Page 142 of The Risk Taker

Why is this so hard? It’s just a sketchbook.

Except it’s not. It’s the thing I’ve kept to myself for so long. Something I thought was just a silly little hobby but turns out is something I love and want to pursue.

He lingers on one of the spreads I worked on last week, one I stayed up stupid late finishing, erasing the same panel three times until Logan literally took the pencil out of my hand and told me it was perfect.

God, I wish he were here now. Just to lean against the wall and shoot me a look that says:You’ve got this.

Instead, I’m sitting here like a kid waiting for a report card.

I respect my dad so much. Always have. And I’ve always wanted to make him proud.

“I, uh…” I rub the back of my neck. “I applied for this mentorship thing.”

Dad looks up, raising his brow.

“It’s with a comic artist. You get assigned to them for a couple of months, they give feedback, help with connections and stuff. And if your project’s chosen at the end, there’s a grant.”

He doesn’t say anything right away, just keeps turning pages until he gets to the last one. He lingers on it for a second, then closes the book and rests his hand on top of it.

“You’re really good.”

I didn’t think those three words could hit as hard as they do.

“Thanks.”

He blows out a breath. “So… you don’t love hockey anymore?”

I drag a hand through my hair. “I did,” I say. “I mean, I still do. I think. It’s just—” I pause, trying to find the words. “I used to get this feeling, you know? Every time I stepped onto the ice like everything clicked. Like it was the only place I wanted to be.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I shrug. “It doesn’t feel like that anymore.” I gesture toward the sketchbook with my head. “But this does. I love creating stories and drawing characters and… I think I could be really good at it.”

He keeps his eyes on me for a while and then taps the cover of my sketchbook, letting out a sigh. “It’s gonna be hard to replace you in goal, you know.”

I look down and swallow hard. “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt curling in my chest. “I know this probably isn’t what you pictured.”

“You know what I imagined?” he asks. “I imagined watching you find something that lights you up.” I lift my head and he smiles. “I loved sharing hockey with you, kid. I won’t lie about that. But I don’t want you to follow my dream. I want you to chase yours.”

I just stare at him for a second, trying to absorb it all.

“You don’t need to play hockey to make me proud,” he says. “You don’t have to be anyone but who you are.”

I don’t say anything at first. Mostly because I can’t. My throat’s tight, but my chest weirdly light, like someone finally loosened the strap I didn’t realize had been around it.

He leans back in his chair and gives me that easy half-smile. “Besides, I’ve already got one kid who’s going to make waves in the sports world. And she’s gonna kick ass.”

That pulls a small laugh out of me. “She’s such a show-off.”

He grins. “She gets it from her mother.”

I shake my head, letting out a scoff. “Bullshit. She’s all you.”

My dad’s smile widens at that and I let out a breath of relief.

I might not know what happens next with hockey, with the competition or the mentorship… with any of it.

But for the first time, I’m not terrified of figuring it out. Because I have an amazing boyfriend who supports the hell out of me, an incredible family that just wants me to be happy, and I don’t have to hide a single part of me anymore.

And it feels really fucking good.