone told you to or because you were afraid not to. You chose it because it's what you actually want."

"I hope you're right."

"Me too."

We sat on the swings as the sun set, talking through his plan. Tomorrow morning, 9 AM, he'd call Jim Morrison. Thank him for the opportunity. Decline the contract. Then he'd call MIT admissions, confirm his enrollment, make it official.

"What about Robert?" I asked.

"What about him?"

"Are you going to tell him?"

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. "I'll send him an email. Let him know I've made my decision. But I'm not asking for permission or approval. I'm informing him."

"He's going to call. Text. Show up places."

"Probably. But he can't control me anymore." Ethan looked at me. "That's the whole point of emancipation. I get to choose, and he gets to deal with it."

"Even if he's disappointed?"

"Especially if he's disappointed. His disappointment isn't my responsibility anymore."

We stayed at the park until dark, then walked back to my house. Tomorrow would be decision day. Tonight was just us, existing in the space between who he'd been and who he was choosing to become.

At my front door, he kissed me like he was sealing a promise.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For showing me there's more than one way to be excellent. For not trying to make my decision for me. For being here while I figured it out."

"That's what partners do."

"Partners," he repeated, testing the word. "I like that."

"Better than 'the girl who made me choose MIT'?"

He laughed. "So much better. You didn't make me choose anything. You just asked the right questions until I could choose honestly."

"So what did I ask that helped?"

"Is this the life I want, or the life I was taught to want?" He said it like a prayer, like a truth he'd discovered and would carry forever. "That question changed everything."

June 1st dawned clear and bright.

I woke early, texted Ethan: Today's the day. You got this.

He responded immediately: Terrified. But ready.

At 9:00 AM, he called Jim Morrison from Caroline's apartment. She sat next to him, holding his free hand.

"Jim, it's Ethan Mercer."

"Ethan. Good morning. I assume you're calling with your decision?"

"Yes, sir." Ethan took a breath. His hand was shaking. Caroline squeezed tighter. "Thank you for the incredible opportunity. Thank you for your honesty and guidance over the past few weeks. But I'm going to have to decline Detroit's offer. I'm going to MIT."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Good for you, kid."

"You're not disappointed?"

"I'm a scout. I'm always disappointed when I don't sign a player I believe in." Jim laughed. "But I'm also a human being who's seen too many talented kids burn out. Go to MIT. Get your education. Keep playing hockey because you love it. And if you decide you want to go pro at twenty-two? Call me. I'll help you."

"Really?"

"Really. You're good enough to play whenever you're ready. Take your time getting ready."

"Thank you, sir. For everything."

"Good luck, Ethan. You're going to need it. MIT's brutal."

"So I've heard."

After he hung up, Caroline pulled him into a hug. "I'm so proud of you."

"I just turned down $2.5 million dollars."

"You just chose yourself. That's worth more."

At 9:15, Ethan called MIT admissions. Confirmed his enrollment. Made it official and irreversible.

At 9:20, he texted me: It's done. I'm going to MIT.

I was in the middle of my own call—accepting the national badminton training program, committing to Toronto in July.

I texted back: Me too. MIT confirmed. We're doing this.

At 9:30, Ethan sent an email to Robert:

Dad,

I wanted to let you know that I've made my decision regarding the NHL contract. After careful consideration and consultation with advisors I trust, I've decided to decline Detroit's offer and attend MIT as planned.

I understand this isn't the choice you would make for me. But it's the choice I'm making for myself. I hope you can respect that, even if you don't agree with it.

I'm not asking for your approval or permission. I'm informing you as a courtesy because you're my father and you deserve to know.

I hope someday we can have a relationship that isn't based on you controlling my choices. But until then, I need space to figure out who I am without your input.

Ethan

He showed me the email later, over lunch at our favorite coffee shop.

"Think he'll respond?" I asked.

"Oh, he'll respond. Probably with a novel about my terrible life choices and wasted potential."

Right on cue, Ethan's phone buzzed. Email from Robert. Subject line: "Disappointment."

Ethan looked at it, then put his phone away without reading it. "Not today. Today I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"Everything. Choosing MIT. Choosing myself. Choosing a future I actually want." He raised his coffee cup. "To making decisions for the right reasons."

I clinked my cup against his. "To making decisions and dealing with the consequences later."

"To being terrified and doing it anyway."

"To freedom," I added. "Terrifying, overwhelming, beautiful freedom."

"To freedom," he echoed.

His phone kept buzzing. Email after email. Then calls. Then texts.

Robert was not taking the news well.

Ethan's phone finally rang with Caroline's number. He answered.

"Your father is at my apartment building," she said without preamble. "The front desk called. He's demanding to see you."

"Tell them not to let him up."

"Already did. But he's persistent."

"So am I." Ethan's jaw set. "I'm not seeing him today. He doesn't get to ruin this."

"What should I tell him?"

"Nothing. You don't owe him explanations either."

Caroline was quiet for a moment. "You're right. I'll call my lawyer. She can deal with him."

After she hung up, Ethan stared at his phone. "He showed up at her apartment."

"Trying to intimidate you."

"Trying to control me. Still. Even after emancipation, even after I made my choice." He set the phone down. "But it's done. I chose MIT. I sent the email. I'm not changing my mind because he's throwing a tantrum."

"Good."

"Is it though? What if he's right? What if I just made the biggest mistake of my life?"

"Then you made it honestly. And you'll learn from it." I reached across the table, took his hand. "But I don't think you did. I think you made the bravest choice of your life."

"Walking away from money is brave?"

"Walking toward uncertainty is brave. Choosing growth over guarantee is brave. Deciding that you're worth more than one thing is brave." I squeezed his hand. "You could have taken the easy path. The one everybody expected. The one that came with a check and a plan and no questions. But you chose the hard path. The one that makes you more than just Robert's hockey player."

His phone buzzed again. Text from Robert: We need to talk.

Ethan deleted it without responding.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the park, studying for finals but mostly just existing in the relief of having made impossible choices and survived.

That night, alone in his room at Caroline's apartment, Ethan sat on the edge of his bed and let it all wash over him.

He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

Turned down $2.5 million dollars. Chosen MIT. Chosen himself.

His phone sat silent on the nightstand—Robert's contact deleted, his texts unanswered, his control severed.

And Ethan felt... free. Terrified. Exhilarated. Uncertain.

But free.

He pulled out his laptop, opened his MIT acceptance letter, read it for probably the hundredth time. We are delighted to offer you admission to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

This was real. This was happening.

In three months, he'd be in Boston. Living in a dorm. Taking classes with people who were just as smart as he was—smarter, probably. Playing club hockey because he wanted to, not because someone told him he had to.

Building a life that was his.

He thought about the contract he'd almost signed at 2 AM. How close he'd come to throwing it all away because he was scared.

Thank god for Sophia. For 2 AM phone calls and questions that made him think and the kind of love that didn't try to control him.

His phone buzzed. Text from Sophia: How are you feeling?

He smiled, typed back: Terrified. Relieved. Like I just jumped off a cliff and I'm not sure if I'm flying or falling.

Her response came immediately: Both. Definitely both.

Is that okay?

That's perfect. That's how you know you made a real choice.

He set the phone down, lay back on his bed, stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow: finals. Next week: prom. Two weeks: graduation. Then summer. Then MIT.

Then everything else.

But tonight, just for tonight, he let himself feel it. All of it.

The terror of walking away from guaranteed money. The relief of choosing honestly. The uncertainty of the future. The rightness of the decision.

He'd done it. He'd chosen himself.

And that was everything.

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Celebration Season

Prom shopping with Ethan Mercer turned out to be one of the most unexpectedly normal things we'd ever done together.

We went the Saturday after his MIT decision—June 2nd, one week before the dance. Downtown Winnipeg had exactly two formal wear shops, and we hit both of them with the determination of people who'd survived emancipation proceedings and could definitely handle choosing coordinating outfits.

"I have no idea what I'm doing," Ethan admitted as we stood in front of a wall of tuxedos.

"You wear clothes every day. This is just... fancier clothes."

"I wear jeans and hockey jerseys. This is a completely different category of clothing."

The sales associate—a patient man named David who'd clearly seen many terrified teenage boys—stepped in. "What's your date wearing?"

Ethan looked at me helplessly.

"I haven't chosen yet," I said. "I was thinking something blue? Maybe dark blue?"

David's eyes lit up. "Classic. Elegant. Easy to coordinate with." He turned to Ethan. "Black tux, white shirt, blue tie to match her dress. Can't go wrong."

Twenty minutes later, Ethan was standing in front of a mirror in a perfectly fitted tuxedo looking like he'd walked out of a magazine spread. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, the tie would come later once I'd found my dress.

"You clean up nice," I said.

He tugged at the collar. "I feel like an imposter. Like I'm playing dress-up."

"You're literally going to prom. That's exactly what prom is—dress-up for teenagers."

"Fair point." He turned in front of the mirror, examining himself from different angles. "Think anyone will recognize me?"

"Everyone will recognize you. You're the hockey player who turned down the NHL."

He winced. "That's going to be my identity forever, isn't it?"

"At least until we get to MIT and become 'those freshmen from Canada.'"

"I can live with that."

We ordered his tux—pickup on June 6th, the day before prom. Then we headed to the dress shop, where I faced the significantly more complicated task of finding something that felt like me.

"What do you normally wear to formal events?" the sales associate asked.

"Badminton uniforms?"

She laughed. "Okay, let's start with color. You said blue?"

"I look good in blue. And I like darker colors. Not pastels."

She disappeared into the racks, returning with five dresses. "Try these. Let's see what works."

Ethan settled into the waiting area with his phone, texting with Caroline about apartment furniture. I headed to the dressing room.

The first dress was too much—layers and sparkles and a skirt that took up half the room.

The second was too formal—like I was going to a wedding, not a high school dance.

The third was wrong in ways I couldn't articulate—the cut, the fit, the vibe. Just wrong.

The fourth made me look twelve.

The fifth...

The fifth was perfect.

Midnight blue silk that caught the light like water. Halter neck that showed my shoulders—athlete shoulders I'd earned through years of badminton. Fitted bodice that was elegant without being revealing. Flowing skirt that moved when I did, like I was still in motion even standing still.

I stared at myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess, I had no makeup on, I was wearing mismatched socks underneath. But somehow, the dress worked.

"Can I see?" Ethan called from outside.

"No! That's bad luck or something."

"That's weddings. Prom doesn't have those rules."

"I'm making new rules. No peeking until prom night."

The sales associate poked her head in. "Oh honey. That's the one."

"You think?"

"I know." She adjusted the straps slightly. "You look like yourself, just elevated. That's what a good dress does."

I turned in front of the mirror, watching the skirt move. "It's not too much?"

"It's perfect. Trust me."

I did.

We bought the dress—more money than I'd ever spent on clothes, but my parents had given me a budget and told me to find something that made me feel beautiful. This did.

On the drive home, Ethan kept trying to guess what the dress looked like.

"Is it sparkly?"

"No."

"Is it pink?"

"I said blue. Were you not listening?"

"Is it short?"

"Knee length. Stop fishing for information."

"Is it—"

"You'll see it on Thursday when we take pictures. That's in five days. You can wait five days."

He grinned. "I'm good at waiting. I waited eight months to actually date you."

"That was different. That was survival."

"This is anticipation. Equally difficult."

We spent the rest of the week in the strange liminal space of high school ending. Finals were done. Classes were over. Graduation was in three weeks. We were technically still students but practically already gone.

Wednesday afternoon, Maya—my future MIT roommate—video called me.

"I need to know everything about prom," she said without preamble. "We don't do prom this big in California. Like, we have it, but it's not a thing the way it seems to be everywhere else."

"It's one dance. Dinner, photos, dancing, after-party. That's it."

"You're going with the hockey player who turned down millions of dollars. It's definitely not just one dance for you."

I laughed. "Fair. It's our first real public date. First time as an official couple in front of our entire class."

"Pressure."

"So much pressure. But also—we earned this. We fought for eight months to be together. We're allowed to celebrate."

"What's he like? Really?"

I thought about how to explain Ethan. "He's brilliant and doesn't believe it. He's excellent at everything and apologizes for it. He spent seventeen years being controlled and is just now figuring out what freedom means."

"He sounds complicated."

"He's worth the complication."

"You're so gone for him."

"Completely. Embarrassingly. Totally gone."

Maya grinned. "I can't wait to meet you guys. Move-in is August 15th, right? That's like ten weeks away."

"Ten weeks of summer. Normal summer. Just... existing and being teenagers."

"Except for your three weeks at national badminton training."

"Except for that."

"And his club hockey commitments."

"Okay, semi-normal summer."

After we hung up, I realized: this was my future. Video calls with roommates, planning for college, thinking about life beyond Winnipeg. It felt impossibly far away and startlingly close at the same time.

Thursday, June 7th—prom day—started early.

My mother had taken the day off work specifically to help me get ready. She was more excited than I was.

"Hair appointment at 2 PM," she said, consulting the schedule she'd made like we were planning a military operation. "Makeup at 3:30. Dress at 4:30. Pictures at 5. Ethan picks you up at 6."

"Mom, it's prom, not a wedding."

"It's your only high school prom. We're doing it right."

At 2 PM, I sat in a salon chair while a stylist named Jennifer worked magic with a curling iron and bobby pins. Half-up, half-down, loose curls, elegant but not trying too hard.

"Big night?" Jennifer asked.

"Prom."

"Senior prom?"

"Yeah."

"Date someone special?"

I thought about how to answer that. "He's... yeah. Really special."

"First love?"

"Only love," I said before I could stop myself.

Jennifer smiled in the mirror. "Those are the ones you remember forever."

At 3:30, the makeup artist—Michelle, a friend of my mother's—did my face with a light touch. "You have good skin. We're just enhancing, not hiding."

Natural-looking makeup that somehow made me look like a better version of myself. Defined eyes, subtle lips, just enough to be noticeable without being obvious.

At 4:30, I put on the dress.

It fit perfectly. The alterations had been completed earlier that week, and now it hung exactly right. I looked in my bedroom mirror—hair done, makeup applied, dress perfect, badminton calluses visible on my hands because I refused to cover them.

I looked like me. Just... more.

My mother started crying.

"Don't," I said. "You'll make me cry and ruin the makeup."

"You're so beautiful. When did you grow up?"

"Probably around the time I started dating an emancipated hockey player and making life-altering college decisions."

She laughed through tears. "Fair point."

At 5 PM, my dad set up his camera equipment in the backyard. "We're doing this right," he declared, echoing my mother.

At 5:30, Caroline's car pulled up.

She'd offered to bring Ethan and stay for pictures—building this weird extended family thing we'd created over the past few weeks. She got out first, dressed nicely in a summer dress, camera in hand.

Then Ethan stepped out of the car, and my brain stopped working.

He wore the tuxedo we'd chosen. Black jacket perfectly fitted to his frame, white shirt crisp and bright, blue tie that matched my dress exactly. His hair was styled—still him, but intentional. He'd shaved. He looked older, polished, absolutely devastating.

He saw me and froze.

"Sophie—" He stopped. Started again. "You look—"

"Words, Mercer. Use words."

"I don't have words." He crossed the yard slowly, like he was afraid I might disappear. "You're beautiful. That's inadequate, but it's all my brain can produce right now."

"You're not so bad yourself."

"I feel like an imposter in this tux."

"You look like you were born to wear it."

Our mothers were crying. Our respective parents were taking photos. We were standing in my backyard like characters in a movie, and I couldn't quite believe this was real.

"Ready for pictures?" Dad asked.

For the next thirty minutes, we posed. Separate photos, together photos, with parents, without parents, serious faces, silly faces, looking at each other, looking at the camera.

My favorite was one Dad took when we didn't know he was shooting: Ethan adjusting my hair while I laughed at something he'd said. Completely natural. Completely us.

Caroline and my mother were best friends by the time we finished, bonding over having teenagers who'd survived impossible circumstances and made it to prom.

At 6 PM exactly, Ethan offered his arm. "Ready?"

"Ready."

We took his car—the one Caroline had helped him buy last week with money from his part-time coaching job. A used Honda Civic that was his, paid for with his money, his choice. He was unreasonably proud of it.

"First real date in my own car," he said as we drove to the restaurant.

"First real date in public where we don't have to hide or explain or justify."

"First real date where I can just be your boyfriend without it being a crisis."

"Just boyfriend-girlfriend at prom. Completely normal."

"We've never been completely normal."

"True. But we can pretend for one night."

Dinner was at an Italian place downtown—nice but not absurdly fancy, good food, warm atmosphere. A group reservation with several other couples from school, including some of Ethan's hockey teammates and their dates.

Jordan Chen—one of Ethan's closest friends—raised his glass when we arrived. "To Mercer, who turned down the NHL to go to college. Still not sure if you're brilliant or insane."

"Can't it be both?" Ethan asked.

"Definitely both," Jordan's date agreed.

We ate pasta and bread, laughed at stupid jokes, talked about summer plans and college acceptances and futures that seemed impossibly close. Normal teenagers having normal conversations, like we hadn't spent the last eight months in crisis mode.

Madison—Ethan's ex-girlfriend—was there with her new boyfriend, a guy named Alex from the debate team. She caught my eye across the table and smiled genuinely. No animosity. Just two people who'd moved on to better fits.

After dinner, we caravanned to the hotel where prom was being held. The ballroom was decorated in silver and blue, with lights strung everywhere and a DJ already playing music that was too loud for conversation.

"This is surreal," Ethan said as we found our table.

"Good surreal or bad surreal?"

"Good. Definitely good." He looked around at classmates laughing and dancing, at the decorations and the chaos and the sheer normalcy of it all. "I didn't think I'd get this. Normal teenage experiences. I thought Robert would control everything forever."

"But you're here."

"I'm here. Free, emancipated, going to MIT, and at prom with the smartest girl I know." He took my hand. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

The first slow song started around 8 PM.

"Can I ask you something?" I said as we stepped onto the dance floor.

"Always."

"Do you know how to dance?"

"Not even a little bit. You?"

"I play badminton. I have decent footwork. But actual dancing? No idea."

"Then we'll figure it out together."

We did. Badly at first—stepping on each other's feet, laughing at our complete lack of coordination. But gradually, we found a rhythm. His hand at the small of my back, warm through the silk of my dress. My arms around his neck, fingers brushing the hair at his nape. Swaying more than actually dancing, but together.

Around us, the entire senior class was dancing. Couples who'd been together for years, brand new couples, groups of friends dancing together, people who came alone dancing in clusters. Everyone just existing in the moment.

"Everyone's watching us," Ethan murmured.

"Let them watch."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Not even a little bit." I looked up at him. "We earned this. We fought for this. They can watch all they want."

He kissed me then—soft and quick and completely appropriate for a school dance. When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"What?" I asked.

"I'm happy. Just... genuinely happy. I don't think I've felt this in years."

"Good. You deserve happy."

The song ended. Another started—upbeat and energetic. The mood shifted from slow and romantic to chaotic and joyful.

Ethan's hockey teammates pulled him into their circle. My badminton friends pulled me into theirs. For the next hour, we danced separately and together, with friends and alone, lost in the music and the moment and the sheer relief of being normal teenagers at a normal dance.

Around 9:30, the DJ announced prom court.

I'd forgotten about prom court. Nominations had happened weeks ago, when everything was crisis and chaos. I hadn't paid attention.

"And your prom king and queen," the DJ announced, "Ethan Mercer and Madison Hayes!"

Ethan's face went white. Madison looked equally shocked.

"That's your ex-girlfriend," I said.

"Very aware."

"You have to go up there."

"I really don't want to."

"I know. But you do."

He squeezed my hand once, then made his way to the stage where Madison was already waiting. They looked at each other, laughed at the absurdity, and accepted their crowns with good humor.

"Speech!" someone shouted.

Madison took the microphone. "Thanks, everyone. This is weird and wonderful and completely unexpected." She looked at Ethan. "You want to say something?"

He took the mic reluctantly. "Uh, thanks? I guess? This is strange because Madison and I aren't together anymore, but that's okay because we're both with people who make us really happy." He found me in the crowd. "So thanks for the crown, but I'm good with just being here."

The crowd cheered. Ethan escaped the stage as quickly as possible.

"That was smooth," I said when he got back.

"That was terrifying."

"You handled it perfectly."

"I panicked and told everyone I'm happy with you in front of the entire class."

"I noticed. It was sweet."

"It was survival."

We danced until the DJ announced last song—some classic slow number that everyone knew. Ethan pulled me close, and we swayed in the dim light as the song played and prom wound down.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what?"

"For being here. For making this possible. For being someone worth choosing MIT for."

"You didn't choose MIT for me."

"I chose MIT for a lot of reasons. You're one of them." He rested his forehead against mine. "Not the only reason. But a really good one."

"We should probably get out of here before I start crying and ruin my makeup."

"Good plan."

The after-party was at Jordan's house—his parents had gone out of town specifically so he could host. By the time we arrived around 11:30, it was already packed with classmates.

No alcohol—Jordan's parents had made that clear—but plenty of food, music, and the chaotic energy of teenagers celebrating the end of high school.

Ethan and I found a quiet corner of the back deck, away from the noise but still part of the party.

"This is nice," I said.

"Being away from people?"

"Being with you while people exist nearby. The best of both worlds."

Madison appeared with her boyfriend Alex. "Mind if we join you?"

We made space. The four of us sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching other classmates dance and laugh inside.

"I owe you an apology," Madison said to me.

"For what?"

"For being weird about you and Ethan in the beginning. For not understanding what you had." She looked at her boyfriend. "I get it now. When it's right, it's obvious."

"No apology needed," I said. "You were fine."

"I was petty. But I'm over it." She smiled at Ethan. "I'm glad you're happy. Really."

"Same to you," Ethan said. "Alex seems great."

"He is. We're both going to University of British Columbia in the fall. Going to try the long-distance thing."

"It can work," I said. "If you're both committed."

"That's what everyone says." Madison stood up. "Anyway, I just wanted to clear the air. No hard feelings?"

"None," Ethan assured her.

After they left, Ethan looked at me. "That was remarkably mature."

"We're all growing up. Apparently even Madison."

"Terrifying thought."

We stayed at the party until almost 2 AM, when parents started texting that it was time to come home.

"Want to take the long way?" Ethan asked as we got in his car.

"Always."

He didn't drive toward my house. Instead, he headed downtown, toward The Forks—the marketplace where the rivers met. Tourist destination during the day, quiet and peaceful at night.

We parked near the river walk and wandered down to the water's edge. The city was asleep around us. The Red and Assiniboine rivers merged in dark currents, reflecting lights from the few buildings still illuminated. Stars were visible through Winnipeg's light pollution—not many, but enough.

I was still in my prom dress, though I'd kicked off my heels in the car. Ethan had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. We looked like we'd stepped out of a fairy tale and landed in the real world, exhausted but happy.

We found a bench overlooking the water and sat.

"Perfect night," Ethan said.

"Completely."

"I keep waiting for something to go wrong."

"Nothing's going to go wrong. We get to just be happy."

"That feels new." He leaned back, stared at the stars. "I've spent so long in crisis mode. Waiting for the next disaster. But tonight... tonight was just good."

"We earned good."

"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always."

He turned to face me, and there was something in his expression I couldn't quite read. Vulnerable. Open. A little scared.

"I keep thinking about everything we've been through," he said. "Eight months ago, I was completely controlled. My life wasn't mine. I didn't make decisions, I executed them. And then you showed up."

"I didn't do anything. You saved yourself."

"You showed me it was possible. You asked questions I'd never thought to ask. You made me see that being excellent didn't have to mean being sacrificed." His hand found mine. "But somewhere in all that, somewhere between September and now, something else happened."

My heart was beating too fast. "What happened?"

"I fell in love with you."

The words hung in the air between us. Simple. Honest. Enormous.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only stare at him in the darkness, his face partly shadowed, his eyes reflecting starlight.

"I don't know when exactly," he continued, voice soft but steady. "Maybe it was when you destroyed everyone at badminton nationals while making it look easy. Maybe it was when you helped me read that contract without trying to tell me what to do. Maybe it was watching you give your valedictorian speech and realizing you were talking about us. Our choices. Our freedom."

He took a shaky breath.

"Or maybe I've loved you since we were nine years old skating at that rink in our old town, and I was just too young and too controlled to know what it was." His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand. "But I know it now. I love you, Sophie. Not because you saved me, not because we've been through hell together, not because you're brilliant and beautiful and the best person I know—though you are all those things. I love you because when I imagine my future, every version of it has you in it."

Tears were running down my face, ruining Michelle's careful makeup work. I didn't care.

"I love you," he said again, like he needed to make sure I heard it. "And I know that's terrifying and huge and we're only eighteen and we're about to start college and everything's uncertain and—"

I kissed him.

Not soft and careful like at the dance. Not appropriate for public spaces. But desperately, completely, like I'd been holding back all night and couldn't anymore. My hands tangled in his hair. His arms pulled me close. The bench was uncomfortable and the position awkward but none of it mattered because Ethan Mercer had just told me he loved me and I—

"I love you too," I whispered against his mouth. "God, I love you too."

He pulled back just enough to see my face, his hands framing my jaw. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So much." I was crying and laughing at the same time. "I think I've loved you since you helped me practice slapshots in September and didn't make fun of how terrible I was. Or maybe since you stood up to your father in that courthouse. Or maybe since you chose MIT even though it scared you. I don't know when it started, but I know it's real."

"We're really doing this," he said. "Telling each other we're in love at 2:30 in the morning after prom while sitting by a river in our fancy clothes."

"Is that weird?"

"It's perfect." He kissed me again, softer this time. "Everything about us is weird and perfect."

We stayed like that for a long time. Holding each other. Kissing between words. Processing the enormity of what we'd just said. The river flowed past, indifferent to the two teenagers on the bench whose lives had just shifted into something bigger and more terrifying and more beautiful than either of us had expected.

"We have to tell people," I said eventually. "Maya's going to die. She's been asking about you for weeks."

"Jordan's going to mock me endlessly for saying it first."

"You did say it first."

"I couldn't help it. It just... came out. I was talking about tonight and you and suddenly the words were there and I couldn't not say them."

"I'm glad you said them."

"Me too." He checked his phone and winced. "It's almost 3. Your parents are going to kill me."

"We're eighteen. Legally adults. They can't ground us."

"Tell that to your father's death stare."

But neither of us moved. We stayed on that bench by the river, in our prom clothes, holding onto the moment before we had to drive home and return to reality.

"This changes things," Ethan said quietly.

"Does it?"

"We're not just dating anymore. We're... in love. That's different."

"How?"

"Higher stakes. More to lose." He looked at me seriously. "If we mess this up, if MIT breaks us or distance wins or we drift apart—it's not just losing a relationship. It's losing this."

"Then we won't mess it up."

"How do you know?"

"Because we choose not to. Every day. On purpose." I kissed him once more. "We survived your father. We survived emancipation. We survived choosing ourselves over easy paths. We can survive being in love while going to MIT."

"That's a lot of faith."

"I have faith in us."

"Even when it's scary?"

"Especially when it's scary."

We finally drove home around 3:30. The streets were empty, the city asleep. Ethan held my hand the entire drive, our fingers intertwined like we could anchor each other against whatever came next.

At my door, he kissed me goodnight like he was sealing a promise.

"Best prom ever," he said.

"Only prom ever."

"Best regardless." He touched the side of my face gently. "I love you."

"I love you too."

The words still felt new. Enormous. Perfect.

"Three weeks until graduation. Then summer. Then MIT."

"Then everything else."

"I'm ready for everything else."

"Me too."

I watched him drive away—his car, his choice, his life he was building. Then I went inside where my mother was waiting up despite the late hour.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Perfect." I kicked off my shoes, pulled bobby pins from my hair. "Completely, impossibly perfect."

"Good. You deserved perfect."

I looked at the photos Dad had uploaded already—me and Ethan in the backyard, at dinner, on the dance floor. Evidence that we'd made it. That we'd survived everything and found our way to this moment.

In the photos, we looked happy. Really, genuinely happy.

Because we were.

And now we were in love.

And that changed everything.

The next three weeks blurred together in a haze of final preparations and celebrations.

Finals were done. Classes were over. We had nothing to do but exist and prepare for graduation.

Ethan spent time with Caroline, helping her settle into her new apartment and new job. She'd started work at the architecture firm the week after prom—office management with potential to expand into design work later.

"She's so happy," Ethan told me one afternoon as we walked through the park. "I've never seen her like this. Light. Free. Herself."

"Divorce agrees with her."

"Freedom agrees with her. Finally making her own choices." He smiled. "She reminds me of you, actually. That determined focus when she's working on something she cares about."

I spent time with my badminton coach, preparing for the national training program in July. Three weeks of elite development in Toronto—I was excited and terrified in equal measure.

"You'll be fine," Coach assured me. "You're one of the best young players in the country. This program is the next logical step."

"What if I'm not good enough?"

"Then you'll learn and come back better. But you are good enough. Trust me."

Ethan and I found pockets of time just for us. Normal dates. Movies, coffee shops, walks by the river. Being seventeen and in love without crisis or deadline.

We talked about MIT constantly—planning, dreaming, worrying.

"What if the academics are too hard?" Ethan asked one night over ice cream.

"Then we'll study harder. Together."

"What if we drift apart? Different schedules, different friends, different buildings?"

"Then we'll make time. On purpose. Because we matter."

"What if—"

"We'll figure it out," I interrupted. "Whatever happens, we'll figure it out. That's what we do."

On June 25th, graduation invitations went out.

I got mine in the mail—heavy cardstock, official school seal, my name printed in elegant font. Sophia Marie Liu, Class of 2025.

Ethan's said Ethan James Mercer, Class of 2025.

We were really graduating. Really leaving high school. Really moving on.

"Are you ready?" I asked him.

"No. But I'm doing it anyway."

"Same."

Three days before graduation, Caroline hosted a small dinner party at her apartment. Just her, Ethan, me, and my parents. Our weird blended family, celebrating milestones together.

"To both of you," Dad said, raising his glass. "You've handled more in the past eight months than most people handle in a lifetime. I'm proud of both of you."

"To survival," Caroline added. "And to choosing yourselves."

"To MIT," my mother said. "And to futures you're building on your own terms."

"To freedom," Ethan said quietly. "Terrifying, overwhelming, beautiful freedom."

We clinked glasses and ate Caroline's carefully prepared meal. The conversation flowed easily—about college, about summer plans, about the future spreading out uncertain and exciting ahead of us.

At the end of the night, as my parents were leaving, Dad pulled Ethan aside. I couldn't hear what they said, but I saw Ethan's face shift from surprise to emotion to gratitude.

"What did he say?" I asked on the drive home.

"He said he was proud of me. That I reminded him of himself at my age—trying to figure out how to be good at everything without sacrificing myself in the process." Ethan's voice was thick. "He said if I ever needed anything—advice, help, a quiet place to think—his door was always open."

"He's a good dad."

"He's the dad I wish I'd had. No offense to Robert."

"All the offense to Robert is appropriate."

The night before graduation, I couldn't sleep.

At midnight, I texted Ethan: You awake?

He responded immediately: Can't turn my brain off.

Meet me at the park?

15 minutes.

We met at our swings—the place where we'd had so many important conversations. The June night was perfect—warm but not hot, stars visible through light pollution, sounds of the city quiet at this hour.

"Tomorrow we graduate," Ethan said, swinging gently.

"Tomorrow we're done with high school."

"Tomorrow we're officially adults."

"We've been adults for a while now. Tomorrow just makes it official."

He was quiet for a moment. "Are you scared?"

"Terrified. You?"

"Completely." He dragged his feet through the mulch, stopping his swing. "Everything's changing. Everything we've known, everyone we've been around, the entire structure of our lives. In three months we'll be at MIT, and this—" he gestured around, "—all of this will be memory."

"Good memory though."

"Some good. Some terrible. Lots of complicated."

"That's life, I think. Good and terrible and complicated all mixed together."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You were just too distracted to notice." I stopped my swing too, turned to face him. "We're going to be okay. At MIT, after MIT, all of it. We're going to be okay."

"How do you know?"

"Because we've survived everything thrown at us so far. We'll survive the next things too."

He reached across the space between swings and took my hand. "Promise?"

"Promise. Together."

"Always together."

We stayed until the sky started to lighten—talking about everything and nothing, processing the end of one chapter and the beginning of whatever came next.

At 5:30 AM, as sunrise painted the sky pink and gold, Ethan pulled me close.

"Thank you," he said. "For everything. For being here, for asking hard questions, for not trying to control my decisions. For being exactly who you are."

"Back at you."

"I'm serious. You changed my life, Sophie."

"You changed your own life. I just watched and asked questions."

"You were more than that. You were proof that different was possible. That excellent didn't have to mean sacrificed. That I could be more than one thing." He kissed my forehead. "You saved me."

"You saved yourself. I just reminded you that you could."

We watched the sun rise over Winnipeg—the city that had brought us together, kept us apart, tested us relentlessly, and ultimately let us go.

"Ready for graduation?" Ethan asked as the first rays of sunlight broke over buildings.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"That's not very confident."

"It's honest. And that's better."

We drove home separately—him to Caroline's apartment, me to my house. Three hours to shower, change, prepare for graduation.

Three hours until high school officially ended and the rest of our lives officially began.

Three hours until we walked across that stage and stepped into whatever came next.

I couldn't wait.

I was terrified.

Both were true, and both were valid.

And that was exactly where I needed to be.

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Graduation Day

June 28th dawned clear and bright—the kind of perfect Manitoba summer day that felt like a gift.

I woke at 7 AM to my mother already bustling around the house, emotional before the ceremony had even started.

"It's just graduation," I said from the kitchen doorway. "I'll still be here all summer."

"It's not just graduation. It's the end of childhood." She wiped her eyes. "Tomorrow you're an adult. Today you're still my baby."

"Mom."

"Let me be emotional. I've earned it."

Dad appeared with coffee and a knowing smile. "She's been crying since 6 AM. Just let it happen."

At 8:30, I put on my cap and gown. Royal blue polyester that made everyone look the same—which was perhaps the point. 247 graduating seniors, all wearing identical robes, all moving into uncertain futures.

The cap wouldn't sit right on my head. I'd spent an hour last night figuring out how to pin it so my hair wouldn't destroy it, but it still felt precarious.

My phone buzzed. Ethan: This cap is ridiculous. How does anyone keep these on their head?

I responded: Bobby pins. Many bobby pins.

I don't have bobby pins.

Then prepare for your cap to fall off during the ceremony.

Great. I'll look stupid in all the photos.

You'll look fine. See you there.

The ceremony was at 11 AM, held on the football field because we were too many graduates to fit in the gymnasium. Families were already gathering in the stands when I arrived at 10:15—parents, grandparents, siblings, everyone dressed up and carrying flowers and cameras.

The staging area behind the bleachers was controlled chaos. Two hundred forty-seven seniors trying to line up alphabetically while teachers barked instructions and everyone adjusted caps and took selfies.

I found my place in line—"L" section, between Lamar and Lopez. Ethan was somewhere in the "M"s, probably fifteen people behind me.

I turned to look for him and caught his eye across the crowd. He was already in his robe, cap sitting crooked on his head just like I'd predicted. He gave me a small wave and a crooked smile.

Jordan Chen, standing near Ethan, shouted across the staging area: "LAST TIME WE'RE ALL TOGETHER, PEOPLE!"

Someone else yelled back: "DON'T MAKE IT WEIRD, CHEN!"

But it was weird. This was the last time we'd all be in the same place. By September, we'd be scattered across the country—different colleges, different jobs, different lives. Some of us would stay in touch. Most wouldn't. That's how high school worked.

"Where are you going in the fall?" Marcus Lamar asked me.

"MIT. You?"

"University of Toronto. Engineering." He grinned. "Guess we're both nerds."

"The best kind of people."

Alicia Lopez leaned in. "I'm going to UBC for environmental science. I literally cannot wait to leave Manitoba."

Around us, similar conversations were happening. College destinations like battle statistics—who got into where, who was staying local, who was going the farthest. Maya Chen was headed to Stanford. Jordan to UBC with Alicia. Amy Rodriguez to McGill.

Everyone scattering. Everyone moving forward.

Principal Harrison appeared with a megaphone. "SENIORS! LISTEN UP!"

The chaos quieted slightly.

"In fifteen minutes, we begin the processional. When I call your row, you walk in pairs down the center aisle. Don't run, don't trip, don't do anything stupid that ends up on social media." He looked directly at Jordan. "I'm talking to you, Chen."

"I would never, sir!"

"You absolutely would. Don't."

My stomach started doing nervous flips. In less than two hours, I'd be standing in front of 800 people giving the valedictorian speech. The speech I'd written and rewritten seventeen times. The speech I'd memorized but now couldn't remember the opening line of.

What was the opening line?

When Principal Harrison asked me to be valedictorian speaker, I almost said no.

Okay. I remembered. I was fine.

Except my hands were shaking.

At 10:45, music started. Pomp and Circumstance, the classic graduation march. Cliché and perfect.

"ROW ONE, GO!"

The first students began walking. Slowly, methodically, we moved forward.

My heart hammered. Speech in less than an hour. Don't think about it. Just walk.

I walked with Alicia Lopez, a girl I'd had exactly three conversations with in four years. We smiled at each other nervously, two strangers sharing a significant moment.

The football field opened up before us—rows of white chairs, stands packed with families, teachers in their academic regalia sitting on the stage, Principal Harrison at the podium.

I found my parents in the crowd immediately. Mom was already crying. Dad had his camera ready.

Next to them: Caroline. She'd come alone.

Robert's seat was empty.

The absence hit like a physical thing—a hole in the stands where a father should be. For Ethan, that empty space probably felt like relief and loss all tangled together. The man who'd controlled his entire life, who'd mapped his future without asking, who'd hurt Caroline and manipulated Ethan and made everything about hockey—he wasn't here to see his son graduate.

Part of me was glad. Most of me was glad. But a small part ached for Ethan, because that empty seat meant Robert had chosen pride over love, control over presence. Even when faced with his son's biggest achievements, he couldn't show up.

Caroline waved when she caught my eye, beaming with pride. Making up for the empty seat beside her with double the enthusiasm.

I took my seat in the third row, "L" section. Ethan would be a few rows back. I couldn't turn around without being obvious, so I sat straight and waited.

My note cards were in my robe pocket. I touched them compulsively. Still there. Backup plan if my brain short-circuited.

The processional took twenty minutes. Two hundred forty-seven students filing in, finding seats, settling. When the last senior sat down, Principal Harrison approached the microphone.

"Welcome, families and friends, to the graduation ceremony for Eastwood High School, Class of 2025."

The crowd applauded.

"Today we celebrate 247 exceptional young people who have earned the right to stand here. They've completed four years of rigorous academics, demonstrated excellence in activities and athletics, and proven themselves ready for whatever comes next."

He continued with the standard graduation speech—overcoming challenges, bright futures, endless possibilities. I'd heard versions of this speech dozens of times. But today, sitting in my blue robe with my bobby-pinned cap, it felt different.

This was actually happening. We were actually graduating.

My mouth was dry. Speech coming. Why had I agreed to this?

"Before we begin conferring diplomas," Principal Harrison said, "we have several students speaking today. First, our valedictorian, Sophia Liu."

My stomach dropped.

I stood. My legs worked, somehow. I walked to the stage, climbed the steps, took my place behind the microphone.

Eight hundred faces looking at me. Maybe more.

Deep breath. Look at the audience. Find friendly faces.

Mom: crying. Dad: proud. Caroline: encouraging.

And Ethan—I found him in the M section. Sitting forward in his seat, completely focused on me like I was the only person in the world. His expression was open, proud, full of something that made my throat tight.

I pulled out my note cards—backup in case my brain stopped working. But I'd memorized every word.

"Good morning, graduates, families, teachers, and distinguished guests."

My voice echoed across the field. Surprisingly steady, though my hands gripped the podium like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

"When Principal Harrison asked me to be valedictorian speaker, I almost said no."

Scattered laughter from the audience. My shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Not because I don't have things to say—anyone who knows me knows I always have things to say—but because I've only been at this school for nine months. Nine months. Most of you have known each other since kindergarten."

I made eye contact with classmates in the front rows.

"But then I realized: maybe that's exactly why I should speak. Because I've seen this place with fresh eyes. And what I've seen is extraordinary.

"I moved to Winnipeg in September from a smaller town where I was the badminton girl. Here, I became the new girl, the scholarship student, the one who didn't know anyone. I expected to be lonely. Instead, I found something I didn't know I was looking for.

"I found a community that celebrates excellence in all its forms. Athletes and artists, scientists and musicians, writers and builders. I found teachers who genuinely care whether we understand, not just whether we pass. I found classmates who pushed me to be better, even when I didn't think I could be."

I paused. Looked directly at Ethan.

His throat worked. He was blinking more than normal. Proud and moved and present in a way that made my chest ache with love.

"But most importantly, I learned something about choosing yourself.

"This year, many of us faced impossible choices. College or career. Safety or dreams. What others expect versus what we actually want. And here's what I learned: the only wrong choice is the one you make for someone else."

Several parents were nodding. Several students were listening more intently.

Ethan's hands were clasped in his lap, white-knuckled. Watching me like I was saying something that mattered more than words usually did.

"Some of us are going to Ivy League schools. Some are joining the military. Some are starting businesses, taking gap years, going to community college, starting families, or pursuing professional sports. Every single path is valid if it's genuinely yours."

I glanced at my note cards. Didn't need them.

"I'm going to MIT in August—and yes, I'm terrified. I'm leaving behind a sport I love, a city I've grown to care about, and all the safety of what I know. But I'm choosing it. Not because it's what my parents want, though they're supportive. Not because it looks good on paper. But because when I imagine my future, this is the one that makes me excited instead of just secure."

More nodding. Caroline was outright crying now. Mom too.

And Ethan—his chest was rising and falling like he was trying to keep his breathing steady. Like my words were hitting somewhere deep.

"And I learned this from watching all of you. The artist who chose Parsons over pre-med. The hockey player who chose education over professional contracts."

I didn't look at Ethan. Didn't need to. Everyone knew who I meant.

But I felt the moment land. Felt him hear it—hear me tell 800 people that his choice was brave, not wasteful. That choosing yourself over others' expectations wasn't selfish. It was courageous.

His eyes were wet. I could see that from here.

"The musician who chose Berklee over business school. The writer who chose to take a year to write instead of rushing to college. You taught me that courage isn't about making the biggest choice or the most impressive choice. It's about making the honest choice.

"So here's my challenge for all of us: In five years, ten years, twenty years—when we're living whatever lives we've built—I hope we can look back and say 'I chose this. Not my parents, not my teachers, not society's expectations. Me.'

"Because that's what graduation really means. Not that we've finished something, but that we're finally free to begin."

I gripped the podium harder, feeling the weight of 247 pairs of eyes. My voice almost broke on the next words but I pushed through.

"To the Class of 2025: We made it. Not just through classes and exams and social drama, but through a year that tested us in ways we didn't expect. We're stronger than we knew. Braver than we believed. And ready for whatever comes next.

"Thank you, and congratulations."

I stepped back from the microphone.

For one heartbeat, silence.

Then applause. Sustained, loud, genuine applause. People standing. Not everyone, but enough.

I made it back to my seat somehow, shaking slightly from adrenaline. Alicia Lopez whispered, "That was amazing."

I couldn't speak. Just nodded.

From several rows back, I felt Ethan's gaze. When I glanced back—breaking staging protocol—he was still looking at me. Pride written all over his face. Love, too, though he couldn't say it in this crowded field. His expression said everything: You were incredible. Every word. Thank you for seeing me.

Principal Harrison returned to the podium. "Thank you, Ms. Liu, for those inspiring words. Now, we'll begin conferring diplomas. When you hear your name, please come to the stage."

The next hour was a blur of names.

"Andrew Abbott." Applause. Walk across stage. Shake hands. Receive diploma. Pose for photo. Return to seat.

"Jennifer Adams." Repeat.

"Marcus Anderson." Repeat.

The alphabet progressed. I waited through the B's, C's, D's, E's, F's, G's, H's, I's, J's, K's.

Then: "Sophia Marie Liu."

I stood. Walked to the stage for the second time.

Principal Harrison shook my hand. "Graduating summa cum laude, national badminton champion, attending MIT."

The crowd applauded—louder for me because of the valedictorian speech. I accepted my diploma, posed for the official photo, scanned the crowd.

Mom and Dad: on their feet, applauding. Caroline: also standing, beaming.

I returned to my seat, diploma in hand. Official proof that I'd completed high school. Official permission to move forward.

The M's came quickly.

"Ethan James Mercer."

My heart jumped.

Ethan walked to the stage with athletic grace, even in the ridiculous blue robe. His cap had stayed on—miraculous.

"Graduating magna cum laude, captain of varsity hockey, attending MIT."

The hockey team erupted in cheers. Jordan Chen actually whistled.

Principal Harrison shook Ethan's hand, held it a moment longer than others. Leaned in and said something I couldn't hear from my seat. Something that made Ethan's expression shift—surprised, moved.

Ethan nodded, smiled genuinely, accepted his diploma.

In that moment, watching him stand on that stage in front of everyone—free from Robert's control, holding proof of his accomplishments, heading to MIT on his own terms—I felt overwhelming pride.

He'd done it. Against every pressure, every expectation, every manipulation. He'd chosen himself.

And Robert wasn't here to see it.

That empty seat in the stands suddenly felt different. Not just an absence, but a statement. Robert had chosen to miss this. Had chosen pride and ego over witnessing his son's achievement. Ethan was standing on that stage, having made the hardest choice of his life, and his father wasn't there.

The relief and grief of that tangled in my chest. Relief because Robert's presence would have poisoned this moment. Grief because Ethan deserved a father who could be proud of him.

But Caroline was standing, applauding, tears streaming down her face. Making up for Robert's absence with the love of two parents. That would have to be enough.

The ceremony continued. N's, O's, P's, Q's, R's, S's. All the way through to Z.

"Zoe Zimmerman." The last graduate. The end of alphabetical destiny.

Principal Harrison returned to the podium one final time.

"Before I invite you to turn your tassels and officially become graduates, I want to say one more thing." He looked across the sea of blue robes. "This class has been extraordinary. You've faced challenges that previous classes haven't. You've shown resilience, creativity, and determination. You've made me proud to be your principal."

Several teachers were crying now.

"So, Class of 2025—by the power vested in me by the State of Manitoba and the school board, I hereby declare you graduates of Eastwood High School. You may move your tassels from right to left."

Two hundred forty-seven hands moved simultaneously. Two hundred forty-seven tassels shifted position.

We were graduates.

"Congratulations, Class of 2025!"

Caps flew into the air. Cheering erupted. Students hugged, cried, laughed, celebrated.

I threw my cap up—watched it arc against the perfect blue sky, then fall back into the chaos of identical caps landing everywhere.

Someone grabbed me in a hug. Alicia Lopez, crying happy tears. "WE DID IT!"

"We did it," I agreed.

More hugs. Classmates I'd never spoken to, people I'd shared classes with, strangers who'd been part of my high school experience in invisible ways.

Marcus Lamar: "Good luck at MIT! Email me if you're ever in Toronto!"

Maya Chen: "That speech made me cry. Thank you."

Amy Rodriguez: "You and Ethan are going to be amazing at MIT. I'm jealous."

Then Ethan appeared through the crowd, still wearing his cap because he'd been smart enough not to throw it.

"You were incredible," he said. Voice rough with emotion. "That speech—"

"You're wearing your cap."

"I have good priorities." He pulled me into a hug that lifted me off the ground. "You talked about me. In your valedictorian speech. In front of everyone."

"I talked about choosing yourself. You happen to be a good example."

"I'm never forgetting that speech. Every word." He set me down but kept his hands on my shoulders. "When you said courage is making honest choices—I felt like you gave me permission to be okay with my decision. Like you told everyone it was valid."

"It is valid. You chose MIT. You chose yourself. That's the bravest thing I've ever seen."

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"Yeah, you could have. But I'm glad you didn't have to."

"Me too." His eyes were still wet. "Now let's find our parents before they send search parties."

The field had devolved into complete chaos. Families flooding down from the stands, graduates trying to find their people, teachers attempting to organize group photos, caps and robes everywhere.

We fought through the crowd together. Found my parents near the south end zone with Caroline.

Mom was still crying—happy tears now, proud tears.

"My baby graduated," she said, pulling me into a fierce hug.

"Technically I graduated eight minutes ago. You've had time to process."

"I'll never have enough time to process." She pulled back, looked at me seriously. "That speech was extraordinary. You've grown into someone remarkable."

Dad hugged me next. "Proud of you, kid. MIT's lucky to have you."

"I'm lucky to have MIT."

"Both can be true."

Caroline pulled Ethan into a hug that lasted longer than usual. "You were wonderful up there. Walking across that stage—I was so proud I thought my heart would burst."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Your father—" She stopped. Took a breath. "His absence is his loss. His choice. Not yours."

Ethan nodded. Swallowed hard. "I know."

But I could see it in his face—the complicated tangle of emotions. Relief that Robert wasn't here to make this moment about him. Grief that his father had chosen not to come. Anger and sadness and freedom all mixed together in a way that would take months to fully process.

My mother, sensing the weight of that moment, pulled Caroline into a hug. "Your son is extraordinary. You raised him well."

Caroline wiped her eyes. "Thank you. So is your daughter."

The four of us—five, when my parents included Ethan in the next round of photos—stood in a small circle of people who'd survived impossible circumstances together.

"Group photo?" Dad suggested.

We arranged ourselves: me and Ethan in the middle, parents on either side, all of us in various states of happy crying.

Dad handed his camera to a passing teacher. "Could you—"

"Absolutely." The teacher—Mrs. Chen, who'd taught both of us biology—took several photos. "You two have been through quite a year."

"Understatement," Ethan said.

"Well, you made it. Congratulations to both of you." She handed the camera back. "See you at MIT, maybe? I have a son starting there this fall too."

"Jordan's going to MIT?" I asked, surprised.

"Twin brother actually—Jordan's going to UBC for computer science. But my other son Daniel is MIT-bound."

Small world getting smaller. We'd see familiar faces at MIT, build new connections, create new communities.

Around us, similar scenes played out. Families celebrating, graduates posing for photos, friends making promises to stay in touch that some would keep and most wouldn't.

Jordan found us. "MERCER! LIU! We're getting group photos by the goal post! Come on!"

We followed him to where the hockey team had gathered—players in their blue robes, families taking pictures, everyone laughing and emotional.

"Okay, one serious photo," Jordan's mom directed. "Everyone together."

Twenty hockey players crammed together, arms around shoulders, genuine smiles.

"Now silly!"

Chaos. Someone lifted their robe. Someone else made a face. Jordan climbed onto two teammates' shoulders and almost fell.

"Perfect," Mrs. Chen said, laughing. "That's the real memory."

After team photos, after family photos, after what felt like eight hundred different picture combinations, the crowd started thinning.

"There's a grad party at Spencer's tonight," Jordan told us. "You guys coming?"

Ethan and I exchanged glances. "We have family dinner," I said.

"But maybe after?" Ethan added.

"Cool. Text me if you do. Open invitation all night."

The afternoon blurred into more congratulations, more photos, more goodbyes. Classmates scattering to their own family celebrations, teachers packing up, the football field slowly emptying.

At 2 PM, as the crowd thinned, Ethan caught my hand. "Can we just... walk for a minute? Before the family stuff starts?"

"Yeah. Let me tell my parents."

I found them packing up chairs and leftover programs. "We're going to walk around campus for a bit. Is that okay?"

Mom smiled. "Take your time. Dinner reservations aren't until six."

"We'll meet you at the restaurant," Dad added.

Caroline waved us off. "Go. Enjoy your last moments as high school students."

We walked away from the football field, still in our blue robes, caps in hand. The school looked different in the early afternoon light—more significant somehow, weighted with meaning.

"We actually graduated," Ethan said as we reached the front entrance.

"I know. It doesn't feel real."

"I keep thinking someone's going to tell us there was a mistake. We have to do senior year again."

"Please no." I laughed. "Once was enough."

We walked through the empty hallways. Past lockers we'd used every day, classrooms where we'd learned and slept and stressed, bulletin boards with graduation announcements already looking dated.

"This is so weird," I said. "Yesterday we were students here. Today we're just... people who used to be students."

"Tomorrow we're just people."

"Adults, supposedly."

"I don't feel like an adult."

"Me neither. I feel like a kid in a costume pretending to be grown up."

We ended up at the back entrance—the one that led to the courtyard where we'd had lunch so many times. Sat on the same bench where we'd had important conversations throughout the year.

Ethan pulled off his robe, the polyester crackling. "I'm so glad that's over."

"The ceremony or high school?"

"Both." He grinned. "Though the ceremony was nice. Your speech was perfect."

"I almost threw up before going up there."

"You couldn't tell. You looked confident."

"I was faking it really hard." I pulled off my own robe, relieved to be free of it. "Did you hear what Principal Harrison said to you? When you got your diploma?"

Ethan's expression softened. "He said, 'You made the right choice. I'm proud of you.'"

"Oh."

"Yeah." Ethan's voice went rough. "Needed to hear that from someone who's not you or my mom."

"He meant it. Everyone could see it."

We sat in silence for a moment. The weight of the day settling over us—the relief, the accomplishment, the bittersweetness of endings.

"Your dad," I said carefully. "Are you okay?"

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. Part of me kept looking for him. Kept thinking maybe he'd surprise me and show up. Which is stupid because he told Mom he wouldn't come. Made it clear he wasn't interested in witnessing me 'throw my life away.'"

The bitterness in those last words made my chest ache.

"But also," Ethan continued, "I'm relieved he wasn't there. If he'd been in those stands, I would've spent the whole ceremony tense. Waiting for him to do something, say something, make it about him."

"You're allowed to feel both things."

"Relief and grief at the same time?"

"Yeah. He's your dad. Even when he's terrible at it, you're allowed to wish he could be better."

Ethan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "That empty seat felt like... like physical proof that he chose not to love me the way I needed. That he'd rather lose me than accept my choice."

"That's his failure. Not yours."

"I know. Logically, I know. But it still hurts."

I put my hand on his back. Felt the tension there, the complicated grief he was processing.

"I'm proud of you," I said. "For everything. For choosing MIT, for standing on that stage, for graduating despite everything he tried to take from you. You did this."

Ethan turned to look at me. Eyes red but clear. "We did this. You were part of every decision. Every hard moment. I couldn't have survived this year without you."

"You're stronger than you think."

"Maybe. But I'm also smarter with you." He smiled slightly. "We survived senior year."

"We did."

"We graduated."

"We did."

"We're going to MIT in seven weeks."

"We are."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah."

We sat there in the empty courtyard, the afternoon sun warm on our faces, the school quiet around us. Two teenagers who'd become something more than friends, something more than survivors. Partners in the truest sense.

"What now?" Ethan asked.

"Now we go to family dinner. Be celebrated by people who love us. Eat too much food and take too many photos."

"And after that?"

"Summer. Real summer. No school, no crisis, no impossible decisions." I leaned against him. "Just us figuring out what normal looks like."

"I don't think we've ever been normal."

"Then we'll figure out what our version of normal looks like."

He kissed the top of my head. "That sounds perfect."

At 5:30, we finally left campus. Drove to our respective houses to change out of our graduation clothes into dinner attire. Made plans to meet at the restaurant.

The dinner was at Riverstone, the nicest restaurant in Winnipeg that wasn't actively pretentious. Caroline had made reservations weeks ago—a private corner booth that could fit five people.

I arrived first with my parents. Ordered water, studied the menu, tried not to fidget.

Caroline and Ethan arrived ten minutes later. Caroline looked beautiful in a simple navy dress. Ethan had changed into slacks and a button-down—the most formal I'd seen him outside of prom.

"Sorry we're late," Caroline said, sliding into the booth. "Parking was impossible."

"We just got here," Mom assured her.

The waiter came. We ordered—fancy entrees that cost more than casual meals but felt appropriate for the occasion. Graduation deserved celebration.

"To our graduates," Dad said, raising his water glass. "We're incredibly proud."

We clinked glasses. Sipped. Smiled.

The food came. It was delicious—perfectly cooked steaks, roasted vegetables that actually tasted good, desserts that were works of art.

The conversation flowed easily at first. Reliving ceremony highlights, discussing college prep, making jokes about how young we looked in our baby photos compared to now.

"When Sophia gave her speech," my mother said, "I could hear people crying around me. She moved the whole audience."

"The part about honest choices," Caroline added. "That resonated with everyone. Including me."

Mom looked at Caroline with interest. "Your divorce?"

I froze. We hadn't talked about this openly—the adults had all been carefully polite about Caroline's separation.

But Caroline nodded. "Filing was the hardest thing I've done in twenty years. But also the most honest. I'd been choosing safety over truth for so long, I'd forgotten what it felt like to choose myself."

"That takes courage," Dad said quietly.

"Or desperation." Caroline's laugh was slightly bitter. "The line between the two is thinner than I'd like."

An uncomfortable beat. Ethan shifted beside me.

"How are you managing?" Mom asked. "Financially, emotionally?"

"Financially, better than expected. I have a good job, separate accounts, lawyer who's competent." Caroline paused. "Emotionally... it's complicated. Relief mostly. But also grief. I'm mourning a man who never actually existed—the version I thought I married."

Mom reached across the table and squeezed Caroline's hand. "That's one of the hardest things to lose. The person you thought someone was."

They held eye contact for a moment—two women who'd survived complicated marriages in different ways, finding common ground.

The conversation shifted back to safer topics. MIT preparation, summer plans, what we needed to buy for dorm rooms.

But the earlier tension lingered. I could feel it in the way Caroline kept blinking too much, fighting tears. In the way Ethan's jaw was tight.

Dessert came—chocolate cake that was too rich, crème brûlée that was perfectly crispy on top.

"Are you ready for MIT?" Dad asked Ethan directly. "Academically, I mean?"

"I think so," Ethan said. "I'm more worried about whether I'm smart enough compared to everyone else."

"Imposter syndrome," Caroline said. "Ethan's convinced everyone at MIT will be brilliant except him."

"I know that feeling," I admitted. "I keep thinking there was a mistake. That they'll realize I'm not actually that smart and revoke my acceptance."

"Both of you are being ridiculous," Mom said. "MIT doesn't make mistakes. You both earned your places there."

"Logically, I know that," Ethan said. "But there's this voice in my head that sounds like—" He stopped. Took a breath. "That sounds like doubt."

Like Robert. He'd almost said it sounded like Robert.

Another uncomfortable silence.

Caroline's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then put it away quickly. But not before I saw her expression tighten.

"Everything okay?" Mom asked.

"Fine. Just... Robert's lawyer wants to schedule mediation." Caroline's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Apparently he's contesting some of the separation terms."

"Of course he is," Ethan muttered.

"We don't have to talk about this now," Caroline said. "This is your celebration dinner."

But the damage was done. Robert's presence—his absence earlier, his legal maneuvering now—had poisoned the edges of our celebration.

The check came. Dad insisted on paying despite Caroline's protests.

"You bought Sophia's prom dress," he said. "Let us buy dinner."

We filed out of the restaurant at 8 PM. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the parking lot.

"That was lovely," Mom said, hugging Caroline. "Let's do this again before the kids leave for Boston."

"I'd like that."

My parents hugged me, then Ethan. Told us they were proud again. Reminded us to be home at a reasonable hour.

Then they left, and it was just me, Ethan, and Caroline standing in the parking lot.

"Are you two going to the grad party?" Caroline asked.

"Maybe," Ethan said. "We're not sure yet."

"Go. Have fun. Be teenagers." She hugged Ethan tightly. "You did so well today. I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks, Mom."

"I mean it. Walking across that stage, everything you've accomplished—you should be proud of yourself."

Ethan nodded. Didn't quite meet her eyes.

Caroline left. Ethan and I stood alone in the now-empty parking lot, the weight of the day finally catching up.

"Do you want to go to the party?" I asked.

"Not really."

"Me neither."

"Want to just... drive?"

"Yeah."

We got in his car. Drove with no destination, windows down, music playing softly. Past our school, past the park where we'd had so many conversations, past the rink where everything had started to change.

"Graduation was supposed to feel like an ending," Ethan said after a long silence. "Like we closed a chapter and everything's resolved."

"But it doesn't."

"No. It feels like... like we survived something but the survival is fragile. Like one wrong move and everything could still fall apart."

I understood completely. The perfect day—graduation, the speeches, the celebration—had been beautiful. But underneath it all was the reality we couldn't escape. Robert's absence, Caroline's divorce stress, our own fears about whether we were ready for what came next.

"We graduated," I said. "That's real. We both got into MIT. We survived Robert's manipulation and the NHL offers and everything that tried to break us. That's all real too."

"I know."

"But you're scared."

"Terrified." He glanced at me. "Are you?"

"Yeah. MIT, leaving badminton, starting over—it all feels huge and fragile at the same time."

"What if we can't handle it?"

"Then we figure it out. Together."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

We ended up at The Forks—the marketplace downtown where the rivers meet. Tourist destination and local hangout, always busy, always alive with people.

We got coffee and found a bench overlooking the river. The sky was darkening, stars beginning to appear.

"Today was supposed to be perfect," Ethan said quietly.

"It was pretty close."

"Except for my father not being there. And my mom getting texts from lawyers during dinner. And both of us admitting we're terrified of MIT."

"Okay, so not completely perfect." I leaned against him. "But we graduated. We gave good speeches. We have families who love us. That's more than a lot of people have."

"True."

"And we have each other."

"Also true." He wrapped his arm around me. "That's the only part that feels solid right now. Everything else is uncertain, but you—us—that's the one thing I'm sure about."

"Me too."

We sat in silence, watching Winnipeg move around us. Families with young children, couples on dates, tourists taking photos, people just living their lives.

Normal people having normal days.

We weren't normal. We'd never been normal. But we were learning how to build something that worked for us—something honest and messy and real.

"Summer starts tomorrow," I said.

"Finally."

"Three weeks until my Toronto training."

"Don't remind me. I'm already dreading it."

"It's only three weeks."

"Three weeks without you feels like forever."

"Dramatic."

"Accurate."

I smiled. Kissed his cheek. "We'll survive it. We've survived worse."

"Barely."

"But we did."

We stayed at The Forks until the coffee was cold and the stars were bright. Talked about nothing important—summer plans, what to pack for MIT, whether we needed winter coats in Boston (yes, definitely yes).

At 10 PM, Ethan's phone buzzed. Caroline: Home safe. Hope you two are having fun. Don't stay out too late.

"We should probably head back," Ethan said.

"Yeah."

We drove to my house. Parked in the driveway. The porch light was on—my parents leaving it on as invitation to come home when we were ready.

On the porch, in the warm June evening, Ethan pulled me close.

"We graduated," he said.

"We did."

"We're going to MIT in seven weeks."

"We are."

"We survived everything."

"So far."

He laughed. "Always the optimist."

"Always the realist." I leaned against him, tired from the long day but happy. Grateful. Aware that we'd made it through something significant. "What's next?"

"Summer. Normal summer. Working, hanging out, being teenagers who don't have school or crisis or impossible decisions."

"That sounds amazing."

"Doesn't it?" He kissed the top of my head. "Three weeks until your training program. Want to make them count?"

"Every single day."

We stood there as the sky darkened and stars appeared, holding onto the moment before everything changed again.

Tomorrow, summer would begin.

In three weeks, I'd leave for Toronto.

In seven weeks, we'd both leave for MIT.

But tonight, we were just graduates. Just us. Just beginning.

Scared and hopeful and together.

And that was exactly enough.

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Summer Love

The first week of summer felt like a gift we hadn't known we'd been waiting for.

No school. No crisis. No impossible decisions hanging over us. Just June in Winnipeg, warm and bright and completely normal.

Ethan started coaching at the youth hockey camp on July 2nd—teaching kids ages 6-10 basic skating and puck control. I showed up the first day to watch, curious about this version of him I'd never fully seen.

"Coach Ethan!" A tiny kid in oversized gear skated up to him, wobbling dramatically. "I can't stop!"

"That's because you're not using your edges." Ethan crouched down to the kid's level, demonstrated the proper technique. "See? Inside edge to stop. Outside edge to turn. Try it."

The kid tried. Failed. Tried again. Succeeded.

"I DID IT! COACH ETHAN, I DID IT!"

"You did! Now practice twenty more times."

I watched him work for an hour—patient, encouraging, completely different from the controlled, pressured version of Ethan that Robert had created. This Ethan loved hockey because it was fun. Because teaching small humans to skate was joyful. Because excellence could exist without pressure.

When one kid fell hard and started crying, Ethan sat on the ice with him. "You know what? I fell like that when I was your age. Except I also knocked out a tooth."

"Really?"

"Really. My mom still has the picture. I'm smiling with this huge gap in my mouth." He helped the kid up. "Falling is how you learn. Try again."

The kid tried again.

"You're good at this," I said afterward as he put away equipment.

"At hockey?"

"At teaching. At being patient. At making something you love accessible to kids who are just learning."

He smiled. "It's different when it's my choice. When I'm doing it because I want to, not because someone's forcing me."

"You look happy."

"I am happy." He locked the equipment shed, turned to face me fully. "For the first time in years, hockey is fun again. Just pure fun."

I started my own job that week—coaching badminton at the community center and tutoring math for summer school students. The badminton kids were enthusiastic but undisciplined, the math students were struggling but determined.

Ethan showed up one afternoon to watch me teach.

"Adjust your grip fifteen degrees clockwise," I told a twelve-year-old who couldn't get her serve right. "Your thumb should be here, not here."

"Why?"

"Because physics. The angle of contact determines the trajectory. If your angle is wrong, your trajectory will be wrong."

"You teach like an engineer," Ethan said after class.

"I am going to be an engineer."

"You know what I mean. Everything's systems and optimization. 'Adjust your grip angle fifteen degrees.'"

"That's how you improve. Precision and repetition."

"You're going to love MIT."

"We're both going to love MIT."

We fell into a rhythm—working during the day, meeting for lunch when schedules aligned, spending evenings together doing nothing in particular. Movies, walks, ice cream, the park. Normal teenage summer activities that felt extraordinary because we'd earned them.

On July 10th, we drove out to the lake with Jordan Chen and a group of Ethan's hockey friends. Someone's family had a cabin, and we'd been invited for a beach day.

I'd never done this before—the casual group hangout, the friends-of-boyfriend social scene. I was nervous.

"They're going to love you," Ethan assured me on the drive.

"They're your friends. They have to be nice to me."

"They're nice humans. They'll be nice because you're interesting and funny and excellent at everything."

Jordan's family cabin was right on the water—private beach, dock, perfect summer setup. By the time we arrived, there were already a dozen people there.

"MERCER!" Jordan shouted from the dock. "GET IN THE WATER!"

Ethan grinned. "Apparently we're swimming."

The afternoon dissolved into the kind of carefree chaos I'd only seen in movies. Swimming, volleyball, sunburn, laughter. Jordan's girlfriend—Amy, a theater major heading to Northwestern—immediately adopted me into the girls' group.

"You're the one from the valedictorian speech," she said. "The 'choosing yourself' thing. I loved that."

"Thanks. It was terrifying to deliver."

"Public speaking always is. But you nailed it." She passed me a volleyball. "Want to destroy the boys at beach volleyball?"

We did. Absolutely destroyed them. Amy and I on one team, two of Jordan's friends on the other. Ethan watched from the shore, grinning as I spiked the winning point.

"You're competitive," he said afterward.

"I'm a national badminton champion. Did you expect anything else?"

"Fair point."

As the sun set, someone built a fire on the beach. We roasted marshmallows and told stories and existed in that perfect teenage summer space where nothing mattered except the moment.

"What's MIT like?" Amy asked. "Jordan's twin is going there too. Computer science."

"We literally know nothing except that it's going to be hard," Ethan admitted.

"Rumor is the first semester is designed to break you," Jordan added. "Weed out the weak."

"Encouraging," I said.

"But you guys are smart. You'll be fine."

"Are we though?" Ethan asked. "Smart enough for MIT?"

"You got in, didn't you?"

"Lots of people get in. Not all of them survive."

Jordan threw a marshmallow at him. "Stop catastrophizing. You're going to be fine. Both of you."

Later, after the fire died down and people started drifting inside, Ethan and I walked along the beach.

"I'm going to miss this," he said.

"The lake?"

"Summer. Winnipeg. Normal." He picked up a smooth stone, skipped it across the water. "In seven weeks we'll be at MIT, and all of this will be memory."

"Good memory though."

"The best memory." He found my hand in the dark. "I've never had a normal summer before. Robert always had me in elite training camps or specialized programs. But this—hanging out with friends, working a job I chose, being with you—this is the summer I didn't know I was missing."

"We still have a month left."

"Minus your three weeks in Toronto."

Right. National training program. July 20th through August 10th. Twenty-one days apart.

"We'll survive three weeks," I said with more confidence than I felt.

"I know. But I'm going to miss you."

"Miss you too."

We stayed at the lake until midnight, then drove home under stars that seemed impossibly bright. Jordan and Amy fell asleep in the back seat, leaving Ethan and me alone in the front of his car.

The highway was empty at this hour. Dark. Just headlights and centerline and the low hum of the radio.

I watched Ethan drive—one hand on the wheel, profile illuminated by dashboard light, completely relaxed in a way I'd never seen during the school year. He caught me looking and smiled without taking his eyes off the road.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just... you look different."

"Different how?"

"Happy. Light. Like you're not carrying anything heavy anymore."

He reached over, found my hand, threaded his fingers through mine. "That's because I'm not. For the first time in years, I get to just be myself."

The touch was casual—we'd held hands a hundred times. But something about the darkness, the privacy, the warmth of his palm against mine made my whole body suddenly, acutely aware of him. The space between us in the small car. The way his thumb traced absent circles on my wrist. How easy it would be to lean across the console and—

I looked away, feeling my face heat.

"You okay?" Ethan asked.

"Yeah. Just... tired." Liar. I wasn't tired. I was intensely, overwhelmingly aware of wanting to be closer to him. Of wanting more than hand-holding in a car with sleeping friends in the back seat.

The moment stretched. Ethan's fingers tightened slightly around mine. His thumb stopped its absent circling and pressed, deliberately, against the inside of my wrist where my pulse was racing.

He knew. Of course he knew.

Neither of us said anything. But something had shifted in the air—a tension that was new and terrifying and thrilling all at once.

By the time we pulled into my driveway, my heart was hammering and I didn't trust myself to speak.

"I'll text you tomorrow," Ethan said, voice lower than usual.

"Okay."

He walked me to my door. Kissed me goodnight—lingering longer than necessary, his hand at the small of my back pulling me closer. When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder.

"Sophie—"

"I know," I interrupted. "But not yet."

"Not yet," he agreed.

I watched him drive away, then went inside and sat on my bedroom floor, trying to process the ache of wanting more time, more privacy, more of everything.

Three weeks apart suddenly felt unbearable.

On July 15th, we started packing for our respective adventures.

Ethan helped me organize what I'd need for Toronto—badminton gear, clothes, training equipment. The national program had sent a detailed packing list that was both helpful and overwhelming.

"Three pairs of court shoes?" Ethan read from the list. "Why do you need three pairs?"

"Because when you're training eight hours a day, shoes wear out fast."

"Eight hours a day for three weeks straight. That's intense."

"That's national level." I folded another training shirt into my bag. "You think MIT's going to be less intense?"

"Fair point."

He was packing too—for a week-long hockey coaching certification course that started July 22nd. Not elite training, just professional development. His choice, his timeline, his career path.

"What if Toronto changes you?" he asked suddenly.

I stopped packing. "What?"

"Three weeks with the best badminton players in the country. Elite coaching. National team environment." He sat on my bed, looking uncertain. "What if you come back and you're different? What if you realize you want to go pro, defer MIT, commit to badminton full-time?"

"Is that what you're actually worried about?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" He ran his hands through his hair. "I chose MIT over the NHL. But you're better at badminton than I ever was at hockey. You could go pro. You could be great."

I sat down next to him, took his hand. "Ethan. Look at me."

He did.

"I'm going to Toronto to train. To get better. To see what elite level looks like." I squeezed his hand. "I'm not going to decide my entire future in three weeks. Neither are you. We're going to MIT in August. Together. That's the plan."

"But what if—"

"What if I love it? What if I'm amazing? What if the national team wants me?" I interrupted. "Then I'll have choices to make. But those are future choices, not right now choices."

"You're not going to defer MIT."

"I'm not going to defer MIT. I'm going to train for three weeks, learn everything I can, then come home and pack for Boston." I leaned against him. "Besides, you're the one who made me go. Remember? 'You have to do this, Sophie. Don't give up opportunities because of us.'"

He laughed. "I did say that."

"You did. So don't panic now."

"I'm not panicking."

"You're definitely panicking."

"Okay, I'm a little bit panicking." He wrapped an arm around me. "I just got you. I don't want to lose you."

"You're not going to lose me in three weeks."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Now help me pack before I forget something essential."

On July 19th—the night before I left for Toronto—both our families had dinner together at my house.

My parents, Caroline, Ethan, and me. The weird blended family we'd created through crisis and survival.

"To summer adventures," Dad toasted. "May they be challenging but not overwhelming."

"To growth," Caroline added. "And to coming home changed but not lost."

"To us," Ethan said, looking at me. "And to three weeks that will feel like forever but will pass anyway."

"To communication," I added. "Daily phone calls mandatory."

We ate and talked and laughed. Caroline told stories about her new job—she was apparently thriving, designing her first small project for the firm. My parents shared updates about their own work, their own lives beyond just being our support system.

"We're going to visit MIT in August," Mom announced. "Before you move in. Want to do a family tour?"

"Both families?" I asked.

"Both families," Caroline confirmed. "If that's okay with everyone?"

It was more than okay. It was perfect.

After dinner, Ethan and I escaped to the backyard while our parents cleaned up inside.

"Last night before you leave," he said.

"For three weeks. Not forever."

"I know. But still."

We sat on the porch steps, watching the July sky fade from blue to purple to dark. The air was warm, thick with summer evening—cut grass and distant barbecues and the faint sound of kids playing down the street.

"Are you nervous?" Ethan asked. "About Toronto?"

"Terrified. Everyone there will be better than me."

"You're a national champion."

"In the under-18 division. These are players who've been on national teams, who've competed internationally, who are legitimately elite." I picked at the paint on the porch railing. "I might be completely out of my depth."

"Or you might be exactly where you're supposed to be."

"How do you stay so confident?"

"I'm not confident. I'm just good at pretending." He bumped his shoulder against mine. "We're both going to be out of our depth a lot over the next few years. MIT, elite athletics, adult life. Might as well get used to it now."

"Encouraging."

"Honest."

We sat in silence as the first stars appeared. I wanted to memorize this—the feeling of sitting next to him, shoulders touching, nothing urgent or terrible demanding our attention. Just summer evening and quiet and being together.

"Call me when you land?" Ethan said finally.

"Obviously."

"And every day after?"

"Every single day. You're going to get sick of hearing from me."

"Impossible."

The porch light flickered on—Mom's subtle signal that it was getting late.

"I should go," Ethan said, but didn't move.

"Yeah."

"Sophie—" He turned to face me, and there was something intense in his expression. "I'm going to miss you so much."

"Three weeks. We've survived worse."

"I know. But this is different. Before, we were fighting something together. Now we're just... apart. Growing separately. And I'm terrified that when you come back, something will have changed."

"Something probably will change. We'll both learn things. Get better at stuff. That's the point." I took his hand. "But the important stuff? That's not changing."

He pulled me closer, wrapped both arms around me. I buried my face against his shoulder, breathing him in—soap and summer and something that was just Ethan.

"I'm going to call you so much you'll regret giving me your number," he murmured against my hair.

"Good. I want you annoying me every day."

We stayed like that until Caroline came to collect him. At my front door, Ethan kissed me goodnight—long and sweet and a little bit desperate, his hands cradling my face like I was something precious he was afraid to let go.

"I love you," he said.

He'd never said it quite like that before. Direct, simple, true.

My chest felt too full. "Love you too."

"Be amazing in Toronto."

"Be amazing in coaching class."

"Miss me."

"Every day."

He left. I watched his car disappear down the street, then went upstairs and sat on my bed surrounded by half-packed bags.

Tomorrow, summer would pause. We'd go our separate directions for the first time since getting together. Three weeks apart to grow individually before coming back together for MIT.

I was terrified.

I was excited.

Both were true, and both were valid.

TORONTO: WEEK ONE

The National Badminton Development Program was housed at a massive sports complex in downtown Toronto. Twenty athletes from across Canada, all between 16-18, all exceptional, all competing for limited spots on national teams.

I arrived at the residence hall on July 20th at 2 PM, dragging two suitcases of equipment and feeling completely out of place.

My roommate was already there—a girl named Priya from Vancouver, 17, ranked third in Canada in her age group.

"Sophia Liu!" She jumped up from her bed. "National champion! I watched your finals match online. That comeback in the third game was insane."

"You watched my match?"

"Everyone watches everyone here. We're all obsessed." She helped me with my bags. "Fair warning: this program is brutal. Like, actually brutal. Eight hours a day, six days a week. They're trying to break us."

"Encouraging."

"But also amazing. The coaching is incredible. If you survive, you'll be twice the player you are now."

The first training session was at 6 PM. All twenty athletes gathered in the main gymnasium, facing the head coach—a former Olympian named Coach Kim who had a reputation for being brilliant and unforgiving.

"Welcome," Coach Kim said without preamble. "You're here because you're good. But good isn't good enough for international competition. Over the next three weeks, we're going to make you great. Or we're going to break you trying. Some of you won't make it. That's fine. Better to discover your limits now than at the Olympics."

Encouraging start.

We trained until 9 PM. Footwork drills, serve practice, rally simulations, conditioning. I was good—had been the best player in Winnipeg by a significant margin.

Here, I was middle of the pack. Maybe.

The girl next to me—Emma, from Montreal—had footwork so fast she looked like she was gliding. The guy across the court—David, from Calgary—served with power I'd never seen up close. Every single person here was extraordinary.

And I was just... good.

After training, I collapsed in my dorm room. Every muscle ached. My brain was overwhelmed with technical feedback. My hands were shaking from exhaustion.

I called Ethan.

"How was day one?" he asked.

"I'm going to die."

"That good?"

"I'm average here, Ethan. Maybe below average. Everyone is so good. Like, scary good." My voice cracked embarrassingly. "I thought I was actually elite. Turns out I'm just a big fish who ended up in the ocean."

"You're a national champion."

"I was a national champion in a small division. This is different." I pressed my palm against my eyes, fighting stupid tears. "What if I don't belong here? What if they sent me the invitation by mistake?"

"Sophie. Listen to me." His voice was steady, grounding. "You belong there because you earned it. You won a national championship. You got invited based on performance, not luck. You're just intimidated because you're new."

"I'm so tired I can't think straight."

"Then stop thinking. Just sleep. Day two will be better."

"Promise?"

"Promise. Now go to bed before you fall asleep on the phone."

"Love you."

"Love you too. You've got this."

Day two was not better.

We started at 7 AM with conditioning—thirty minutes of ladder drills followed by suicide sprints. Then footwork training for ninety minutes. Then technical serve analysis. Then match simulations. Then video review. Then more conditioning.

By lunch, I was so exhausted I could barely hold my fork.

"This is normal," Priya said, shoveling food like she hadn't eaten in days. "First week is designed to break you. If you survive, your body adapts."

"What if I don't survive?"

"Then you go home with really good stories about that one time you trained with the national team."

I didn't want stories. I wanted to belong here.

Day three, my alarm went off at 6 AM and I genuinely couldn't move. My legs were lead. My arms were jelly. My brain was mush.

I called my mom instead of Ethan.

"I can't do this," I said when she answered. "I'm not good enough. Everyone here is better than me and I'm so tired I want to cry."

"Are you injured?" Mom asked calmly.

"No."

"Are you being treated badly?"

"No. The coaches are intense but fair."

"Then what you're experiencing is called being challenged. You've never been the worst player in the room before. It's uncomfortable."

"It's more than uncomfortable. It's humiliating."

"Sophia. You are seventeen years old, training with the best athletes in Canada, working toward a goal that requires excellence. You are supposed to be uncomfortable. That's how you grow."

I was crying now—stupid, frustrated, exhausted tears. "What if I fail?"

"Then you fail. You go to MIT, play club badminton, and remember that you tried." She paused. "Or you could trust that you're exactly where you're supposed to be, and give yourself more than three days before deciding you're not good enough."

After we hung up, I forced myself out of bed. Showered. Ate breakfast. Went to training.

Coach Kim pulled me aside after warm-up.

"Sophia. You look miserable."

"I'm just tired."

"You're comparing yourself to everyone else and losing." She crossed her arms. "Stop it. Your only competition here is yesterday's version of yourself. Are you better today than you were yesterday?"

I thought about it. "My footwork is faster."

"Then you're succeeding. Focus on that. Improvement, not comparison."

That conversation shifted something. I stopped watching Emma's perfect footwork and started working on my own. Stopped worrying about David's powerful serve and focused on improving my accuracy.

By day five, I could keep up with conditioning. By day six, I won a practice match against a girl from Toronto. By day seven, Coach Kim nodded at me after serve practice—silent approval that felt like a trophy.

That night, I video called Ethan. He looked happy and sunburned.

"How's coaching?" I asked.

"Amazing. Today I taught a six-year-old to do crossovers and she literally screamed with joy. It was the best thing ever."

"You love it."

"I really do. It's hockey without pressure. Just pure teaching and fun." He leaned back in his chair. "How's Toronto? Still miserable?"

"Actually... no. I'm adapting. My body figured out how to handle eight hours a day. My brain stopped panicking about being average and started focusing on improvement."

"See? Told you day two would be better."

"You said day two. This is day seven."

"I was off by five days. Close enough." He grinned. "Seriously though, I'm proud of you. Most people would have quit."

"I almost did. Called my mom crying on day three."

"But you didn't quit. That's what matters."

We talked until midnight—about his coaching certification program, my training details, nothing and everything. Just hearing his voice made the exhaustion bearable.

"Fourteen more days," I said before hanging up.

"Then you're home."

"Then we pack for MIT."

"Then everything changes again."

"I'm ready for everything to change."

"Me too. Love you, Sophie."

"Love you too."

TORONTO: WEEK TWO

By the start of week two, my body had adapted to the insane training schedule. I could wake up at 6 AM without wanting to die. My muscles recovered faster. My brain could process technical feedback even when exhausted.

But adaptation wasn't the same as thriving.

I was good. Competent. Improving. But I wasn't great. Not yet.

On day eight, we did match simulations—playing against different opponents in rotating rounds. I won some. Lost more. Every match revealed gaps in my game that needed fixing.

After my fourth loss of the day, I sat in the locker room fighting frustration.

Priya found me there. "You're overthinking."

"I'm getting my ass kicked."

"Because you're playing their game instead of yours." She sat down next to me. "You move different than everyone here. More calculated, less reactive. Stop trying to match their speed and use your brain instead."

"What do you mean?"

"You read the game like chess. They read it like instinct. Neither is better, but you're trying to be them instead of using what makes you different."

Day nine, I tried what Priya suggested. Instead of reacting faster, I started anticipating smarter. Watching opponent patterns, setting traps, using strategy instead of speed.

I won four matches in a row.

Coach Kim pulled me aside. "What changed?"

"I stopped competing with them and started playing my own game."

"That's the difference between good and great." She made a note on her clipboard. "Keep that up."

On day ten, everything fell apart.

We had a particularly brutal training day—three hours of match play in the morning, two hours of conditioning, then another three hours of technical drills. By dinner, I was so exhausted I felt nauseous.

I skipped dinner. Went back to my room. Tried to sleep.

Couldn't.

My brain was spinning with anxiety. About badminton, about MIT, about being good enough for any of it. The exhaustion made everything catastrophic—I was going to fail here, fail at MIT, fail at everything I'd ever tried.

At 9 PM, I called Ethan. He answered on the first ring.

"Hey—Sophie? You okay?"

"No." My voice cracked. "I can't... I just... everything is too much and I'm so tired and I don't know if I can do this."

"Do what? Toronto?"

"Any of it. This. MIT. All of it." I was crying now—full ugly sobbing. "What if I'm not actually smart enough or good enough for the life I'm trying to build? What if I'm just fooling myself?"

"Sophie, you're exhausted. You're not thinking straight."

"Maybe being exhausted is when I think most clearly. Maybe this whole thing—national training, MIT, trying to be excellent at everything—maybe it's all just me being delusional."

Silence on the other end.

"Ethan?"

"I'm here. Just... give me a second." He took a breath. "Okay. Listen. You are seventeen years old, training eight hours a day with the best athletes in Canada, preparing to attend the most competitive university in the country. You are allowed to be overwhelmed. You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to question everything."

"But what if—"

"But," he continued firmly, "you are not allowed to make life-altering decisions at 9 PM on day ten when you're so exhausted you skipped dinner. You're not thinking clearly right now. You're catastrophizing because your brain is fried."

"I really miss you," I whispered.

"I miss you too. So much." His voice softened. "Do you want to quit Toronto? Actually quit, not just panic-quit?"

I thought about it. Really thought. "No. I want to finish."

"Then finish. Eleven more days. You can do eleven more days."

"What if I can't?"

"Then you call me crying and I'll talk you through it. Every single night if you need to."

I laughed wetly. "You're going to get sick of me."

"Impossible. Now promise me you'll eat something before bed."

"I promise."

"And Sophie? I love you. You're not delusional. You're just really fucking tired."

After we hung up, I forced myself to go to the common room and eat leftover pizza. Priya found me there.

"Rough day?"

"The worst."

"Day ten is when everyone breaks. You're right on schedule." She grabbed her own slice. "Tomorrow's easier. Day ten is the worst, then it gets better."

She was right. Day eleven, I woke up feeling more stable. Day twelve, I beat Emma in a practice match. Day thirteen, Coach Kim complimented my serve mechanics.

On day fourteen—exactly two weeks in—I felt like a different player than the one who'd arrived terrified and out of place.

That night, I called Ethan from the roof of the residence hall where some of us went to get cell service and see the city lights.

"You sound better," he said.

"I am better. I had a complete breakdown on day ten, but I survived."

"You called me crying."

"I called you catastrophizing. You talked me off the ledge."

"That's what I'm here for. Professional catastrophe management." He paused. "How much better are you? At badminton?"

I thought about it. "A lot better. Like, measurably better. My serve speed increased fifteen percent. My footwork is faster. My match strategy is smarter. If I played the version of me from two weeks ago, I'd destroy her."

"That's huge."

"It's kind of amazing actually. I didn't know I could improve this much in two weeks."

"You're going to be terrifying at MIT club badminton."

"How's coaching certification?"

"I passed everything. They offered me a job teaching at a hockey camp in August, but I turned it down because that's when we move to Boston."

"You turned down a job?"

"I turned down a job that conflicted with our timeline. Big difference." He laughed. "Old Ethan would have said yes and figured out the conflict later. New Ethan has priorities."

"I like New Ethan."

"New Ethan is obsessed with you and counting down days until you're home."

"Seven more days."

"166 hours. But who's counting?"

TORONTO: WEEK THREE

The final week had a different energy. We all knew this was ending. Three weeks of living and breathing badminton, then back to real life.

For some athletes, this was life—they'd go home and train full-time, pursue national team spots, commit to professional development.

For others, like me, this was a moment. Important, formative, but not forever.

On day sixteen, I had my best training day yet. Won every match simulation. Executed serves with precision I'd never achieved before. Felt completely in control of my game.

"Sophia, you've improved more in sixteen days than most athletes improve in six months," Coach Kim said after training. "What changed?"

"I stopped being intimidated and started being curious."

"Explain."

"The first week I was scared of failing. This week I started asking questions—why do they move that way, how do they read shots, what am I missing?" I grabbed water, caught my breath. "I stopped competing with them and started learning from them."

"That's the difference between good and great." She pulled me aside. "I want to talk to you about something. The national team selectors have been watching all of you. Several athletes are being invited to additional programming."

My heart rate picked up. "Okay."

"We'd like to invite you to winter training camp. December 26th through January 15th. Here in Toronto. Elite development with potential national team call-up after."

Three weeks spanning MIT's winter break. Doable, maybe.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course. Let us know by September 1st."

I called Ethan immediately.

"They want me for winter training," I said without preamble.

"That's amazing! When?"

"December 26th through January 15th. Three weeks during winter break."

"So you'd miss New Year's with me."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You should do it," Ethan said finally.

"You sure?"

"No. But you should do it anyway." He sighed. "We're both going to have opportunities that complicate things. This is yours. Take it."

"What if MIT winter break is when we need time together?"

"Then we'll figure it out. We always do."

But later that night, alone in my dorm room, I felt the weight of it. Another separation. More time apart. The constant balancing act of being excellent at multiple things while also trying to maintain a relationship.

I texted Ethan: What if we can't actually do this?

His response came immediately: Do what?

Be good at everything. Be together. Not lose ourselves trying to balance it all.

Three dots. Then: We probably can't. Not perfectly. But we can try imperfectly and forgive ourselves when it's hard.

Is that enough?

It's all anyone can do. Call me?

I called. We talked until 2 AM—about fears and futures and whether we were delusional to think we could maintain a relationship while both pursuing excellence at demanding things.

"Maybe we're idiots," I said.

"Definitely idiots. But we're committed idiots."

"What if being committed idiots isn't enough?"

"Then we'll fail spectacularly and at least have a good story." He paused. "But I don't think we're going to fail. I think we're going to struggle and fight and figure it out. Messily. That's different than failing."

Day seventeen, Priya asked me about winter training.

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. It conflicts with time with Ethan."

"Do you want my opinion or just sympathy?"

"Opinion."

"You're seventeen. You're not married. This is the time to say yes to opportunities that make you better, even if they complicate your relationship." She shrugged. "If you guys can't survive you being excellent, then the relationship wasn't going to work anyway."

"Harsh."

"True though."

Day eighteen, we had an inter-program tournament—all twenty athletes competing in singles, doubles, and mixed doubles. I made it to the semifinals in singles, finals in women's doubles with Priya as my partner.

Lost the finals match in three games, but it was close. Competitive. Proof I belonged here.

"You're going to be dangerous next year," Priya said afterward. "If you come back for winter training."

"Still deciding."

"Decide yes. You're too good not to push further."

On day nineteen, something happened that shifted everything.

I was scrolling Instagram between training sessions when I saw it—a photo Jordan had posted from another lake day. The whole friend group from July, except this time there was a girl I didn't recognize sitting in the spot I'd been in last time.

Right next to Ethan.

She was pretty. Blonde. Laughing at something he'd said. His arm was stretched along the back of the bench behind her—not around her, but close enough to make my stomach clench.

The caption: Summer crew minus Sophie who's being an elite athlete in Toronto. @ethanmercer making new friends.

I stared at the photo until my vision blurred.

This was stupid. It was just a group hangout. Jordan had tagged a dozen people. The girl was probably someone's girlfriend or cousin or random friend. Ethan and I were solid. I trusted him.

But also—he'd gone to another lake day without me. Made new friends. Sat next to a pretty blonde while I was eight hundred kilometers away training.

I called him.

"Hey! How was training?"

"Fine. Good. Whatever." I tried to sound casual. "Saw Jordan's Instagram. Looked fun."

"Oh yeah, we went back to the cabin for the afternoon. Super low-key." He paused. "You okay? You sound weird."

"Who's the blonde girl?"

Silence.

"What?"

"In the photo. Sitting next to you. Who is she?"

"Oh. That's Melissa. She's dating Jordan's friend Tyler. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Sophie." His voice changed. "Are you... are you jealous right now?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." God, I sounded ridiculous. "It's stupid. Forget I said anything."

"It's not stupid. You're in Toronto training crazy hours, I'm here hanging out at lakes. That would make me feel weird too."

"I trust you."

"I know. But you're also human and tired and we've been apart for almost three weeks. You're allowed to feel insecure." He paused. "For the record, I sat next to Melissa because Tyler was on my other side and Jordan was across. I was literally boxed in. I spent the whole afternoon wishing you were there instead."

"Really?"

"Really. Also, she spent an hour talking about her boyfriend's gym routine. It was monumentally boring."

I laughed despite myself. "Okay."

"Okay." He softened. "Three more days. Then you're home and I'm not letting you out of my sight for at least a week."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

After we hung up, I felt stupid for being jealous. But also—Priya knocked on my door and found me staring at the photo.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just being an idiot about my boyfriend hanging out with other girls while I'm gone."

She looked at the photo. "She's pretty."

"Not helping."

"But she's also clearly into the guy next to her, not your boyfriend. See how her body is angled?" She pointed. "Orientation toward Tyler, not Ethan. You're fine."

"When did you become a body language expert?"

"I have a brother your boyfriend's age who brings home attractive friends. I've learned to analyze threats."

"Is your brother single?"

"I'm not playing matchmaker while you spiral about Instagram photos."

Day twenty, Coach Kim gave a farewell speech at our final team dinner.

"You came here good. You're leaving great. Some of you will go on to represent Canada internationally. Some will play in college. Some will stop competing and just remember this as the summer you were excellent. All of those paths are valid. I'm proud of all of you."

After dinner, Priya and I walked around the Toronto waterfront.

"What are you going to do?" she asked. "National team track or MIT?"

"Both, somehow. I'll figure it out."

"You're crazy."

"Probably. But I'm not giving up either thing without trying."

"That's very you."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Absolutely."

Day twenty-one—final training session. We did a full simulation tournament, playing our hearts out one last time.

I won my bracket. Lost the overall finals to Emma, but it was competitive. Close.

Coach Kim pulled me aside after. "Winter training invitation still stands. You've proven you can compete at this level."

"I'll let you know by September."

"Good. You should come back. You've got something special."

I flew home on August 11th—exhausted, improved, changed.

Ethan met me at the airport with flowers and a smile that made everything worth it. When I saw him waiting at arrivals, something in my chest cracked open.

Three weeks. It had only been three weeks. But it felt like forever.

I dropped my bags and just hugged him—buried my face against his shoulder and breathed him in and felt the tension of separation finally release.

"You look different," he said when we finally broke apart.

"I am different. Stronger. Faster. Better at badminton."

"Still the same Sophie?"

"Still the same Sophie. Just evolved." I looked at him. "You look different too."

"Different how?"

"I don't know. More sure of yourself or something."

"Three weeks of doing what I love instead of what I'm forced to do. It changes you."

We drove home talking nonstop—three weeks condensed into ninety minutes of conversation. His coaching certification, my training evolution, the stupid Instagram photo jealousy that seemed absurd now that I could see him in person.

"You were jealous of Melissa?" He laughed. "She's literally engaged. She was showing everyone her ring."

"I couldn't see a ring in the photo!"

"Because it was on her other hand. Tyler proposed at the lake. That's why we were all there—celebrating their engagement."

"Oh my god, I'm an idiot."

"You're human. And tired. And I love you." He reached over, squeezed my hand. "For what it's worth, I spent the whole three weeks missing you and counting down days. There was never a competition."

At my house, my parents had a "Welcome Home" banner and my favorite dinner ready.

"We missed you," Mom said.

"Missed you too."

Caroline joined us for dinner—bringing updates about her architecture projects and the apartment she'd fully settled into. Robert was conspicuously absent from all conversations. The divorce was progressing. He'd apparently stopped trying to contact Ethan entirely.

"He's moved on to controlling something else," Caroline said. "Probably his golf game. I don't care anymore."

After dinner, Ethan and I escaped to the backyard.

"Four days until we leave for MIT," he said.

"Four days to pack everything we own."

"Four days to say goodbye to Winnipeg."

"Are you ready?"

He thought about it. "No. But I'm going anyway. You?"

"Same. Terrified and excited in equal measure."

"That seems to be our default state."

We sat in comfortable silence as summer evening settled around us. Three weeks apart had made this feel precious—the simple act of being together, shoulders touching, nothing demanding our attention.

"Thank you," I said.

"For what?"

"For making me go to Toronto. For supporting me even when it meant being apart. For not asking me to choose between you and opportunities."

"Back at you." He took my hand. "We both chose ourselves this summer. And we're still choosing each other. That's huge."

"It really is."

The next four days blurred together in a chaos of packing and goodbyes.

Packing for MIT meant figuring out what to bring to a new life—clothes for Boston weather, badminton gear, school supplies, photos of people who mattered, pieces of home to make a dorm room feel safe.

My parents helped. Caroline helped. Ethan and I helped each other, comparing lists and making sure we didn't forget essentials.

"Do we need winter coats?" Ethan asked.

"We're from Winnipeg moving to Boston. Yes, we need winter coats."

"But how cold does Boston actually get?"

"Cold enough. Pack the coat."

On August 14th—our last full day in Winnipeg—we did one final drive around the city.

Past the school we'd graduated from. Past the park where we'd had breakthrough conversations. Past the rink where everything had started, back when we were just kids who used to skate together.

"This city gave us everything," Ethan said.

"This city tried to kill us several times."

"True. But we survived. That counts for something."

We ended at The Forks—our spot, where the rivers meet and the city feels both huge and intimate.

"Last night in Winnipeg," I said.

"First night of everything else."

"Are we really doing this?"

"Flying to Boston tomorrow to start college at MIT? Yeah, we're really doing this."

I leaned against him, watching the sun set over the city that had challenged us and changed us.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"Me too."

"But excited."

"Me too."

"Together though."

"Always together."

Tomorrow, we'd fly to Boston. Tomorrow, MIT would begin. Tomorrow, everything would change.

But tonight, we were still Winnipeg kids—survivors of impossible circumstances, graduates of hard lessons, ready for whatever came next.

Together.

Always together.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6: New Beginnings

The flight from Winnipeg to Boston took four hours, but it felt like crossing into a different universe.

Ethan and I sat together—middle and window seats, our parents scattered throughout the plane. Our entire lives packed into checked luggage underneath us. Everything we owned, everything we'd need to start over, compressed into suitcases and carry-ons.

"What if we hate it?" Ethan asked as we flew over the Great Lakes.

"Then we transfer."

"What if we're not smart enough?"

"Then we study harder."

"What if we don't fit in?"

"Then we find people who fit with us." I took his hand. "Stop catastrophizing. We're going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I know we've survived everything thrown at us so far. MIT is just the next challenge."

He squeezed my hand. "Together?"

"Always together."

We landed at Logan Airport at 2:30 PM Eastern time. August in Boston was humid and hot—nothing like Winnipeg's dry prairie summer. The air felt thick, foreign, like we'd stepped into someone else's life.

Caroline had flown in separately and was already waiting at baggage claim. My parents appeared with luggage carts, looking both excited and sad.

"This is really happening," Mom said, her voice catching.

"This is really happening," I confirmed, and the weight of those words settled in my chest.

We loaded everything into two rental cars and drove toward Cambridge.

The first view of MIT stole every thought from my head.

Classical buildings stood beside modern glass and steel. The Great Dome rose against the blue sky like something from a dream—except this wasn't a dream. This was real. This was happening.

This was ours.

"We go here," Ethan said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My throat was too tight to respond. I could only stare at students everywhere—moving boxes, laughing with families, existing in this space like they belonged. Like we were supposed to belong.

"We actually made it," I finally managed.

Ethan's hand found mine. His palm was sweating. Or maybe that was mine. "What did we just do?"

"Got everything we wanted."

"That's what terrifies me."

The car pulled up to Next House—my dorm on the west side of campus. Modern building, good location, co-ed by floor. The place that would be home for the next year, shared with a stranger whose name I knew but whose existence suddenly felt overwhelming.

What if she hated me? What if I couldn't sleep with someone else in the room? What if everything about this was a mistake we couldn't take back?

We unloaded my things where dozens of other families were doing the same thing. Chaos everywhere—parents crying, students hugging, RAs with clipboards directing traffic like they'd done this a hundred times before.

A girl appeared at my elbow. Black, athletic build, warm smile, already wearing MIT gear like she'd been born in it.

"Sophia Liu?"

I turned. "Yeah?"

"I'm Maya Williams. Your roommate." She pulled me into a hug like we'd been friends for years. "I've been stalking your Instagram. National badminton champion? That's so cool."

"Uh, thanks?"

"Come on, let's get you moved in. Fourth floor, east corner. Great view." She grabbed one of my bags like it weighed nothing. "Fair warning: I'm very organized and kind of loud. If that's going to drive you crazy, tell me now so we can work on it."

I liked her immediately, which somehow made everything more terrifying. What if I screwed this up?

My room was small but functional—two beds, two desks, two dressers, one window overlooking campus. Maya had already decorated her side with photos and posters and strings of lights that made it feel lived-in and warm.

"I got here yesterday," she explained. "Couldn't wait. My parents drove from San Diego, and we did the full tourist thing in Boston first."

As we unpacked, Ethan texted: Getting settled. Room is tiny. Roommate seems cool but quiet. How's yours?

I responded: Opposite problem. Roommate is wonderful and extremely not quiet. Fourth floor, great view. Come by later?

After I unpack. Parents are emotional. Send help.

Maya noticed me smiling at my phone. "The boyfriend?"

"The boyfriend."

"The one who turned down the NHL?"

"Does everyone know that story?"

"I googled both of you when I got the roommate assignment. I'm thorough." She hung up more clothes with practiced efficiency. "So is he actually as smart as his transcript suggests, or is that just good grades?"

"Actually that smart. Annoyingly smart, sometimes."

"Perfect. I hate dating stupid people. Too much explaining."

I laughed, and some of the tension in my chest loosened. Maybe this would be okay. Maybe we could actually do this.

It took three hours to unpack and organize. My parents helped, Caroline stopped by with Ethan to say hello, and gradually my half of the room transformed into something that looked like mine.

Photos on the wall: me and Ethan at prom, my family, my badminton team, Caroline and my parents at graduation. Evidence of where I'd come from, tacked to the walls of where I was going.

MIT sweatshirt hung on the closet door—the one my parents had given us at graduation dinner.

Badminton rackets in the corner—three of them, backup strings, a full kit.

This was home now. This small room with a stranger who was becoming a friend, in a building full of people I didn't know yet, on a campus that felt both enormous and intimate and completely impossible.

"We actually made it," I whispered to myself.

Maya looked up. "What?"

"Nothing. Just—we're really here."

"Best decision you'll ever make," she said confidently. "MIT changes your life. You'll see."

That's what I was afraid of.

At 6 PM, Maya and I headed to the dining hall for the first-year welcome dinner.

The dining hall was packed—700+ freshmen trying to find seats, meeting roommates and hallmates, forming the first social connections that would define the next four years. The noise was overwhelming. The crowd was suffocating. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing except me.

I found Ethan in the crowd. He looked as overwhelmed as I felt.

"Sophie, this is Jay Patterson. Jay, Sophia Liu."

Jay nodded—quiet Asian guy with kind eyes. "The badminton player. Ethan mentioned."

"That's me. You're computer science?"

"AI specialization. You're mechanical engineering?"

"That's the plan."

We sat together—me, Ethan, Maya, Jay, and a few other students from our dorms. The conversation flowed: where we were from, what we were studying, why we chose MIT. Normal college questions, except nothing about this felt normal.

"I'm from California," Maya said. "Wanted to get far away from home, prove I could survive east coast weather."

"I'm from Texas," Jay added. "Wanted the best computer science program in the country."

"Canada," Ethan said. "We both are. Winnipeg."

"And you turned down a professional hockey contract to be here," another student—Rachel from our floor—said. "That story is everywhere."

Ethan's face went tight. "It's really not that interesting."

"You turned down millions of dollars. That's interesting."

"I chose education over money. Lots of people do that."

"Not at eighteen with a guaranteed contract."

I could feel Ethan shutting down—the attention, the judgment, the constant reminder that his choice would define him here before anyone knew his name.

"He chose what he wanted instead of what people expected," I said firmly. "That's the whole story. Can we talk about something else?"

Rachel backed off. The conversation shifted. But the damage was done.

After dinner, we walked across campus toward Killian Court—the great lawn in front of the dome where other students were scattered on grass and benches, exploring their new home.

"I'm going to be that guy forever," Ethan said quietly. "The hockey player who said no. That's all anyone's going to know about me."

"Until they actually know you."

"That's not what they see."

"Not yet. But they will."

We found a bench near the dome. Other students laughed in the distance. Someone played guitar badly. Normal college sounds for an abnormal situation.

"I'm terrified," Ethan admitted.

"Of what?"

"Everything. Classes starting Monday. The workload. Whether I'm actually smart enough for this place." He looked at the dome, lit up against the darkening sky. "What if I made the wrong choice?"

"Then you made it honestly, and you'll adjust accordingly." I leaned against him. "But you didn't make the wrong choice. You made the brave choice."

"Brave feels like stupid right now."

"They're often the same thing."

We sat in silence as the sky darkened and lights came on across campus. The air was warm. The moment was perfect. And I was absolutely terrified that we couldn't keep this.

"We're really here," I said.

"We're really here."

Over the next three days, orientation consumed us.

Academic advising sessions where we finalized fall schedules. Campus tours showing us buildings we'd spend the next four years in. Student activities fair with 200+ clubs competing for attention.

I stopped by the badminton club table. The president—a junior named Alex—recognized me immediately.

"You're the national champion. From Canada, right?"

"That's me."

"We'd love to have you. Practice three times a week, matches on weekends, very competitive but also fun." He handed me a flyer. "First practice is next week. You should come."

I took the flyer, filed it away mentally. Badminton three times a week. MIT academics full-time. Relationship with Ethan. Social life. Sleep.

Something would have to give. I just didn't know what yet.

Ethan stopped by the club hockey table. The team captain—a senior named Mike—also recognized him.

"You're the kid who turned down Detroit."

"That's me."

"Heard you're pretty good. Want to try out for varsity?"

Ethan blinked. "I thought this was club hockey."

"This table is club. But I also captain varsity. We could use a talented center." Mike pulled out a different flyer. "Tryouts are next week. Much bigger time commitment than club—we practice five times a week, travel for games. But we compete at a high level."

"I chose MIT to focus on academics."

"You can do both. Lots of guys do." Mike shrugged. "Think about it. Tryouts are Wednesday at 6 PM."

After we left the activities fair, Ethan looked shell-shocked.

"He wants me to try out for varsity."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know. That's not why I came here."

"But you love hockey."

"I love hockey without pressure. Varsity hockey at MIT is probably still pressure."

"Or it's challenging yourself while staying in the sport you love." I adjusted the stack of flyers I'd collected. "You don't have to decide today. Just think about it."

On August 18th, we had our first official dorm floor meeting.

Next House 4th floor had twenty students—mix of genders, majors, backgrounds. Our RA—a senior named Chris—welcomed us and laid down ground rules.

"You're all adults now. I'm not here to parent you. But I am here if you need help, advice, or someone to talk to." He looked around the circle. "MIT is hard. Really hard. Some of you will struggle. That's normal. What's not normal is suffering alone. If you're drowning, tell someone."

His words hung in the air. Several students shifted uncomfortably.

After the official meeting, the floor gathered in the common room for informal introductions. Maya immediately took charge, getting everyone to share names, majors, and "one weird fact about yourself."

"I'm Maya Williams, mechanical engineering, and I can juggle while riding a unicycle."

"I'm Rachel Kim, biology, and I've never eaten a vegetable."

"I'm Sophia Liu, mechanical engineering, and I won a national badminton championship using a racket I bought at a garage sale."

Laughter around the circle.

When it was done, Maya pulled me aside. "We're going to have a good year."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. This floor has good energy. I can tell."

That night, Ethan and I met at Killian Court again—our spot, apparently.

"How's your floor?" I asked.

"Quiet. Lots of engineers and computer science people who seem more comfortable with computers than humans." He smiled. "Jay is cool though. We're figuring each other out."

"Maya is wonderful and exhausting in equal measure."

"That tracks."

We lay on the grass looking at stars that were barely visible through Boston light pollution.

"Classes start Monday," I said.

"Four days. Then it's real."

"It's already real."

"You know what I mean. Then we find out if we're actually smart enough for this place."

"We are."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I have to believe it." I turned to face him. "If I stop believing it, I'll panic. And if I panic, I can't do this."

He was quiet for a long time. "What if we can't do this?"

"Then we'll fail together and figure out what comes next."

"That's supposed to be comforting?"

"It's supposed to be honest."

His phone rang. Unknown number. He ignored it.

It immediately rang again. Same number.

"You should answer that," I said.

He did, reluctantly. "Hello?"

His face went white.

"This is Ethan... Yes, sir... I—what?... But I'm enrolled... I understand... Can you hold on?"

He pulled the phone away, looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.

"It's Jim Morrison. The Detroit scout."

My stomach dropped.

"What does he want?"

"Their starting center tore his ACL yesterday. They have an emergency roster spot." He swallowed hard. "They want me. Now. Training camp starts September 1st."

THE CALL

Ethan walked away from me to finish the conversation. I sat on the grass, watching him pace, trying to read his body language from fifty feet away.

He talked for fifteen minutes. Then hung up. Stood very still for a moment.

Then walked back.

"They're offering $3.2 million signing bonus," he said numbly. "Emergency call-up. Guaranteed roster spot for the season. Training camp starts in two weeks."

"Classes start in four days."

"I know."

"You just got here. We just got here."

"I know."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I needed to think about it. That I'd call back in 48 hours." He sat down next to me, ran his hands through his hair. "Sophie, this is—"

"Enormous. I know."

"I thought the door was closed. I chose MIT. I moved on."

"And now the door opened again."

"Everything's different now. They're desperate. They need immediate help. I'd actually play, not sit on the bench for a year."

"But you'd miss MIT."

"Maybe just this semester. I could defer until January, play the first half of the season—"

"MIT doesn't work that way. You know that."

He did know that. We both did.

If he left for Detroit now, MIT was gone. Maybe he could reapply next year, but there was no guarantee. And even if he got back in, I'd be a year ahead. We wouldn't be doing this together anymore.

This wasn't a small choice. This was everything we'd fought for versus everything he'd trained for his entire life.

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

"I don't know." He looked at me helplessly. "Three months ago I knew exactly what I wanted. Now I'm here and the NHL is calling again and I—I don't know."

"Do you want to go?"

"Part of me does. The part that's been playing hockey since age four. The part that dreams about professional competition." He swallowed hard. "But part of me wants to stay. The part that chose education. The part that chose you."

"Don't choose because of me."

"You're part of the decision. You're part of everything."

The night air was warm but I felt cold. This was happening. Again. We'd barely started and already the universe was testing whether we could actually do this.

"If you go," I said carefully, "we're done. You know that, right?"

He looked at me sharply. "What?"

"If you go to Detroit, we're done. You're there, I'm here. Long distance at eighteen while you're playing 82 games a season? That's not sustainable. We'd try for a few months and then slowly drift apart and eventually one of us would end it and we'd both pretend it was mutual."

"Sophie—"

"I'm not saying it to pressure you. I'm saying it because it's true. If you go, you lose me. That's part of the equation." I met his eyes. "So decide if it's worth it. If the NHL is worth losing this. Because I need to know if what we have is actually real or just convenient because we're both at MIT."

He looked stricken. "You think this is just convenient?"

"I think when faced with millions of dollars and your dream career, I need to know if I'm actually enough to make you stay."

"That's not fair."

"None of this is fair."

We sat in silence. Around us, other students laughed and lived and existed in their normal orientation week. Meanwhile, our entire future was cracking apart.

"I need to think," Ethan said finally. "Can I—I need to be alone for a bit. Process this."

"Of course."

"I'm not leaving you. I'm just—"

"I know. Go. Think. We'll talk tomorrow."

He kissed me—quick and desperate and terrified—then walked away toward his dorm.

I sat alone on the grass as the sky darkened and my phone buzzed with messages from Maya asking where I was. I ignored them. I couldn't be social right now. I couldn't pretend this was fine.

We'd made it. We'd fought for months to get here. We'd chosen MIT over everything else.

And now, four days before classes started, I might lose him anyway.

AUGUST 19TH - DECISION EVE

I barely slept. At 7 AM, Ethan texted: Can we talk?

We met at a coffee shop off campus—neutral territory, away from students who might recognize us.

He looked like he hadn't slept at all. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair uncombed. The Ethan who always looked put-together completely undone.

"I spent all night thinking," he said.

"And?"

"And I keep coming back to the same question: am I choosing MIT because I want it, or because I'm afraid of disappointing you?"

"What's your answer?"

"I don't know. Three months ago when I first chose, it was clear. I wanted education, growth, time to develop. But now I'm here and it's overwhelming and the NHL is offering everything I trained for and I—" He stopped. "What if I made the wrong choice in June?"

"Then you adjust. Make a different choice now."

"You'd be okay with that?"

"No. I'd be devastated." I met his eyes. "But I'd rather you choose honestly than stay because you think you owe me something."

"I don't think I owe you. I just—I don't want to lose you."

"You won't lose me by choosing what you want. You'll lose me by choosing something you don't want and resenting me for it later."

He leaned back, exhausted. "If I go to Detroit, we're done. If I stay at MIT because of you and it's the wrong choice, we're also done eventually. Either way, I might lose you."

"So choose based on what you want, not based on me."

"You're part of what I want."

"Then choose based on which version of your life you actually want to live."

The coffee shop was filling with students—mostly upperclassmen, some we'd met during orientation. Normal college kids getting coffee before normal college days.

We were anything but normal.

"Can I tell you what I think?" I said carefully.

"Please."

"I think you're panicking. I think MIT is overwhelming and scary and the NHL is familiar. You know you're good at hockey. You don't know if you're good at MIT-level academics yet. So the NHL feels safer even though it's actually giving up the future you said you wanted."

"So you think I should stay."

"I think you should ask yourself which choice you're making because you want to, and which you're making because you're afraid."

He closed his eyes. "I hate that question."

"I know. But it's the right question."

We sat in silence. His coffee went cold. Mine too.

Finally, Ethan pulled out his phone. "I'm going to call my mom."

He stepped outside. I watched through the window as he paced and talked, hands gesturing, clearly emotional. At one point he stopped walking and just stood there, phone pressed to his ear, completely still.

He came back in ten minutes later.

"What did she say?"

"She asked me if I'd be calling Jim Morrison if classes hadn't started yet. If I'd be reconsidering if MIT wasn't currently terrifying."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I didn't know. Maybe?" He sat down. "She said that was my answer. That if I'm only running to the NHL because MIT is scary, I'll regret it."

"Do you agree?"

"I think I'm terrified of failing here. I think the NHL seems easier because I know I'm good at hockey. But I don't know if I'm good at MIT-level academics."

"Nobody knows that until they try."

"What if I try and fail?"

"Then you try again. Or you transfer. Or you adjust expectations." I squeezed his hand across the table. "But running away before you even start doesn't answer the question."

He was quiet for a long time.

"I'm staying," he said finally.

"Are you sure?"

"No. But I'm sure that leaving now would be running away from fear, not running toward something I actually want." He looked at me. "I chose MIT in June when I had time to think clearly. I'm trusting that version of myself."

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it?"

"What do you want me to say? I'm relieved you're staying, terrified you'll resent me for it, and proud that you're facing the fear instead of avoiding it." I managed a smile. "Welcome to complicated feelings."

"I need to call Jim."

"Do it now. Before you second-guess yourself."

He did. Right there in the coffee shop, on speaker so I could hear.

"Jim, it's Ethan Mercer."

"Ethan. Have you made a decision?"

"I have. Thank you for the opportunity—genuinely, thank you. But I'm staying at MIT."

Silence on the other end.

"You're sure this time?" Jim asked carefully.

"I'm sure. MIT is where I'm supposed to be right now. Hockey will always be there in some form. But this opportunity—being here, starting college, building a different kind of life—this only happens once."

"Alright. I respect that." Jim sighed. "For the record, I think you're making the right choice. But this really is the last time, Ethan. After this, the door closes."

"I understand."

"Good luck, kid. You're going to need it."

After he hung up, Ethan set his phone down very carefully.

"It's done."

"How do you feel?"

"Terrified. Relieved. Like I might throw up."

"That's appropriate."

"Did I just make a massive mistake?"

"Ask me in four years."

We left the coffee shop holding hands, walking back toward campus in the August heat. Neither of us spoke for several blocks.

Finally, Ethan stopped walking. Turned to face me. "I need you to know something."

"What?"

"I didn't stay just for you. I stayed for me too. For the future I said I wanted." He touched my face. "But you're part of why that future matters. You're part of why any of this matters."

I kissed him. Right there on the Cambridge sidewalk with students passing by and the morning sun beating down. I kissed him like we'd just made a choice that would define our lives.

Because we had.

AUGUST 20TH - LAST DAY BEFORE CLASSES

Orientation week ended with a massive welcome ceremony in Killian Court—all 1,100 freshmen gathered on the lawn while the president welcomed us and upper-level students performed ridiculous traditions.

"You're MIT now," the president said. "That means you're expected to do impossible things. To push boundaries. To fail and try again. To build and break and rebuild better."

I looked at Ethan. He looked at me.

We'd already been doing that for months.

"Some of you will struggle this year," the president continued. "That's normal. What matters is what you do when you struggle. Do you give up, or do you ask for help? Do you quit, or do you adapt?"

The words settled over the crowd like a challenge.

That night, our floor had one last orientation event—an informal gathering in the common room to celebrate before classes started.

Someone brought cookies. Someone else brought music. We sat around talking about summer, about fears, about excitement.

"What are you most nervous about?" Rachel asked the group.

"Failing physics," one student said.

"Not making friends," another admitted.

"Not being smart enough," Jay said quietly. Ethan nodded agreement.

When it got to me, I said: "Balancing everything. Academics, athletics, relationship, sleep. Something's going to have to give, and I don't know what."

"Sleep," Maya said immediately. "Sleep is always what gives."

"Encouraging."

"Honest."

At 11 PM, the gathering broke up. Students drifted to their rooms to prepare for tomorrow.

Ethan walked me to my door.

"Last night before classes start," he said.

"Tomorrow it's real."

"Tomorrow we find out if we can actually do this."

He kissed me goodnight—soft and slow and full of unspoken fears. When he pulled away, his hand lingered on my waist.

"I'm scared," he admitted quietly.

"Me too."

"But we're doing it anyway."

"Together."

"Together," he echoed.

After he left, I stood in the hallway for a moment, trying to convince myself we could actually survive what was coming.

AUGUST 21ST - FIRST DAY

My alarm went off at 7 AM.

First class: Calculus II, 9 AM, in a massive lecture hall across campus.

I dressed carefully—nothing too formal, nothing too casual, trying to look like I belonged at MIT even though I felt like an imposter who'd somehow tricked the admissions committee.

Maya was already awake, somehow energetic despite the early hour.

"First day! This is going to be amazing!"

"This is going to be terrifying."

"Same thing!"

We walked to class together—along with half our floor, all heading to various first-day classes. The campus was alive with nervous energy. Freshmen everywhere clutching schedules and campus maps, trying to look confident.

The lecture hall was enormous. Two hundred seats arranged in ascending rows, a massive screen at the front, chalkboards covering the walls. I'd never had a class with more than thirty students before.

I found a seat near the middle. Ethan appeared a few minutes later, sliding into the seat next to me.

"Found you."

"We have this class together. Of course you found me."

"Moral support though."

At 8:59—exactly on time—the professor walked in carrying a briefcase and an aura of intense intelligence. She wrote on the board: 18.02 - MULTIVARIABLE CALCULUS

"Good morning. I'm Professor Chen. Welcome to Calculus II." She turned to face us. "This course has a 40% drop rate. Look to your left. Look to your right. Statistically, one of you won't be here by midterms."

Students looked around nervously. I felt Ethan tense beside me.

The student to my left was a girl who looked terrified. The student to my right was Ethan. One of us wouldn't make it.

"If you're not prepared to work harder than you've ever worked, leave now. This course demands precision, dedication, and the ability to think in multiple dimensions simultaneously."

No one left. We were all too terrified to move.

"Good. Let's begin."

For the next ninety minutes, Professor Chen taught at a pace that made high school calculus look like kindergarten math. Concepts built on concepts, equations filled the board faster than I could copy them. My hand cramped from writing. My brain hurt from trying to keep up.

Around me, students frantically took notes. Some gave up after thirty minutes and just listened, knowing they'd lost the thread. Others, like me, kept writing desperately, hoping we could make sense of it later.

Ethan looked shell-shocked.

When class ended, students filed out looking dazed. Several were already checking the add/drop deadline.

"That was intense," I said, understating it massively.

"That was impossible. There's no way we can keep up with that pace for an entire semester."

"We'll figure it out."

"How are you so calm?"

"I'm not calm. I'm just good at pretending."

We had a break before our next classes—Physics I at 1 PM for me, Chemistry for him at 2 PM.

We found a bench outside, sitting in the August heat, processing what we'd just experienced.

"First class at MIT," Ethan said.

"First of many."

"I already have three hours of homework due Wednesday."

"Same. Plus reading for engineering seminar tomorrow."

Around us, other students were having similar realizations. This wasn't high school anymore. This was MIT, where being the smartest kid in your hometown meant absolutely nothing.

"We can do this," I said, more to myself than to him.

"Can we?"

"We got in. We belong here."

"Getting in and surviving are different things."

My phone buzzed. Email from Professor Chen:

First problem set posted online. Due Wednesday, 5 PM. Start early. It's harder than it looks.

I showed Ethan. He checked his own phone and groaned.

"She's not kidding. This problem set has fifteen questions and I don't understand the first one."

"We'll figure it out. Office hours, study groups, each other."

"What if that's not enough?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

The rest of the day was a blur—Physics lecture where the professor also warned us about high drop rates, engineering introduction seminar where we learned about project-based learning and all-nighters, lab section where I struggled to remember basic concepts.

By 6 PM, I was intellectually exhausted in a way I'd never experienced before. My brain felt like mush. My confidence was shattered. And I still had hours of homework ahead of me.

I dragged myself to the badminton practice I'd signed up for.

The gymnasium was already full of players warming up. Alex saw me and waved.

"Sophia! Ready to play?"

"Ready to collapse, but sure."

We played for ninety minutes—drills, rally practice, strategy sessions. Here, finally, I was good. Here I understood. Physical excellence, technique, competition—this made sense in a way calculus didn't.

After practice, Alex pulled me aside.

"You're really good. Like, legitimately elite good."

"Thanks."

"We compete at a high level. Regional tournaments, national club championships. If you commit, we could win a lot."

"How much commitment?"

"Three practices a week, tournaments every other weekend during season, extra training on off days if you want to stay sharp."

I calculated quickly: three practices, tournaments, studying, classes, Ethan, sleep.

The math didn't work.

"Can I think about it?"

"Sure. But we'd love to have you at that level."

I walked back to my dorm as the sun set, trying to figure out how to fit twenty-seven hours of commitments into a twenty-four-hour day.

Ethan texted: How was badminton?

Intense. Good. How was your evening?

Studied for three hours. Still have four more to go. This is unsustainable.

We've been here for one day.

Exactly. If this is day one, what is day thirty going to look like?

I didn't respond because I didn't have an answer.

When I got back to my room, Maya was at her desk surrounded by textbooks, already deep into problem sets.

"How was badminton?"

"They want me to compete at a high level. Big time commitment."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know how to fit it in."

"Welcome to MIT. Where time management is a required skill they don't actually teach you." She highlighted something in her textbook. "You'll figure it out. We all do. Or we all fail together."

"That's comforting."

"It's honest."

I sat at my desk, pulled out my calculus homework. Fifteen problems. The first one alone took me twenty minutes and I still wasn't sure I got it right.

It was 8 PM. I'd been awake for thirteen hours. I had at least five more hours of work ahead of me.

This was MIT.

This was what we'd chosen.

AUGUST 22ND - THE SECOND OFFER

I woke to my phone ringing.

Ethan's name on the screen. 6:47 AM.

"It's not even 7 AM. Why are you calling?"

"Jim Morrison called again." His voice was shaking.

I sat up immediately, suddenly wide awake. "What?"

"Same injury situation. They're even more desperate now. They bumped the offer to $3.5 million signing bonus. Guaranteed starting position. Training camp starts September 1st."

My stomach dropped. "You told him no two days ago."

"I know. But he said the GM wants to talk to me directly. Said the team is in crisis mode. Said if I don't say yes now, someone else will and I'll regret it forever."

"Ethan—"

"Sophie, classes yesterday were impossible. The calculus homework is destroying me. I got a 62% on the first problem set that was supposed to be 'easy.'" His voice cracked. "And the NHL is right there offering money and a path I already understand and I—what if I'm making a huge mistake being here?"

My chest felt tight. "You've been here for two days."

"Two days that have shown me I might not be smart enough for this place. What if I'm destroying my NHL career just to fail out of MIT? What if I'm not good enough for either path?"

"Come to my room. We need to talk face to face."

He showed up fifteen minutes later, looking like he hadn't slept. Hair disheveled, eyes wild, the Ethan who was always in control completely falling apart.

Maya took one look at us and grabbed her backpack. "I'm going to study in the library. Take your time."

After she left, Ethan collapsed on my bed.

"Tell me what to do," he said desperately.

"I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. Tell me to stay. Tell me MIT is worth it. Tell me I'm not going to fail here. Tell me—"

"I can't make this decision for you. That's the whole point." I sat next to him. "If you want to go to Detroit, go. If you want to stay at MIT, stay. But decide for the right reasons."

"What are the right reasons?"

"Choosing what you want, not what you're afraid of."

He was quiet for a long time, staring at my ceiling.

"I'm afraid of failing here. But I'm also afraid of regretting not trying." He looked at me. "Which fear wins?"

"The one you can live with."

"That's not helpful."

"It's honest."

His phone rang. Unknown number. Detroit area code.

"That's the GM," Ethan said, staring at it.

"Are you going to answer?"

"I don't know."

The phone kept ringing. I watched him watch it, paralyzed by indecision.

Finally, it went to voicemail.

Immediately, a text appeared: This is Tom Wilson, Detroit Red Wings GM. I'd like to speak with you directly about our offer. We're prepared to increase the signing bonus to $4 million. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

Ethan showed me the text.

Four million dollars.

I felt sick.

"He's serious," I said.

"They're desperate. Injury, thin roster, season starting soon. They need someone who can play immediately." He read the text again. "Four million dollars, Sophie. That's life-changing money."

"So is an MIT degree."

"But what if I can't earn the degree? What if I wash out after one semester with $80,000 in debt and no NHL career because I waited too long?"

"Then you'll have tried. You'll know."

"That's not comforting when I'm staring at four million guaranteed dollars."

He stood up, paced my small room like a caged animal. "I need to think. I need—can I just sit here for a bit? Not talk, just exist?"

"Of course."

So we sat in silence. Me at my desk pretending to do homework but actually watching him. Him on my bed staring at the ceiling, phone in his hand, wrestling with a choice that could define his entire life.

An hour passed.

Finally, Ethan pulled out his phone.

"I'm calling the GM."

My heart stopped. "Ethan—"

"I need to talk to him. Hear what he has to say. Make an informed decision." He put it on speaker. "Is that okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He dialed.

"Mr. Wilson, this is Ethan Mercer returning your call."

"Ethan! Thanks for calling back." Professional voice, warm but businesslike. "I wanted to speak with you directly about our offer. I know you've chosen MIT, and I respect that. But our situation is unique. We have an immediate need, and you're our first choice to fill it."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"Let me be very clear about what we're offering: $4 million signing bonus—that's up from our previous offer. Guaranteed roster spot, no bench time. You'd be playing twenty minutes a night from day one. This is not a development opportunity. This is a professional career starting right now."

Ethan's hand was shaking. I could see him doing the math—$4 million versus student debt, NHL career versus academic struggle, certainty versus unknown.

"I understand," Ethan said carefully.

"And I know you're at MIT. I know you've started classes. But Ethan, MIT will still be there next year. This opportunity won't. We need you now. By next August, we'll have filled this position with someone else and the door will be permanently closed."

Wilson paused to let that sink in.

"Can I ask what's holding you back?" Wilson continued. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're choosing massive debt and academic pressure over financial security and doing what you love for a living."

Ethan looked at me. I kept my face neutral even though my heart was breaking.

"I chose MIT because I wanted to prove I'm more than just a hockey player," Ethan said slowly. "Because I wanted education and growth and time to figure out who I am without hockey consuming everything. The NHL is incredible, but it's also all-consuming. If I go now, I'll never know who I could have been outside of hockey."

"You'd be a professional athlete living your dream."

"I've been living someone else's dream my entire life. MIT is the first thing I've chosen entirely for myself."

"So you're saying no."

Long pause. The longest pause of my life.

I watched Ethan struggle, watched him look at his phone, at me, at the future splitting in two directions.

"Yes, sir," he finally said. "I'm saying no. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for the opportunities. But I'm staying at MIT."

"Four million dollars, Ethan. Guaranteed. That's more money than most people see in a lifetime."

"I know. And I'm grateful. But I'm not most people. I'm someone who needs to know if I'm brave enough to try something hard instead of taking the easy path."

"MIT isn't going to pay you four million dollars."

"No. But it's going to teach me who I am when I'm not being the person everyone expects me to be."

Wilson sighed. "You're absolutely certain."

"I'm terrified and uncertain and convinced I might be making a mistake. But yes, I'm certain. This is my choice."

"This is the last time we'll call, Ethan. After this, the door is closed permanently. Do you understand that?"

"I understand."

"Alright. I respect your decision even if I think you're crazy." Wilson's voice softened slightly. "Good luck at MIT. You're going to need it."

"Thank you, sir."

After he hung up, Ethan sat very still.

"I just turned down four million dollars," he said quietly.

"You chose yourself."

"I'm either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."

"Probably both."

He lay back on my bed, stared at my ceiling. "My hands are shaking."

"That's normal."

"Is it? Because I feel like I'm going to throw up."

I lay down next to him, our bodies barely fitting on the narrow dorm bed. "You made the right choice."

"How do you know?"

"Because you made it for the right reasons. Because you chose growth over comfort. Because you're braver than you think."

He turned to face me. We were inches apart, sharing the same pillow, breathing the same air.

"If this goes badly—if I fail out of MIT—I'm going to regret this forever."

"Then don't fail out."

"That simple?"

"That simple."

He kissed me. Soft at first, then desperate, like he needed to prove to himself that he'd made the right choice. That I was worth four million dollars. That we were worth the risk.

I kissed him back with everything I had—relief and terror and love and fear all mixed together.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"I should go," Ethan said. "Before Maya comes back and finds us like this."

"Probably smart."

At the door, he turned back. "I didn't stay just for you."

"I know."

"But you're a big part of why I stayed."

"I know that too."

After he left, I tried to focus on homework. Failed completely. Called my parents instead.

"Sophie?" Mom answered. "Everything okay?"

"Ethan got another NHL offer. Bigger than the first. Four million dollars. He turned it down an hour ago."

Silence.

"Four million?" Dad asked—they'd put me on speaker.

"Four million. Guaranteed. Starting position."

"And he said no?"

"He said no."

"Is he okay?" Mom asked gently.

"I think so. Terrified, but okay."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. Part of me is relieved he's staying. Part of me is afraid he'll resent me for being part of why he stayed. Part of me thinks we're both crazy for being at MIT when the world is offering us easier paths."

"That's a lot of parts," Mom said.

"Welcome to being eighteen and making life-altering decisions."

"You're going to be fine," Dad said. "Both of you. You're strong enough to make hard choices and brave enough to live with the consequences."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're our daughter. And stubbornness runs in the family."

THE DOUBTS

That night, I couldn't sleep.

At 2 AM, I texted Ethan: You awake?

Can't sleep. Keep thinking about the money.

Regrets?

Not exactly. More like... what if I'm wrong? What if I just threw away my entire future?

You didn't throw it away. You chose a different future.

A future where I might fail calculus and have nothing.

Or a future where you become something amazing.

You have a lot of faith in me.

Someone has to.

What if I don't deserve it?

I stared at that message for a long time. Then I got out of bed, threw on clothes, and walked across campus to his dorm.

He answered his door looking surprised. "Sophie? It's 2 AM."

"I know. Let me in."

His roommate Jay was deeply asleep—or pretending to be. We went into the hallway.

"You deserve it," I said. "My faith. Your own faith. All of it."

"You can't know that."

"I know you turned down four million dollars to try something hard. I know you chose growth over comfort. I know you're braver than you think you are." I took his hands. "And I know that even if you fail calculus, even if MIT destroys you, you'll figure out what comes next because that's who you are."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll help you. Then your mom will help you. Then you'll help yourself." I squeezed his hands. "But you won't know unless you try. And trying is the whole point."

He pulled me into a hug, holding me like I was the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid.

"I'm so scared," he whispered.

"Me too."

"But you're still here."

"I'm still here."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not letting me spiral. For showing up at 2 AM. For believing in me when I don't believe in myself."

"That's what we do. We show up."

We stood in the hallway holding each other while the rest of the dorm slept, two terrified eighteen-year-olds trying to convince ourselves we could survive what we'd chosen.

AUGUST 23RD - WEDNESDAY

The next day was brutal.

Classes from 9 AM to 3 PM. Homework until 6 PM. Badminton practice at 6:30 PM.

I was running on four hours of sleep. My brain felt like mush. The calculus problem set was destroying me—I'd spent three hours on it the night before and only finished six of fifteen problems.

At badminton practice, Alex pulled me aside again.

"Hey, I need your answer soon about commitment level. We're planning fall tournament schedule."

"Can I get back to you next week?"

"Sure. But think about it seriously. You're good enough to compete nationally. That doesn't happen often."

After practice, I trudged back to my dorm, every muscle aching, my mind spinning with unfinished homework and impossible decisions.

Ethan was waiting outside my building.

"I have news," he said.

"Good news or bad news?"

"Depends on your perspective. The varsity hockey coach called. He wants me to try out Friday. Says he's heard I'm exceptional and thinks I'd be a great addition to the team."

"That's great! You love hockey."

"Hockey five times a week plus games plus travel. On top of MIT academics." He looked exhausted. "I don't know if I can do it."

"Do you want to do it?"

"I want to play hockey. I don't know if I want that much hockey."

We sat on the steps outside my dorm as the sun set.

"We're both facing the same choice," I said. "Commit to our sports at a high level, or focus on academics."

"Can we do both?"

"I don't know. Can we?"

My phone buzzed. Email from Professor Chen: First problem set scores posted. Class average: 58%. If you scored below 70%, please see me during office hours.

I checked my score: 73%. Barely above the threshold.

Ethan checked his: 67%.

"I failed," he said quietly.

"You didn't fail. You got 67%."

"At MIT, that's failing. The average is 58% and I'm below 70%." He stared at his phone. "Two days of classes and I'm already struggling. And I'm considering adding varsity hockey?"

"Maybe the hockey would help. Give you balance."

"Or maybe it would destroy me faster."

We sat in silence as other students passed by, laughing and talking like their lives weren't falling apart.

"I don't know how to do this," Ethan admitted. "I don't know how to be good at MIT while also being good at hockey while also being good at us."

"Maybe we're not supposed to be good at everything. Maybe we're supposed to figure out what matters most."

"What if I can't choose?"

"Then you'll struggle until you can."

He leaned against me, exhausted. "I miss when things were simple."

"When was that?"

"Never, I guess."

My phone buzzed again. Text from Maya: Study group in twenty minutes. Common room. Bring your tears and your textbooks.

I showed Ethan. "Want to join?"

"I should. I need all the help I can get."

AUGUST 24TH - ROBERT'S RETURN

Thursday after classes, I was walking back to my dorm when Ethan called.

"Robert emailed me."

I stopped walking. "What?"

"Subject line: 'We need to talk.' I haven't opened it yet."

"Don't."

"I have to. Eventually."

"Not today. Not while you're already struggling."

"When then?"

"I don't know. Maybe never."

"That's not realistic."

"Neither is letting him back into your head when you're barely holding on."

Silence on the other end.

"I'm opening it," Ethan said.

"Ethan, don't—"

"I need to know what he wants."

I heard him typing, then a long pause.

"What does it say?" I asked, dreading the answer.

"'Ethan, I've heard about the Detroit situation. I know you're at MIT. I know you think you're making the right choice. We need to talk before you make more mistakes. Your father.'" Another pause. "He knows about the offers. He knows I'm struggling. How does he know?"

"Maybe he's been tracking you online. Maybe Jim Morrison told someone who told someone. Does it matter?"

"It matters that he's watching. That he's waiting for me to fail so he can say 'I told you so.'"

"Then don't fail."

"That's not helpful."

"It's honest."

"I don't know if I can ignore him."

"You have to. He lost the right to have an opinion when he lost custody. He doesn't get to control you anymore."

"But what if he's right? What if I am making mistakes?"

"Then they're your mistakes to make. Not his."

Ethan was quiet for a long time.

"I'm not going to respond," he finally said. "Not now. Maybe not ever."

"Good."

"But he's in my head now. Wondering if I'm failing. Waiting to be proven right."

"Then prove him wrong."

"How?"

"By surviving. By staying. By refusing to let him have power over you."

After we hung up, I felt sick. Robert was like a shadow that wouldn't disappear, always lurking at the edges, waiting for us to stumble.

AUGUST 25TH - FRIDAY

Friday morning, one week exactly since we'd arrived at MIT.

I walked to calculus carrying the weight of every decision I hadn't made yet. Badminton commitment. Time management. Whether I could actually survive here.

Ethan slid into the seat next to me, looking equally exhausted.

"Did you decide?" I asked. "About hockey?"

"Tryout is tonight at 6. I'm going. Don't know if I'll commit if they want me, but I'm going to try out."

"Good. You should."

"What about you? Badminton?"

"Still thinking."

Professor Chen started lecturing. We took notes frantically, trying to keep up with concepts that built on concepts that referenced theories we barely understood.

At the end of class: "First exam in two weeks. Covers everything we've done so far plus next week's material. Average pass rate is 65%. Study accordingly."

Students filed out looking shell-shocked.

In the hallway, Ethan's phone rang. He looked at it and went pale.

"It's him."

"Robert?"

"Yeah."

"Don't answer it."

"I have to. Eventually. He's not going away."

"Not today. Today you have classes and hockey tryout and eight hours of homework."

"When then?"

"I don't know. But not today."

He declined the call. Immediately, a voicemail notification appeared.

"He's persistent," Ethan said.

"He's trying to get back in your head. Don't let him."

We walked across campus toward our respective afternoon classes, both carrying more weight than any eighteen-year-old should have to carry.

At the split where he went toward the chemistry building and I went toward the engineering lab, we paused.

"Whatever we decide," Ethan said, "we decide together, right? We tell each other, we're honest, we figure it out together?"

"Together," I agreed.

"Even if it's hard?"

"Especially if it's hard."

He kissed me quickly—we had three minutes to get to class—but the kiss felt desperate, like he was trying to hold onto something solid while everything else was shifting.

"See you at dinner?"

"If we survive until dinner."

"We'll survive."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I watched him walk away toward chemistry, then headed to my own class.

My phone buzzed. Email from Alex:

Sophia - need your answer by Monday about national team. This is a career opportunity. Don't miss it because you're scared of commitment.

I stared at that email. Scared of commitment? Or realistic about my limits?

Another email from the badminton coach:

The national team exhibition match is October 15-18. Four days. You'd miss classes but this is what you trained for all summer. Say yes.

Four days during midterm season. Missing lectures, labs, problem sets.

My phone buzzed again. Text from Maya:

Emergency study session tonight. Everyone's dying. Meet at 8?

I responded: I'll be there.

Then walked to engineering class trying to figure out how to fit twenty-seven hours of commitments into a twenty-four-hour day.

FRIDAY NIGHT - THE MOMENT

At 9 PM, after Ethan's hockey tryout and my study session, we met at Killian Court.

Our spot. Where we'd sat that first night, terrified and hopeful.

Ethan collapsed on the grass next to me. "I made varsity."

"That's amazing!"

"They want me to commit. Five practices a week, games every weekend, travel to other schools."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know. It's so much time. But I love playing. And it felt good to be good at something again."

"You're good at academics too."

"Am I though? I got a 67% on the first problem set and barely understand what's happening in chemistry."

I lay back on the grass. "I got offered the national team exhibition match. Four days in October. During midterms."

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. It's what I trained for all summer. But missing four days of classes could destroy my grades."

We lay in silence, staring at stars we couldn't see through light pollution.

"We're a mess," Ethan said.

"Complete disaster."

"We've been here one week and we're already drowning."

"One week," I repeated. "Four years to go."

He turned to face me. "What if we can't do this?"

"Then we'll figure out what comes next."

"That's your answer for everything."

"Because it's the truth."

He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see everything in his eyes—fear and love and desperation and determination all mixed together.

"Come here," he said softly.

I moved closer. He pulled me against him, his hand tangling in my hair, his mouth finding mine.

The kiss was different this time. Not quick and reassuring. Not gentle and sweet.

Desperate.

Like he needed to prove we were real. Like he needed something to hold onto while everything else was spinning out of control.

I kissed him back with everything I had—all the fear and uncertainty and need translated into this moment. His hands on my waist. My fingers gripping his shirt. The warm night air and the soft grass and the sound of other students in the distance meaning nothing compared to this.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"I needed that," he whispered against my hair.

"Me too."

"Everything is chaos. But this—us—this makes sense."

"We make sense."

He pulled me closer, holding me like I might disappear. "What if we can't survive this?"

"Then we won't survive. But we'll try first."

"That's supposed to be comforting?"

"It's supposed to be honest."

We lay tangled together on the grass, holding onto each other while the world demanded impossible choices.

THE CLIFFHANGER

Sunday night. End of the first week.

I was in my room doing homework when Ethan texted: Can you come to Killian?

I found him sitting on our bench, staring at his phone.

"What's wrong?"

He showed me the screen. Robert's voicemail, finally played:

"Ethan, I know you're struggling. I know MIT is harder than you expected. When you're ready to admit you made a mistake, call me. I can still fix this. There are junior hockey teams that would take you. Paths back to professional hockey. But you have to act soon before you destroy your future completely. Call me. —Dad."

Ethan looked at me. "What if he's right?"

"He's not."

"But what if he is? What if I'm failing MIT just to prove a point? What if I should have taken the NHL money when I had the chance?"

"You made the right choice."

"Did I though? Because right now it feels like I'm drowning and I don't know how to swim and everyone around me seems fine and I—" His voice cracked. "What if I'm not good enough for this?"

I sat next to him, took his hand. "You are good enough. You're just scared."

"Being scared and being wrong aren't mutually exclusive."

"Neither are being scared and being right."

He was quiet for a long time, staring at the dome lit up against the night sky.

"I have to decide about varsity hockey by tomorrow," he finally said. "And you have to decide about national team. And we both have that calculus exam in two weeks. And Robert is in my head saying I'm going to fail. And I don't know how to do any of this."

"We'll figure it out."

"How?"

"Together."

"What if together isn't enough?"

I didn't have an answer for that.

My phone buzzed. Email from Alex with the subject line: FINAL REQUEST - National Team Needs Answer Monday

Ethan's phone buzzed. Email notification. He checked it and went pale.

"The hockey coach needs my answer by tomorrow morning about commitment."

We looked at each other.

One week at MIT. Already drowning. Already facing impossible choices.

Robert trying to get back in Ethan's head. Both of us struggling academically. Both being offered opportunities that would demand everything we had.

"What are we going to do?" Ethan asked.

"I don't know."

"That's not comforting."

"It's honest."

We sat in silence as other students passed by, living their normal college lives while ours felt like it was splitting apart.

"I'm scared," Ethan said quietly.

"Me too."

"Not just of failing classes. Of losing us. Of being pulled in so many directions that we drift apart without meaning to. Of becoming people we don't recognize because we're trying to do everything and losing what matters."

His words hit me like a physical blow because he'd just named exactly what I'd been feeling.

"What if we can survive Robert and emancipation and fighting for our freedom," I said slowly, "but we can't survive success? What if having everything we wanted destroys us more effectively than anyone trying to control us ever could?"

Ethan looked at me. Really looked at me.

"That's the question, isn't it?" he said. "Can we survive success as well as we survived adversity?"

"I don't know."

"Neither do I."

We sat on our bench beneath the dome, holding hands, both exhausted from one week of MIT. Both facing decisions that would define our next four years. Both terrified that we'd fought so hard to be together only to discover that being together wasn't the hard part.

Staying together was.

The night air was warm. Campus was quiet. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed.

Ethan's phone buzzed again. Another email. He didn't check it.

"Tomorrow I have to decide about hockey," he said.

"Tomorrow I have to decide about national team."

"And we both have eight hours of homework."

"And that calculus exam in two weeks."

"And Robert waiting for me to fail."

"And everything we thought we wanted turning out to be harder than we imagined."

He turned to face me fully, his hand still in mine.

"Can we do this?" he asked.

I looked at him—the boy I'd known since we were kids, the boy who'd chosen me, the boy who was currently falling apart while trying to hold it together.

I looked at the dome lit up against the night sky.

I looked at my phone with its unanswered emails and impossible demands.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "But we're going to try."

"And if we fail?"

"Then we fail. Together."

He kissed me softly. "Together."

"Together," I echoed.

We sat beneath the dome holding each other, two terrified eighteen-year-olds who'd fought so hard to get here.

Who'd survived controlling parents and emancipation and choosing themselves over easier paths.

Who'd made it to MIT against all odds.

And who were now discovering that the fight wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

Because surviving adversity was one thing.

Surviving success—surviving having what you wanted and keeping it—was something else entirely.

And neither of us knew if we were strong enough for that.

But we were going to find out.

[END OF SEASON 1]

SEASON 2 OPENS WITH:

Can they survive success as well as they survived adversity?

Can they maintain their relationship when pulled in opposite directions by opportunities they've earned?

Can they stay themselves while becoming who they're meant to be?

Can they keep Robert from regaining control when they're too exhausted to fight?

Can they survive MIT when surviving each other might be the harder challenge?

Coming in Season 2...