Chapter 31 – Brianna
I twist my hands together as I stare up at the iron door where my dad’s name hangs proudly in sleek silver lettering next to the words: Manhattan Mayhem - Team Owner.
Even the sign is intimidating, just like everything else about him.
I pull up the text message he sent me last night when I was with Seth.
Caleb: Ready for lunch tomorrow afternoon? Can’t wait to get your thoughts on a few of the players.
His message caught me off guard. I'd forgotten he even had my number.
He got it at my mother's funeral, which was only a year ago but somehow feels longer. The mention of players was a cold reminder of why I’d needed to ask Seth to wait on going public with our relationship.
I have no idea what my father wants from this lunch, but I know I don't want our first real conversation in twenty-seven years to be derailed by the fact that I'm dating one of his goalies.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Here goes nothing.”
He told me not to bring lunch, that he had our meal catered, and I’d quietly tucked the leftover lasagna Seth packed for me back into the fridge, not wanting it to go to waste after the work he put into it.
Now I’m here, palms damp against my sides, rehearsing the same forced smile for the hundredth time.
“Come in,” his voice booms from behind the door, and I jump slightly before reaching for the handle. I open the door, step inside, and everything stills. His office is sleek and spotless, with dark wooden shelves and framed basketball and hockey jerseys lining the walls from his favorite players.
But it’s the desk that stuns me. It’s cleared off completely, except for the massive spread laid out across the top.
Five different kinds of salad, all labeled with dressings on the side.
Warm bread wrapped in linen. Trays of pasta from the fancy spot next door that the players always rave about, but I can’t afford.
I look at it, then back at him. “Are we expecting more people to join us?” Like the whole team?
He smiles nervously and steps toward me.
And for the first time, I really see him—not the athlete on the court, not the owner of a pro hockey team.
Not the man on the big screens I used to sneak out of bed to watch when my mom was asleep.
Just a man who seems like he’s trying, who happens to be my biological dad, and isn’t sure how to do either of those things right now.
His hands mirror mine, fidgeting at his sides. His green eyes dart like he’s unsure of where to look, and that’s when I realize we have the same nervous tells.
“No. I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Do you eat salad?”
I smile. “Yes, I do. This is nice. Thank you.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything more. For a second, it looks like he might go in for a hug, but then he hesitates, just pats my upper arm awkwardly, and rounds the desk to take his seat.
“Go ahead—dig in.”
I grab a recyclable bowl and fill it with a couple of different salad options, the smell of fresh basil and warm garlic bread already filling the room.
Everything looks incredible but it feels a bit wasteful.
I take a seat across from him, grateful for the desk acting like a barrier between us.
He’s watching me like he wants me to eat first, so, I do.
I take a bite, and okay—this isn’t just good.
This is unreal catering. I get now why the guys are always talking about this place.
He smiles to himself, then lifts his bowl and takes a bite of greens before setting it right back down.
“I’m glad we could do this. I’m sorry I didn’t do it sooner.”
I glance up at him. Almost a year working under his team’s payroll, and this is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation. It is kind of ridiculous that we let it go this long. He should have done this sooner. Like decades ago, sooner.
I nod. “Well, we’re here now.” I offer a small smile.
He tugs at the collar of his crisp button-up shirt, like he’s dressed for a meeting and not lunch with his daughter he doesn’t know. I wonder if he’ll get pulled out of here soon into another meeting and this whole thing will be some sort of weird, fever dream.
"I think you're being too gracious. I'd started to reach out a couple times..." His voice trails off and doesn't find its way back.
He's tried. That's what he's telling me.
He tried and something stopped him; cold feet, second thoughts, the sheer weight of a decades-long gap, who knows.
I understand that, in theory. Bridging twenty-seven years of silence isn't something you do on a Tuesday afternoon via a text or a lunch meeting.
But he was clear with my mother once. No interest in being a father.
He said it plainly and he followed through on that promise for years.
So, what changed? And why now?
He clears his throat. “So, how are you liking it? Working for the team?”
“I like it,” I say honestly. “Didn’t think I’d enjoy hockey this much, but it’s been a good learning experience.”
He nods slowly, chewing thoughtfully like he’s turning over my answer in his mind.
“Your mother said you’ve interned for other professional teams?”
That has my brows raising. When did he and my mom discuss what I was up to over the years? She’d never told me he’d reached out and she’d never mentioned keeping any sort of relationship with him.
“Um, yeah. Football and baseball. I really enjoyed my stints with the professional baseball teams the most.”
He nods again and then smiles sadly. “Guess I should have bought a baseball team then.”
I set my fork down and lean back slightly. “What made you buy the Mayhem? Hockey and basketball are so different?”
“Ah, well, when I retired from the NBA, I was a bit lost.”
Ironic considering he had a whole daughter who would have loved to get to know him back then.
His eyes drift toward the window behind me. “I thought my world was over. It was everything to me.”
I flinch, and it must show on my face, because he notices.
“I…” He stops. Rubs a hand across his jaw, then drops it. “I’m sorry, Brianna, that probably came out wrong.”
I force a smile and stab some of my salad before shoving it in my mouth. “You don’t have to apologize. I get it.”
He shakes his head, his green eyes more sincere now.
“No, that really did come out wrong. Look,” he leans forward in his chair.
“I’ve never had to chance to tell you just how sorry I am.
I didn’t know how to say it, or if you’d even want to hear it.
It’s been so long, but I’ve wanted to reach out for years.
I’ve wanted to tell you for years that I know I chose wrong. ”
What?
He sighs. “I didn’t feel like I deserved the right to even speak to you after I left you and your mother.”
I nod, lips pressed together, trying not to blink too hard. Because I do want to hear it. I’ve waited my whole life to hear this.
He exhales, setting his fork down completely and folding his hands on the desk as he leans in, his gaze meeting mine. It’s the most eye contact we’ve ever made, and it stuns me into silence. I study his face, and for the first time, I notice the similarities.
We have the same eye shape, big, round, the same spacing between them. My hair’s dyed red now, but the natural light brown underneath it is also his. My lips, my nose—they’ll always be Mom’s, no question. But there are parts of him in me, too.
And while I always thought it was just my mother who made people feel seen—the warmth she gave, the way she looked at me with intensity and showed that she was listening—I’m realizing now that maybe I don’t know my father as well as I thought I did.
Maybe there’re parts of him, good and bad, that exist in my DNA, too.
“What I’m going to tell you next is not an excuse,” he starts.
“Okay.”
He smiles. “I fell in love with your mother hard and fast when I lived in Milwaukee,” he says, voice quieter now.
“I was just a rookie when she told me she was pregnant… it scared the shit out of me because I’d just been drafted.
I was young. Immature. Things were only getting started in my career.
I was traveling nonstop, living out of hotels and suitcases, barely sleeping, barely keeping up with it all. ”
He pauses and presses his lips together like he’s searching for the words.
“Sure, I could’ve married her. Could’ve made Milwaukee home, used her house as a base, tried to play the part of a good dad.
But I didn’t want to be the guy who was always gone.
I didn’t want her hauling you to games across the country or raising you in hotel rooms. And frankly, I was selfish.
Completely and entirely selfish. I was not a man. I acted like a boy still.”
His shoulders lift and fall. “I really believed you’d be better off without me.
I thought I’d be happier too. I figured that out quickly.
I was wrong. That there was more to life than playing basketball, but at that point, I knew it was too late to take back the things I’d said and the choices that I’d made.
I had to live with the consequences of my actions. ”
I nod slowly, focusing on my breath, trying to keep it steady. I understand what he’s saying—his logic, the intention behind it—but that doesn’t make it true. A dad who is willingly not around still exists.
I guess I’ll never really know how things might’ve been. This is the life I lived. This is what shaped me and my mom did an amazing job. She filled the role of father and mother, and I never felt like I was missing anything unless you count the constant curiosity around the man who left.
“Your mother,” he says softly, a wistful smile flickering at the corners of his mouth, “she was incredible. I knew she’d be enough for you.”
“She was everything,” I whisper.
He nods, swallowing hard. “I’m so sorry you lost her last year. She was a hell of a woman.”
“Thank you. She was.”