43. Dante
Chapter 43
Dante
The back room of On Cloud Nine is all dark wood and leather, illuminated by sconces that cast a gentle glow across the space.
“Oh my god. Your sister is Frankie Hastings?” Em exclaims.
My parents are lounging on a plush leather couch, Mom’s legs draped over Dad’s, each with a crystal whisky tumbler in hand. They glance up when we enter, their expressions softening into affection, the kind Em probably hasn’t seen much of lately.
“Where was this excitement when you met me?” I tease, raising an eyebrow.
“Nobody knows what fencing is,” she responds. “But your sister is literally making waves in the racing world. One thing I actually have in common with Dad is we watch all the races together.” Her voice catches on the word Dad .
“You’re the girl Dante’s coaching?” Frankie asks, walking over. “Ugh, I love you already! How old are you? You wanna drive my—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” I warn her with a laugh, already shaking my head. “Can you keep an eye on her? Em’s going to stay at the house with everyone tonight.”
Frankie nods without hesitation and turns back to Em. “Wanna order takeout on his card?” she jokes.
“Okay!” Em responds eagerly. Her shoulders relax, like she’s finally letting herself breathe.
She’ll be fine for the night.
My mind drifts back to the gala, to Reese. I need to talk to her.
“Seen Reese?” I ask, hands shoved in my pockets, shoulders tight with an energy I can’t quite place. The Red Bull exec and his friends are probably wondering where I disappeared to, but I couldn’t care less.
“She was in here earlier,” Mom says, readjusting on the couch with that casual grace she’s always had. “Think she headed to the ballroom. Place is clearing out, though.”
“The kid?”
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “Can she stay with us for a few nights? I need to talk to Reese.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
I pivot toward the door, then stop. Memories of my own teenage years flood back: the nights I’d climb out my window, the fights, the constant feeling of being misunderstood. “Actually. Got a minute?”
Dad straightens, all attention. “Always, son.”
I settle into the chair across from them. Mom watches me with that penetrating gaze that used to make me want to crawl out of my skin. Now I just let it land. “I need to say something,” I start, throat tight. “About being such a fuckup when I was younger. Never properly apologized for it, I don’t think.”
Mom moves faster than I expect, perching beside me, her hand rubbing along my shoulder. “Don’t you dare apologize.”
“Why would you think you needed to?” Dad leans in, elbows on knees, face etched with concern.
“Picking Em up tonight. Made me think about all the shit I put you through. The reckless fucking choices. The selfishness. Remember that time I took the Rolls for a joyride? Or when I got caught fighting behind the gym, bloody knuckles and a broken nose?”
“You were finding your way,” Mom says softly, squeezing my shoulder. The memory of her tears that night at the hospital flashes through my mind.
“You shipped me off to boarding school.” The words come out harder than intended.
Dad exhales slowly. “Son, we were losing you. You didn’t want anything to do with us, with your siblings. Every night, you’d sneak out, run off, push us away. We saw how much potential you had buried underneath all that anger. Boarding school wasn’t about forcing you to change, it was about giving you space to find yourself, to discover who you wanted to be, away from all the pressure of being a Hastings.”
“And look what happened,” Mom adds. Her touch is grounding. “Look who you became.”
“Yeah, suspended athlete. Real success story.”
Mom’s scoff is pure indignation. “Princeton graduate. Olympic gold medalist. Elite athlete. And, more importantly, an incredible son, brother, and man.”
Dad nods. “We’re proud of you, Dante. Not for the medals or the headlines, but for who you are.”
“I always felt like the fuckup, you know? Everyone else had their thing figured out so early. Like there was this mold of what a Hastings should be, and I couldn’t fit it. Couldn’t find my sport, couldn’t be what you wanted.”
“Christ, being a Hastings isn’t about some fucking sport,” Mom says.
“Look at me,” Dad says. “I’m useless at all that athletic shit.”
“Yeah, but I never…” I trail off, running a hand through my hair. “Never quite matched up to you either, Dad.”
“Match up? You got into Princeton, while I dropped out of community college. Found my way by pure fucking luck. You’re more like us than you think—stubborn bastards who figure it out in their own time.”
A tension I’d been carrying for years loosens in my chest.
“Thanks. These past months have stripped away all the bullshit I was chasing: the headlines, the attention, the fucking accolades. All shallow validation I thought meant something.” A harsh laugh escapes me, bitter and self-deprecating. “Christ, it sounds even more pathetic out loud. But seeing Em fence, watching her killer instinct take over when she nails a technique—for the first time, I’m not thinking about my own glory. I want to build something real with this sport. Something that actually matters.”
“We’re here for you,” Mom says, her hand still steady on my shoulder. “What’s on your mind?”
“Coaching. Been thinking about it.” My fingers drum against my leg, a restless rhythm. “Watching Em fight, seeing that raw talent, it’s fucking different. Never felt anything like it.” The admission costs me something.
Mom’s eyes dart to Dad, and she smirks. “Pay up.”
He mutters a curse, fishing out a hundred from his wallet.
I exhale sharply. “What’s this about?”
“Had a bet going about which of you kids would end up coaching. My money was always on you.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out hard.
Dad’s wry smile confirms it. “I was betting on Brooklyn. Don’t tell her, though; she’ll lose her shit.”
“The Olympics aren’t off the table. Next one, maybe after, if this disciplinary shit clears up. But…” The words stick in my throat. “I could use some pointers. On coaching. If you’re offering, Mom.”
“I’d love nothing more. And Dante? Whatever path you choose—competing, coaching, anything—we’re in your corner. Always have been.”
The silence settles heavy. Mom gets a look in her eye. The one that makes me want to bolt.
“So,” she drawls, sharing a knowing glance with Dad, “are we going to talk about how you can’t take your eyes off Reese whenever she’s in the room?”
“Mom—”
“She’s right. You’ve got the same dopey look I had when I first met your mom.”
He pulls Mom to her feet, their hands finding each other with practiced ease. They’ve always been like this. Completely in sync.
“Sometimes,” Dad continues, brushing a kiss against Mom’s forehead, “you just know.”
“Or you do what your father did and buy an entire basketball team to have an excuse to talk to me. God knows what kind of grand gesture you’re planning.”
I stare at my hands, suddenly finding the tweed armrest below me fascinating. “Mom, Dad…I need…fuck, I need your help with something.”
“We’re here,” Mom says. I feel sixteen again.
“I think I’m in love with her.” The confession tears out of me, raw and unpolished.
“When you think, you know,” Dad says quietly.
I drag my fingers through my hair, messing up the styling. “That’s the thing—I’ve kept something from her. Something important. And now that I’ve fallen for her, it’s eating me up inside.”
Mom cranes her neck against Dad’s suit jacket. “Listen to me. You’ve learned to have better judgment, sweetheart. If you held something back, it wasn’t out of malice. But now you need to be brave and face this head on.”
“You’re right,” I agree.
“Besides, son, you’re only twenty-six years old,” he says gently. “And while that’s not an excuse, I understand. Just this summer you were living it up on your yacht without a care in the world. You’ve never had a serious relationship, never let anyone outside the family get too close. We all make questionable decisions while we’re figuring things out. It’s part of growing up.”
He’s right. Four months ago, I was knee-deep in white powder and models.
“What if she hates me for it?”
Dad rubs Mom’s back. “Relationships built on truth might get shaken, but they can weather the storm. It’s the ones built on secrets that crumble. Tell her everything, give her time to process it, and then respect whatever she decides. That’s all you can do.”
Fuck, they’re right. Of course they’re right. My mind circles back through every moment with Reese—the late-night conversations, the way she calls me on my shit, how she makes me want to be better without making me feel worse. For the first time in my life, I’m not running from this feeling.
I’m running toward it.
“Okay,” I say, standing. “I’m going to find her.”
Dad grins, squeezing my shoulder. “Go get her.”
I head toward the door.
Fuck. The thought of laying it all bare makes my throat tight. I’ve done this a thousand times before—the chase, the game, the carefully crafted lines. But this isn’t that. This is real. This is Reese. And I’m terrified.
The weight of every headline I’ve generated, every scandal I’ve sparked, every heart I’ve carelessly handled—it all crashes down on me now. But with her…God, with her, I can see a different version of myself. One who watches fog roll in from a San Francisco balcony, who makes plans that stretch past tomorrow, who finally, finally stops running.
When I enter the ballroom, I spot her at a table by the window. The band has already packed up. My stomach lurches. Christ, I’ve never been this nervous about a relationship in my life. My palms are actually sweating.
“Reese?”
She turns, and fuck—even exhausted, even with her shoulders slumped, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Her smile, lazy and worn, makes my chest ache.
“Is Em okay?”
“Yeah, she is. My siblings are adopting her.” I attempt a joke and sink into the chair beside her, trying to steady my racing pulse. “She’s going to stay with my parents for the rest of the weekend.”
Reese rests her head on my shoulder, and I have to close my eyes against the wave of guilt. “Does that mean I get you all to myself?”
I want to drown in that question, let myself believe I deserve the trust I hear in her voice. But I love her too much to keep lying. “Can we actually talk about something?”
She sits up, brown eyes searching mine. “Of course.”