Chapter 80 Familial Amends

Chapter 80 Familial Amends
Marcus’s POV

The room was quiet again after Anna left. Too quiet.
The machines filled the silence with their steady beeping, each sound a reminder that I was still here, still breathing, still trapped in a bed with my leg wrapped and braced like it belonged to someone else. The adrenaline from waking up, from seeing her, from knowing I wasn’t alone anymore, had faded. What was left behind was the weight.
Months of recovery. Uncertainty.
And the familiar, gnawing thought I’d been avoiding since the doctor said no skating for a while.

My dad is going to lose his mind.
Richard McKay didn’t do weakness. He didn’t do vulnerability. He certainly didn’t do sons who broke down in gyms and ended up in emergency surgery. I could already hear the lecture forming in my head—reckless, irresponsible, you should have said something sooner, this affects your future.
And worse than the lecture was the disappointment.
The door slid open softly. I assumed it was a nurse until I caught the glimpse of a familiar suit jacket out of the corner of my eye. My stomach dropped before my brain even caught up.
“No,” I muttered under my breath.

Richard McKay was wheeled into the room, seated in a wheelchair, a thin blanket draped over his legs. He looked… different. Smaller, somehow. Paler. His posture wasn’t as rigid as usual, his shoulders not quite as squared. Behind him stood his secretary, his expression professional but cautious, like he wasn’t sure what kind of landmine he was escorting into the room.
Dad’s eyes found mine immediately.
“Marcus,” he said quietly.
His assistant cleared his throat. “Mr. McKay, I’ll be right outside.”
He nodded once. “Thank you. Please—leave us.”
He hesitated, glanced at me, then did as instructed. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss that sounded far too final.
I swallowed. It was just the two of us now.

I shifted slightly, the movement sending a dull ache through my knee. I clenched my jaw and stared at the ceiling, suddenly very interested in a crack in one of the tiles.
“So,” I said after a moment, my voice rough. “If you’re here to yell at me, can we get it over with?”
He didn’t answer right away. I finally looked at him.
He was watching me with an expression I didn’t recognize. Not anger. Not judgment. Something closer to… worry. Real, unfiltered worry.
“I was very concerned,” he said finally. “Damian came to see me and told me everything.”
That alone stunned me. Damian telling our father meant things had gone past bad straight into terrifying.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “Surgery went well. Doctors said—”
“Marcus,” he interrupted gently.
I stopped.
“I thought I was going to lose you,” he said.
The words hit harder than any lecture ever could have.
I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself out of habit. “Dad, if this is going to turn into one of those talks about responsibility or—”
He lifted his hand.
“Stop,” he said softly. “Please.”
I froze.

He took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling under the hospital-issued sweater he wore beneath his coat. “I didn’t come here to lecture you.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “That would be a first.”
Instead of snapping back like he usually would, he winced—actually winced—like I’d struck him.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “It would be.”
Something shifted in the room, the air growing thick and strange.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
I stared at him. An apology. From Richard McKay. For a split second, I wondered if the anesthesia was still messing with my head.
“You… what?” I asked.

He looked at me then, really looked, his eyes tired but steady. “I’m sorry, Marcus. For a great many things.”
I felt like the floor had disappeared beneath me.
“I don’t understand,” I said honestly.
He nodded. “I didn’t expect you to.”
He leaned forward slightly in the wheelchair, hands resting on his knees. “My heart attack,” he continued, “was not nearly as mild as I let people believe. There were moments—real moments—where I thought that was it. That I’d spent my life building something impressive only to leave behind… unresolved damage.”
My chest tightened.
“In that hospital bed,” he said, “I had time to think. About my choices. About the way I’ve treated the people I love.” His gaze flicked to me. “About the way I’ve treated you.”

I didn’t know what to say. My entire life, I’d been chasing his approval like it was the finish line to a race that never ended. Hearing him acknowledge even the possibility that he’d been wrong felt unreal.
“My truce with Anna,” he said, “was only the beginning.”
I stiffened slightly at her name, instinctively protective.
“She challenged me,” he continued. “Not with disrespect, but with integrity. And I realized something deeply uncomfortable.”
“What?” I asked quietly.
“That I was afraid,” he said. “Afraid of losing control. Afraid of watching my son choose a path I didn’t design.”
I swallowed hard.
“I spent years convincing myself I was preparing you for success,” he said. “When in reality, I was suffocating you.”
The word lodged in my chest.
“I didn’t know how to say any of this before,” he admitted. “Pride is a difficult thing to unlearn.”
My throat burned.
“So why now?” I asked. “Why today?”
“Because I nearly lost you,” he said simply. “And because sitting in another hospital bed made it painfully clear that time is not a renewable resource.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy but not hostile.
“I’m proud of you,” he said.
I blinked rapidly. “For… getting hurt?”
A faint, sad smile touched his lips. “For your resilience. For your compassion. For loving someone enough to stand up to me.”
I exhaled shakily. “You made that really hard.”
“I know,” he said. “And I regret it.”
That was it. That was the moment my defenses finally cracked.
“What if I can’t play anymore?” I asked, the fear slipping out before I could stop it. “What if this knee never fully recovers? What if hockey—”
“Then you will find another dream,” he said immediately. “And I will support it.”
I stared at him. “Just like that?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Whatever you choose to do with your future, you have my support. One hundred percent.”
The certainty in his voice left no room for doubt.
“No conditions?” I pressed.
“No ultimatums,” he said. “No expectations disguised as advice.”
I laughed weakly. “You realize this is a complete personality shift, right?”
He huffed out a quiet chuckle. “The doctors say heart attacks do that to people.”
I wiped at my eyes angrily, frustrated by the sudden burn of emotion. “I spent so long thinking I wasn’t enough for you.”
His expression softened, pain flickering across his features. “You were always enough, Marcus. I just didn’t know how to say it without attaching strings.”
We sat there like that, father and son, surrounded by machines and regret and something fragile but hopeful growing between us.
“I’m scared,” I admitted finally. “About what comes next.”
He nodded. “So am I.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “But you won’t face it alone.”

For the first time in my life, I believed him.
When the door slid open and his assistant peeked in to remind him he needed rest, he nodded and allowed himself to be wheeled toward the exit. Before he left, he stopped and turned back to me.
“I love you, Marcus,” he said.
The words landed softly, but they stayed.
“I love you too,” I said, my voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall.
As the door closed behind him, the room didn’t feel so quiet anymore, and my body finally relaxed enough for me to fall asleep. And I slept, with a smile on my face as the relief washed over me. Now everyone was in my corner. I was content.