41. Tori
The mood in the arena on the day of our game against Detroit is cautiously optimistic, which is wildly different from how it’s been at this point in the season in years past. Last season, we were already mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, but now we’re looking very good a week out from the deadline. It’s been a mixed bag of wins and losses, but there’s still plenty to hope for as we round out our homestand.
Tonight’s game is going to be tough, as Detroit is doing well for itself, but also because the national broadcast team is coming into town again. And with them, my dad. And it’s extra special because he’s a former Red Wing himself and won them more than one Stanley Cup.
Unlike last time, when I had to wait for Dad to get free of his duties to meet up, I’m waiting with Dee at the loading dock to help coordinate the delivery of their equipment. Not that my boss is doing much. He’s becoming more and more hands-off with each passing day, especially now that he’s officially set a date to announce his retirement.
“Chip! So good to see you!”
At the sound of my dad’s voice, I turn and smile widely, my body relaxing. He closes the distance between us in a few strides of his long legs and scoops me up in a tight hug. Warm teakwood and sweet tobacco roll off him in waves, as familiar as my reflection. When I pull back and look him over, I find his hair a uniform dark brown, the few gray hairs I remember gone for the moment, but his eyes are as bright as ever. His smile is whiter, and his grin straighter, like he’s wearing false teeth.
“You look good,” I say, confused laughter slipping out before I realize what’s happening.
A little pink spreads over his cheeks as he looks away with a shrug. “The network wanted me to...” Dad gestures vaguely to his face.
I nod sympathetically, taking his hand and squeezing it. He’s in front of the camera constantly, and I can’t imagine the sort of pressure that puts on his shoulders. Hockey players can almost be as rugged and feral looking as they want, and no one bats an eye. Missing teeth, scraggly beards, crooked noses, tangled hair... all of it adds to the charm. But broadcasters aren’t so lucky.
“Happy Mardi Gras, by the way,” Dad jokes, smoothly changing the subject as he lets go of my hand and shifts it to my low back to guide me away from the loading dock.
I look back at Dee, not sure if I should be leaving. But he just gives me a nod and a smile, pushing off the wall he’d been leaning against to take over. I relax and take the lead through the tunnels and out into the Zamboni doors, which are partially open, letting in light from the rink. The chirp of a whistle and the scrape of skates fill the air as the team finishes up practice.
Dad and I come to a stop at the gap, standing shoulder to shoulder in silence. My eyes immediately find Spencer, Oli, and Eli as they wait in line for their turn to execute the drill. Logan has his back to me, watching his players with supreme focus.
“They’re really good, better than I’ve ever seen them,” Dad says with a wistful sigh.
I nod, not sure how to respond. Everything I could say feels like too much and not enough all at once.
“You know, Paul’s been driving me crazy, trying to make me get a straight answer out of you about all these trade rumors floating around,” Dad starts again.
I sigh, silently cursing myself. I’d forgotten Paul Evans, the high-level reporter who is basically the source for inside hockey news, works for the same network Dad does.
“I have given him answers. They just aren’t the ones he’s after,” I retort, carefully dodging around the question.
Dad doesn't reply, so I turn my head to see him giving me a supremely skeptical stare, with his eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. Rolling my eyes, I shift my weight, crossing my arms over my chest.
“When something happens, Paul will be my first email,” I say, looking back to the ice.
“When, not if?”
Fuck. He’s too good at reading people if he could catch that slipup. And judging by the heat of his stare on the side of my face, he’s not going to drop it. So I change tactics, hoping to throw him off the scent.
“Are you and Mom in a pack with Aunt Connie and Uncle Kevin?” I blurt, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.
Dad splutters for a moment, not expecting that response. Clearing his throat, he shifts restlessly beside me, pulling my gaze back to his face. He’s blushing a much darker shade of pink, and very specifically not looking at me.
“We are, yes. Have been since before you were born. I assumed... well, I would have thought you would have asked your mother about this already,” he says, stumbling a little over his words.
I shake my head, frowning as the wheels turn in my head. They’ve always been very close, but until now, I didn’t consider any other possibility except that all the adults were just really good friends.
“Are you and them—”
“That’s not something I think I want to talk about right now, Chip.” Dad cuts me off and confirms my suspicions all in one go.
“Wasn’t Uncle Kevin on the Red Wings staff while you played for them?” I ask, recalling stories told at holiday parties after a few glasses of eggnog.
Dad nods, suddenly very serious. “It’s how we met. He worked in equipment management, maintaining skates. He used to say I had the worst smelling ones on the whole team,” he says fondly.
“Did the team know?” Turning my body to face him fully, my heart flutters.
“That he and I met two best friends and fell in love with them? Eventually,” he replies with a noncommittal shrug.
“Was he still working for the equipment team?” I push, trying to extract the answer I want out of him.
Dad nods. “He’d worked his way up to assistant EQM by that time. Though he didn’t stick around for long after it all came out.”
My stomach drops to my knees, and my blood runs cold. “Did... did the Red Wings make him leave? Because he was involved with a player?” I ask tentatively.
Dad looks down at me and does a double take, his brow furrowing immediately in concern. “No, he left because Connie was pregnant with Mark, and he didn’t want to travel. What are you getting at with this, Tori?”
My eyes suddenly burning, a lump clogs my throat. I try to turn away, but Dad reaches out and takes my shoulders in his hands, forcing me to look at him. I’m a terrible liar on the best days, but I’ve never, in my whole life, been able to lie directly to my dad’s face.
“I, uh, I just wanted to... I guess I wanted to know...how you dealt with it? Being in a pack as a player.” I fumble over my words under the crystal-blue paternal stare.
“Are you joining a pack? With who?” he fires back, a little protective edge forming on the edges of his questions.
I swallow and look down at my feet for a moment before I turn my head toward the ice. Spencer, Oli, and Eli are advancing in a line against Evgeny and Grigori, practicing one of their signature pass sequences before Eli snipes a goal over Gabriel’s shoulder. When I look back at my dad, I expect to see him scowling or glaring or something at the boys, showing his disgust and disapproval over the situation.
But to my eternal shock and delight, I find him smiling at me, a twinkle in his eye.
“Just like your mother, picking the best skaters this town has ever seen to bring home,” he teases, pulling me into a side hug.
I let out a startled bark of laughter before I smother the sound with my hand. Spencer looks around for a moment as he skates toward center ice, but Dad and I are hidden in the shadows. My shoulders relax and I step out of Dad’s embrace to meet his gaze.
“You don’t... You think it’s a good idea?” I ask hesitantly.
Dad smiles. “Of course, I support you, Chip. Ever since we found out you were an omega, I knew it was only a matter of time before you found your alphas. Your career means so much to you, so I was worried you wouldn’t find someone who could understand. But those boys do, and since you work with them, you won’t have to be apart from them too often. Which is better than your mother and I ever had it, let me tell you.”
Dad rambles on for another few moments, but I’m still in awe over his instant approval. He’s not telling me to abandon my career to settle down, or telling me how it’s a bad idea to get involved with hockey players. If anything, he seems... excited for me.
“What about upper management? What if they tell me that I can’t be around them anymore, or if they fire me for having an inappropriate workplace relationship?” I interject when Dad pauses to take a breath.
He stops and looks at me seriously, eyes flicking around my features for a moment before he answers. Then he lets out a sigh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks and shaking his head.
“They might, Chip. I won’t lie to you about that. But you’ve done so much good work for this team, and they’d be crazy to let you go. Hell, I can think of a dozen teams who would kill to have someone like you, my own network included,” he says, voice dripping with sincerity.
Looking around, I swallow hard. Objectively, I know he’s right. I have six, almost seven years of experience, with a skill list longer than my arm. But I love the Mystic, and the idea of leaving them, voluntarily or otherwise, breaks my heart.
Dad’s hand comes down on my shoulder, pulling my attention back to his face.
“You deserve to be happy, Tori. Don’t get caught up in what might be. You’ll land on your feet, one way or another. You are your father’s daughter, after all,” he says, winking at me with a wide smirk.
We share a laugh before watching the rest of practice in comfortable silence. A weight slides off my shoulders as I let his words sink in. And once we part ways for the afternoon, I am certain of what my future holds for the first time in a long time.