Chapter 19 #2
“There might be if you compliment the chef.”
“I already brought wine. I assumed bribery was part of the process.”
Elena presses a hand dramatically to her chest and buzzes him in. “Oh, I like him.”
“I hate this entire situation.”
“You say that every time you’re emotionally threatened.”
I stare at her. “You’ve known my father for six hours.”
“And yet I’m already correct about both of you.” The knock comes moments later. I open the door before Elena can.
Frank stands in the hallway in a charcoal overcoat with one hand wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle and the other holding a paper bakery bag from my favorite Italian place downtown.
His silvering dark hair is still damp from the weather outside, glasses tucked into the front of his sweater.
And for one stupid second, relief hits me hard enough to sting.
Because he’s my dad. Just Dad. No title attached.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi.”
His eyes move over my face immediately, reading me in the muted way he always has. “You’re tired.”
“Apparently everyone has decided that tonight.”
“You have shadows under your eyes.”
Elena appears behind me. “Frank,” she says warmly. “You’re handsome. This is excellent news for me personally.” My father blinks once. Then he laughs. Actually laughs.
“Oh, I definitely like her,” he says. Traitor.
Elena takes the wine from his hand with elegant efficiency. “Come in before Chicago kills us all.”
Frank steps inside slowly, taking in the apartment.
The candles. The jazz playing softly from the speaker.
My bag abandoned near the couch. Elena’s shoes kicked off near the kitchen island already because she claims real bras and hard-bottomed footwear are oppressive systems. Domestic.
Which is a different kind of dangerous than romantic.
My father removes his coat while Elena immediately starts talking to him like they’ve known each other for years instead of one FaceTime call and several dangerously flirtatious texts about pasta preferences.
“You brought red,” she says approvingly.
“You said you were making short rib ragu.”
“And you listened.”
“I was raised correctly.”
I move toward the kitchen before their chemistry physically injures me. “Can I help with anything?”
“No,” Elena and Frank both say at the exact same time. Then they look at each other. Then at me.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. Elena beams.
Frank clears his throat into his fist, suddenly looking suspiciously self-conscious. “You said she needed help cooking.”
“She did not,” I say immediately.
“I absolutely did,” Elena says over me. “I needed emotional support.”
“You threatened the garlic until it cooperated,” I remind her.
“It knew what it did.”
Frank’s mouth twitches. That tiny, almost-smile he usually hides from the world because officiating professional sports apparently conditions a person into emotional minimalism.
Elena catches it too. And sharpens immediately.
“So,” she says casually, “Antonia tells me you've been on the ice a long time.”
My father loosens his cuffs. “Twenty-nine years.”
“Mm.” Elena leans against the counter. “That explains the terrifying eye contact.”
“Toni says I’m intimidating.”
“You are intimidating.”
“I’m observant.”
“You made a grown defenseman cry once,” I remind him.
Frank looks genuinely thoughtful. “That was different. He lied to me twice.” Elena bursts out laughing so hard she has to grab the counter.
I stare between them in horror. “You can’t encourage him.”
“You undersold this man completely,” she informs me. “This is magnificent.”
Dinner somehow gets worse from there. Or better.
I honestly can’t tell. Because watching Elena dismantle my father’s reserve in real time feels deeply unnatural.
By the second glass of wine, he’s relaxed enough to loosen his posture completely, one arm draped over the back of the chair while Elena tells a story about accidentally pepper-spraying herself during a solo trip through Rome.
“You carried pepper spray in Italy?” he asks.
“I watch documentaries.”
“Toni watches documentaries before vacations too,” he says.
“Dad.”
“She made spreadsheets for Disney World when she was eleven.”
Elena gasps. “No.”
“I was efficient.”
“You were terrifying,” Frank corrects.
“I needed structure.”
“You color-coded ride wait times.”
Elena physically wipes tears from beneath her eyes. “Antonia Maria Amato. You beautiful little psychopath.”
“I’m leaving.”
“You live here,” she reminds me. “Well, next door.”
Frank’s eyes stay on me a second too long, softer now.
Proud. That familiar ache moves through my heart again.
Because this version of him always gets me.
Just my father sitting at a dinner table, smiling while someone makes his daughter laugh.
The warmth in the apartment deepens slowly over the evening.
Music humming low. Wine glasses half-full.
Steam rising from untouched coffee. Elena switches effortlessly between teasing him and genuinely listening, asking questions about travel and hockey, and life after retirement from officiating.
And my father — impossibly — opens up. Not fully.
Frank Amato would rather die dramatically.
But enough that I notice. Enough that he sees me noticing.
At one point, Elena disappears into the kitchen for dessert, leaving me alone with him at the table.
The silence settles comfortably for a moment. Then his expression shifts slightly. More serious. “You seem happier,” he says.
My stomach tightens instantly. “I’m fine.”
“There it is again.” I stare down at my wine glass. “You’ve been tense for two years,” he continues gently. His gaze intensifies in the way that always makes me feel sixteen again. “Something’s different now.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Because the horrifying thing is: he’s right. And fathers always know. I try for casual. “Work’s been intense.”
“Hm.” That single syllable carries decades of parental skepticism. “Are you sleeping at all?”
“Mostly.”
“You eating properly?”
“Yes.”
“You lying to me professionally or personally?”