Chapter 27
Hennessy
“Nothing says 'thank you for the candy cane sex' like an expensive ass spa package,” I say, stepping out into the winter chill with my body still tingling from the deep tissue massage.
Naila snorts beside me, her dark hair tucked under a beanie. “I still can't believe you let him do that. Was it at least one of those jumbo ones? Because otherwise, what's even the point?”
“Oh my god, stop.” I shove her shoulder, but I'm laughing too. “It was…inventive.”
“Inventive? Girl, that man ruined Christmas candy for you forever.” She links her arm through mine as we walk toward the parking lot. “Like, what happens next year when your dad offers you a candy cane? You gonna get wet instantly?”
“Naila!” I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one heard her. “Can you not?”
She just grins, completely unrepentant. “I'm just saying, Beckham Kingston has unlocked some seriously depraved shit in you. Six months ago you were complaining about guys who couldn't find the clit with GPS, and now you're letting hockey daddy stick holiday treats up your—”
“I swear to god, I will leave you here.” I cut her off, my face burning despite the cold. “And don't call him that.”
“What? Hockey daddy? That's literally what he is. Older. Hot. Could probably bench press both of us.” She fans herself dramatically. “The fact that your actual daddy hates him just makes it hotter.”
I roll my eyes, but can't argue with her logic. The tension in my family has only gotten worse since Christmas. Dad's still not speaking to me, which hurts more than I want to admit.
“How was your facial, by the way?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Don't think I don't see what you're doing,” Naila says, but mercifully lets it drop. “It was amazing. My skin hasn't been this soft since I came out of the womb. Feel.”
She grabs my hand and presses it to her cheek, which is admittedly baby-smooth.
“Damn, that's impressive.”
“Right? Maybe I should get one of those sugar daddies after all.”
I laugh, unlocking my car with the key fob. “I thought you were done with that idea after the Tinder disaster.”
“Listen, one sixty-year-old sending me pictures of his yacht and his dick in the same message is not enough to deter me from the lifestyle I deserve,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat. “Besides, not all of us can bag ourselves a hot hockey daddy.”
“He's not—” I start automatically, then catch myself. “Okay, but that's not why I'm with him.”
“Fine, he's not just a hot hockey coach,” Naila concedes.
“Actually, um, he wants to go all in,” I say, suddenly feeling defensive. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, not starting the car yet.
Naila turns to me, eyebrows shooting up. “What do you mean 'all in'?”
I take a deep breath. “Marriage. Kids. The whole fucking package.”
“Holy shit,” Naila whispers, her mouth dropping open. “Like, he actually said that? Not just pillow talk?”
“He said it during, but then again after,” I admit, feeling my face heat up. “He wants to put a ring on my finger and babies in me. His exact words were something like 'I want to change your last name' and 'I want to see you round with my child.'”
“Fuck me sideways,” Naila breathes. “That's intense. What did you say?”
“I didn't really say anything. I just…came.” I cover my face with my hands. “And then we showered and went to sleep, and the next morning he was looking at me like I hung the fucking moon, and I just…I don't know what to do.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and suddenly tears are spilling down my cheeks.
“Whoa, hey,” Naila says, reaching across to touch my arm. “What's going on? I thought you loved him?”
“I do,” I sob, the tears coming faster now. “I fucking love him so much it scares me. But how am I supposed to do all that without my family? My dad won't even look at me, Naila. My dad, who's been my hero my whole life, acts like I don't exist.”
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
“And it's not just him. My cousins are taking sides.
My uncle Jorge said I 'betrayed the family name.
' How am I supposed to get married without my dad walking me down the aisle?
How am I supposed to have kids who'll never know their grandfather?”
Naila unbuckles her seatbelt and leans over the console to pull me into an awkward hug. “Listen to me. It's just your dad being stubborn, not your whole family. Your mom and abuela are on your side, right?”
I nod against her shoulder, my tears soaking into her jacket.
“And it's only been a few days. He'll come around, Henny.”
“You don't know him like I do,” I say, pulling back to wipe my eyes. “He can hold a grudge for fucking decades. He and Beckham have hated each other since before I was born.”
“Yeah, but this is different. You're his daughter, not some hockey rival.”
“I don't know if that makes it better or worse in his eyes,” I say bitterly.
Naila pulls back, her expression serious. “Hennessy, you need to stop this shit right now,” Naila says, grabbing my shoulders. “You're a grown-ass woman, not some teenager who needs daddy's permission to date.”
I blink at her through my tears. “But—”
“No buts. You're twenty-three. You pay your own bills. You make your own fucking choices.” She gives me a little shake. “And you chose a man who worships the ground you walk on, who wants to give you everything.”
“It's not that simple—”
“It is that simple,” she cuts me off. “Your dad's throwing a tantrum because he can't control you anymore. That's his problem, not yours.”
I swallow hard, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. “But what if he never forgives me?”
“Then he's the one missing out.” Naila's voice softens slightly. “Look, I get it. Family is important. But you can't live your life trying to make everyone else happy. What about what makes you happy?”
“Beckham,” I whisper without hesitation.
“Exactly.” She sits back in her seat. “And if your dad can't see how fucking happy hot hockey daddy makes you, then he's being selfish.”
I let out a wet laugh. “Please don't ever call him that to my dad's face.”
“I won't,” she promises with a grin. “But seriously, Henny. You're a badass bitch who deserves to be happy. Stop letting your dad guilt-trip you into thinking you've done something wrong.”
“But what if—”
“Enough with the what-ifs.” She grabs my hand, squeezing it. “You need to stand up to him. Make him see you're serious about Beckham. Make him understand this isn't some rebellion or phase.”
I take a deep breath, feeling something settle in my chest. “You're right.”
“Of course I'm right. I'm always right.”
“I should talk to him,” I say, my mind already racing. “Like, actually talk to him. Not just yell and storm out.”
“There you go.” Naila nods approvingly. “Show him the woman Beckham sees—strong, determined, knows what she wants.”
“And if he still won't listen?”
“Then you move forward.” She shrugs. “Your dad will either get on board or he won't, but you can't put your life on hold waiting for his permission.”
I turn the key in the ignition, feeling a new resolve. “I'm going to go see him. Today.”
“That's my girl.” Naila buckles her seatbelt. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What?”
“No matter what happens with your dad, you won't let it change things with Beckham.”
The thought makes my stomach clench. “I won't.”
“Good.” She settles back in her seat. “I love you, bitch.”
After dropping Naila off, I drive straight to my parents' house, my heart hammering against my ribs the entire way. My hands are slick with sweat on the steering wheel despite the chill. I don't call ahead. If I do, Dad will make some bullshit excuse about being busy.
I park in the driveway, noticing Mom's car is gone. Good. I need him alone for this.
The spare key feels heavy in my palm as I let myself in. The house smells like coffee and cinnamon—Dad's been baking again, which means he's stressed. He stress-bakes the way other men drink or throw punches.
“Marie?” his voice calls from the kitchen.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “It's me.”
Silence. Then the sound of a chair scraping against tile.
Dad appears in the hallway, flour dusting his forearms. His expression hardens when he sees me.
“What are you doing here?” The coldness in his voice stings worse than any slap.
“We need to talk.” I don't let my voice waver. “Actually talk, not yell at each other.”
He crosses his arms. “I think you've made your choice pretty clear.”
“That's exactly what we need to talk about.” I move past him into the kitchen, refusing to be intimidated in my own childhood home. “Because this isn't a choice between you and him, Dad. It never was.”
The kitchen island is covered in bowls and measuring cups. A tray of cinnamon rolls sits cooling on the counter—my favorite. Even pissed at me, he still makes my favorite.
Dad follows me, his footsteps heavy. “He's using you, Hennessy.”
“No, he's not.” I turn to face him. “And if you'd stop being so fucking stubborn for five minutes, you'd see that.”
“Watch your language in my house.”
“Seriously? That's what you're worried about right now? My language?” I laugh, the sound brittle. “Not the fact that you haven't spoken to me in days? That you're throwing away our relationship over some old hockey rivalry?”
His nostrils flare. “This isn't about hockey.”
“Then what is it about? Because I'm struggling to understand why you hate him so much.”
“He's too old for you,” Dad starts, but I cut him off.
“Bullshit.”
Dad's mouth tightens. “He's not good enough for you!”
“Based on what?” I step closer, refusing to back down. “Your twenty-five-year-old grudge? Have you ever actually had a conversation with him that wasn't about hockey?”
Dad's face flushes dark red, and for a moment, I think he's going to start yelling again. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs so deeply it seems to come from his bones.
“You really want to know why I hate him?” His voice drops, suddenly tired. “Because the minute I saw him look at you, I knew I was going to lose you.”
The admission knocks the wind out of me. “What?”
“At that charity game a few years ago. The way he watched you.” Dad turns away, grabbing a dishcloth and wiping flour from the counter with unnecessary force. “I've seen that look before. It's the same way I look at your mother.”
“Dad—”
“And I fucking hated it,” he continues, his movements becoming more agitated. “Because I knew. I knew if he got his hands on you, I'd never be the most important man in your life again.”
My throat tightens. “That's not how it works.”
“Isn't it?” He finally looks at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “You haven't spoken to me in days either, mija.”
“Because you wouldn't talk to me!” My voice cracks. “Because you acted like I betrayed you by falling in love!”
The word hangs between us, heavy and undeniable. Dad's shoulders slump slightly.
“Did you ever think,” I continue, softer now, “that maybe I could love you both? That this isn't a competition?”
Dad lets out a harsh laugh. “Everything with Kingston is a competition.”
“Not me.” I step closer, putting my hand on his flour-dusted arm. “I'm not a trophy, Dad. I'm your daughter. And I need you to see me—really see me—as a woman who can make her own choices.”
He stares at my hand on his arm for a long moment, then meets my eyes. “Is he good to you?” The question sounds like it physically pains him to ask.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “Better than good.”
Dad's jaw works back and forth. “And you're happy? With him?”
“I'm the happiest I've ever been.” My voice breaks a little. “I love him, Dad. And he loves me.”
He makes a noise like he's been punched. “Fuck.”
“He's not who you think he is,” I press on. “Not anymore, if he ever was.”
Dad turns away again, bracing his hands on the counter. The kitchen falls silent except for the ticking of the old rooster clock Mom refuses to replace. I wait, my heart in my throat.
“You know what kills me?” he finally says, his voice rough. “It's not just that it's Kingston. It's that I can see it.”
“See what?”
“How you fucking glow around him.” He turns back to me. “Even when you were yelling at me in the kitchen on Christmas.”
I feel like I've been punched in the gut, but in a good way. Dad's actually seeing me—seeing how Beck makes me feel.
“Yeah,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I do glow around him.”
Dad stares at the cinnamon rolls like they hold the answers to all his problems. “Your mother says I'm being an asshole.”
“You kind of are,” I say, but without heat.
He snorts, then gestures to the kitchen table. “Sit. You want coffee?”
I nod, taking a seat while he pours two mugs. The familiar routine feels like a peace offering. When he slides a cinnamon roll in front of me, I know it's definitely one.
“Dios mío,” he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. “When did you grow up to be so much like your mother?”
Despite everything, I feel a small smile tug at my lips. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“Both,” he says, but there's the ghost of a smile on his face too. “Your mother has never let me win an argument in twenty-five years of marriage.”
He hands me my coffee, and I know that things aren’t back to normal, but they never will be. A new normal needs to take shape and my stubborn ass dad will need to bend to that shape as well.
I can’t hate his stubbornness though because it’s that very same trait that landed me Beckham Kingston.
And I will never apologize for that.