Ethan
I turn the phone face down before Noah can see the screen, but not before I've already read it twice.
*Saw the video. We need to talk about your image. Call me tomorrow.*
My dad's texts are always like that. No greeting, no softness, just the facts as he sees them, delivered like a coach's whistle. I should be used to it by now. I've had eighteen years of practice being used to it. It still lands the same way every time, somewhere low in my stomach, a reminder that no matter how many games I win, there's always a note attached about what I could've done better.
"You good?" Noah asks, and I realize I've been sitting there too long, jaw tight, staring at nothing.
"Fine. Just my dad."
"The intense one. From the youth hockey story."
"That's him." I don't offer anything else, and t
