Chapter 55: Future Prospects
Marcus's POV
The ice smells sharp and clean when I step onto it, that familiar bite of cold air filling my lungs like a promise. The rink lights hum overhead, casting everything in bright white, and for a moment—just a moment—my mind is blissfully empty.
Stick on ice. Skates cutting clean lines. Puck tapping against the blade.
This is the one place where things usually make sense.
“Alright, listen up!”
Coach’s voice echoes through the rink, sharp enough to cut through the sound of drills grinding to a halt. The guys gather at center ice, sticks resting against their shoulders, breath fogging the air. Coach waits until he has our attention, a rare grin tugging at his mouth.
“We’ve got a visitor coming next week,” he announces. “A scout from the Straubing Tigers.”
The reaction is immediate.
A low murmur ripples through the team, then breaks into excited chatter. Straubing Tigers—Germany. Europe. Pro-level attention. Real opportunity. My heart kicks harder against my ribs. Europe. I don’t miss the way Damian’s head snaps toward me, his eyes lighting up. Peter grins outright, nudging one of the defensemen beside him.
“That’s big,” someone mutters.
“Massive,” another adds.
Coach raises a hand. “Eyes up here. This isn’t a guarantee. It’s a look. And how you play from now until then will decide whether it turns into something more.”
I nod slowly, adrenaline humming beneath my skin. This isn’t about running away. This is about being seen. About having options.
About choosing.
We break for drills, but my focus sharpens instead of scattering. Every shot feels intentional. Every stride is fueled by something electric and hopeful.
Until the rink doors open.
I don’t hear them at first—too locked into the rhythm of the ice—but then the energy shifts. It’s subtle, like a pressure change before a storm. I glance toward the boards just as Coach skates over, expression tightening. And then I see him.
My father stands near the bench, suit jacket draped neatly over one arm like he’s stepped out of a boardroom and into my world without asking permission. He looks out of place against the ice and helmets, too polished, too controlled. My chest tightens.
Coach clears his throat. “Richard. Didn’t expect to see you.”
“I won’t take much of your time,” my father says smoothly. His gaze finds me instantly. Always does. “I just wanted to clarify something before rumors start running wild.”
I coast closer, heart pounding now—not with excitement, but warning.
“I’ve already spoken with the Toronto Maple Leafs organization,” he continues, voice carrying easily across the rink. “They’re very interested in Marcus as a prospect post-graduation.”
The rink goes dead silent. Every head turns toward me. I feel heat flood my face, a mix of anger and disbelief surging fast and fierce. He didn’t ask me. Didn’t tell me. Just decided. Again.
Coach blinks. “That’s… significant,” he says carefully.
“It is,” my father agrees. “Which is why I think it’s important we don’t distract Marcus with European detours.”
Detours. The word snaps something inside me. I skate forward before I can stop myself, coming to a hard halt a few feet from him. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His brows knit slightly, more annoyed than surprised. “Marcus—”
“No,” I cut in, my voice echoing louder than I intend. “You don’t get to walk in here and announce my future like it’s a press release.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath from someone behind me. Coach shifts uncomfortably, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
My father’s jaw tightens. “I’m protecting your career.”
“You’re controlling it,” I fire back. “There’s a difference.”
He steps closer to the boards, lowering his voice like this is a private conversation even though the entire team is frozen in place. “Europe isn’t where elite players go to build legacies.”
“That’s not true,” I say immediately. “And you know it.”
His eyes narrow. “Then why are you suddenly so interested in it?”
I know what’s coming before he says it.
“Is this about Anna?” he asks coldly. “Because if you think chasing her across an ocean is a smart professional decision—”
My grip tightens around my stick.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He doesn’t listen.
“You’re letting her influence choices that will define your future,” he continues. “That’s not love. That’s a distraction.”
Before I can respond, Damian skates up beside me, helmet still on, eyes blazing.
“You’re wrong,” he says flatly.
My father looks genuinely startled. “Damian, this doesn’t concern you.”
“It does when you’re steamrolling our brother,” Damian replies without hesitation.
Peter joins us next, resting his stick against his shoulder, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. “Funny how every time Marcus makes a decision you don’t like, it somehow becomes Anna’s fault.”
Coach finally clears his throat again. “Gentlemen—”
“With respect, Coach,” Peter says, never taking his eyes off our father, “This has been a long time coming.”
My father’s gaze flicks between the three of us, irritation deepening. “I’ve sacrificed everything for this family.”
“And we didn’t ask you to sacrifice us,” Damian snaps.
The words hang heavy in the cold air. I swallow hard, heart hammering. “I can make my own decisions,” I say again, quieter this time but no less firm. “About hockey. About my future. About who I love.” That does it.
His expression hardens into something steely and unyielding. “I will not stand by and watch my family unravel because of Anna Donovan.”
The name lands like a slap.
“She is not unraveling anything,” I say through clenched teeth. “You are.”
He shakes his head. “She’s driving a wedge between you and everything you’re meant to be.”
Damian laughs humorlessly. “No, Dad. She just showed us we don’t have to accept your version of our lives.”
Peter nods. “You don’t control our futures anymore.”
For a moment, I think—hope—he might hear us. That something might crack. Instead, his eyes go cold.
“I won’t lose my family to the likes of her,” he says.
Silence follows. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, suffocating kind.
Coach finally steps in, voice firm. “This is not the place for this discussion.”
My father straightens, smoothing his shirt as if nothing happened. “Of course. I apologize for the interruption.”
He looks at me one last time. “We’ll discuss this at home.”
“No,” I say immediately. “We won’t.”
His lips thin, but he turns and walks toward the exit without another word. The doors swing shut behind him.
The rink exhales. I stand there, heart racing, chest tight, surrounded by teammates who suddenly don’t know where to look. Coach gives me a measured nod.
“Practice,” he says quietly. “Let’s reset.”
As the guys drift back into drills, Damian nudges my shoulder. “You okay?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Thanks—for backing me.”
Peter smirks faintly. “Always.”
When I push off again, skating hard, every stride feels heavier—but clearer. The path ahead won’t be easy. My father won’t back down. Europe, Toronto, Anna—none of it exists in neat, separate boxes anymore.
But one thing is certain, no matter how hard he fights it, I won’t let him turn love into the enemy.