Chapter 16 #2
I sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What I want is for him to mind his own fucking business. But that’s never been his style.”
Kate sat beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine in silent support. “Tell me about him.”
“Former hockey coach turned sports commentator. He’s built his entire identity around the game, around winning.
” I hesitated, old pains resurfacing. “Nothing was ever good enough. A hat trick wasn’t worth celebrating if I’d missed a defensive assignment.
Individual awards meant nothing without team championships. ”
“That sounds exhausting,” she said softly.
“It was. Still is.” I looked down at our hands, where Kate had interlaced her fingers with mine. “He’s going to judge you based on whether he thinks you fit into his vision of what a professional athlete’s partner should be.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“Supportive, undemanding, willing to arrange her life around my career.” I grimaced. “Basically the opposite of the brilliant, independent scientist who alphabetizes her bacteria cultures but can’t remember to put the cap back on the toothpaste.”
Kate smiled at that, squeezing my hand. “You make me sound like a nightmare.”
“You’re my favorite nightmare,” I replied, bringing her hand to my lips. “Which is why I don’t want to subject you to Hurricane Harold.”
“Hurricane Harold,” she repeated with a laugh. “I’m a data-oriented person, Austin. Logically, I should collect firsthand observations rather than relying on secondhand accounts, no matter how reliable the source.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “Are you seriously approaching meeting my father like a science experiment?”
“Of course,” she said brightly. “It’s the most efficient approach. We form a hypothesis—‘Harold Callahan will be judgmental and critical’—then we collect data through direct observation, and analyze the results.”
“You’re insane,” I said, but found myself smiling despite my apprehension.
“I’m methodical,” she corrected, standing and pulling me to my feet. “And I won’t deny I’m curious to see the man who created the most disciplined human I’ve ever met.”
“Glutton for punishment,” I muttered, pulling her against my chest. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“I never do,” she said cheerfully. “That’s what makes life interesting. Besides, I’ve presented my research to rooms full of skeptical scientists looking for any flaw to destroy my work. How bad could one hockey dad be?”
I cupped her face in my hands, overcome with affection for this fearless woman. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Statistically improbable statement.” She stretched up to kiss me softly. “The evidence suggests we’re actually well-matched despite our outward differences.”
“Is that your scientific assessment, Dr. Ellis?”
“Preliminary findings only,” she murmured against my lips. “I’ll need to conduct extensive additional research.”
“How extensive?” I asked, my hands sliding to her waist.
She pushed me gently onto the bed, climbing over me with a predatory smile that sent heat racing through my body. “Very, very extensive,” she promised, her fingers finding the drawstring of my sweatpants. “With multiple trials to ensure reproducibility.”
“I fully support this research,” I managed to say before her mouth found mine, making me forget all about my father and the dinner ahead of us.
For a brief, perfect moment, there was only Kate—her weight on top of me, her hands exploring with scientific precision, her mouth hot and demanding against mine.
I lost myself in her, in the way she made everything else fade into background noise.
The trade rumors, my father’s expectations, the pressure of my comeback—all of it receded when Kate was in my arms.
“You’re thinking too much,” she whispered, pulling back to study my face with those perceptive green eyes.
“Force of habit,” I replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Then I’m clearly not doing my job properly.” She smirked, sliding down my body with deliberate slowness.
“Kate,” I groaned as her fingers hooked into the waistband of my sweatpants. “We should probably talk more about tonight—”
“Later,” she insisted, tugging the fabric down my hips. “Right now, I need you to focus on my experimental methodology.”
And then her mouth was on me, hot and wet and determined, making coherent thought impossible. My hands tangled in her hair as she took me deeper, her tongue doing things that had my hips lifting off the bed involuntarily.
“Jesus, Kate,” I gasped as she worked me with relentless precision, her eyes locked on mine with an intensity that was almost too much to bear.
“I love watching you lose control,” she murmured before taking me in her mouth again, one hand gripping my base while the other explored lower.
For a man who built his entire life around discipline and restraint, there was something profoundly freeing about surrendering to Kate’s ministrations. I let go, let her take me apart with her clever mouth and hands, trusting her in a way I’d never trusted anyone before.
When I finally shattered, her name torn from my throat in a ragged groan, I understood with perfect clarity that I wasn’t just falling in love with Kate Ellis—I was already completely, irrevocably in love with her.
The Capital Grille was exactly the type of restaurant my father would choose—old-school steakhouse with dark wood paneling, white tablecloths, and waiters in formal attire. The kind of place where status was as much on the menu as the food.
“Your tie is crooked,” Kate whispered as we approached the host stand.
I’d insisted on wearing a suit, knowing my father would judge every detail. Kate had traded her usual lab attire for a simple green dress that brought out her eyes and made my mouth go dry when she’d emerged from the bedroom earlier.
“You’re beautiful,” I’d told her, momentarily forgetting my anxiety about the evening ahead.
“And you clean up nicely, hockey boy,” she’d replied with a wink. “Now, ready to test our hypothesis?”
Now, as we followed the host to our table, I felt Kate’s fingers brush mine reassuringly. My father stood as we approached, ever the gentleman in public, his critical eyes sweeping over both of us before he offered a perfunctory smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Austin,” he said with a nod, then turned his attention to Kate. “And you must be Katherine.”
“Kate, actually,” she corrected, extending her hand with a confident smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Callahan.”
My father shook her hand, his expression giving nothing away. “Harold, please.”
We sat, and I fought the urge to loosen my tie. The weight of my father’s expectations pressed on me like a physical force, just as it had throughout my childhood.
"Where's your mom tonight?" Kate asked as we were seated.
"Paris," my father answered before I could. "Art exhibition. She sends her regards."
I nodded, unsurprised. My parents had mastered the art of living separate lives while maintaining the appearance of marriage for public consumption.
“So, how did you two meet?” my father asked after we’d ordered drinks, his tone casual but his eyes calculating.
Before I could answer, Kate jumped in. “Austin was gracious enough to offer me temporary housing when my university accommodations fell through. I moved to Minneapolis in January for a research fellowship but arrived to find my apartment wasn’t ready.”
My father raised an eyebrow. “Quite the coincidence.”
“Actually, probability studies would suggest that unlikely events occur with surprising frequency given enough opportunities,” Kate replied cheerfully. “Though I’ll admit, the odds of me spilling coffee on Austin’s floor within five minutes of meeting him were statistically significant.”
I suppressed a smile at the memory, feeling some of my tension ease at Kate’s easy confidence.
“And what exactly is this research fellowship?” my father asked, his tone suggesting he viewed her work as a cute hobby rather than a serious career.
I tensed, recognizing the dismissive tone, but Kate remained unruffled.
“I study antibiotic resistance in bacteria,” she explained. “Specifically, I’m developing compounds that prevent bacteria from sharing their resistance genes, which could help address the growing crisis of untreatable infections.”
My father nodded politely, but I could see he’d already categorized her work as less important than professional sports. “Interesting hobby.”
Kate’s smile remained perfectly pleasant, but I saw a flash of steel in her eyes. “It’s actually my career, not a hobby. Much like how Austin’s hockey is his profession rather than just a game he enjoys playing.”
The subtle correction was delivered so smoothly that it took my father a moment to register the pushback. When he did, his eyes narrowed slightly.
“And does your...career allow for the flexibility that supporting a professional athlete requires?” he asked, cutting straight to his real concern. “Austin’s schedule is demanding, especially during the season.”
“I imagine all meaningful careers require sacrifices and accommodations from partners,” Kate replied evenly. “Just as Austin has had to accommodate my late nights in the lab and occasional bacterial emergencies.”
“Bacterial emergencies?” my father repeated skeptically.
“You’d be surprised how dramatic antibiotic-resistant superbugs can be,” Kate said with a smile that somehow managed to be both charming and challenging. “Though I suppose they cause less immediate excitement than a playoff game.”
Our drinks arrived, giving me a moment to marvel at Kate’s handling of my father. Where I would have become defensive or shut down in the face of his judgment, she was navigating the conversation with remarkable poise.
“Austin tells me you were a coach,” Kate continued after taking a sip of her wine.
“Twenty years at the college level, another five with juniors,” my father confirmed, his posture straightening as the conversation turned to his favorite subject. “Now I provide commentary for regional broadcasts.”
“That explains Austin’s disciplined approach,” Kate nodded thoughtfully. “His rehabilitation protocol for his knee injury has been impressively rigorous.”
My father’s attention sharpened. “You’ve been involved in his recovery?”
“Only peripherally,” Kate said. “Though my research does include applications for tissue regeneration. Some of the compounds I work with show promising effects on recovery rates for soft tissue injuries.”
For the first time, my father looked genuinely interested. “Performance enhancement?”
“Not in the way you might be thinking,” she clarified. “More like optimizing the body’s natural healing processes. For instance, certain bacterial enzymes can break down scar tissue formation, potentially allowing for more complete healing after injuries.”
I watched in amazement as my father leaned forward, actually engaged. “And this could have applications for athletes?”
“Absolutely. In fact, some of the compounds I’m studying might have helped Austin’s ACL recovery if they were further along in development,” Kate explained, seamlessly connecting her work to the one thing my father truly valued.
“The science behind recovery optimization isn’t so different from the training methodologies I’m sure you implemented as a coach—it’s about creating optimal conditions for performance. ”
“Fascinating,” my father said, and to my shock, he sounded sincere.
Our meals arrived, and I watched the conversation continue to unfold like I was witnessing some kind of miracle. Kate had not only held her ground against my father’s interrogation but had somehow managed to find common ground with the most difficult man I’d ever known.
When she excused herself to the restroom after our entrées, my father turned to me with an evaluating look.
“She’s not what I expected,” he said, which from him was practically effusive praise.
“Kate’s full of surprises,” I replied, unable to keep the pride from my voice.
“Smart,” he acknowledged. “Driven. Not intimidated easily.”
“No, she isn’t.”
He studied me for a moment, then said something I never thought I’d hear from his lips: “She’s good for you.”
I nearly choked on my water. “What?”
“You’ve always been too rigid, Austin. Too controlled.” He smoothed his napkin on his lap, avoiding eye contact in that way the Callahan men did when emotions threatened. “You need someone who challenges you, not someone who simply accommodates your routines.”
“That’s...not what you told me when I was with Melissa,” I reminded him, referencing my college girlfriend who he’d deemed “too independent” for a hockey player’s partner.
“You weren’t ready then,” he said dismissively. “You hadn’t established yourself. Now you have the luxury of complexity in your personal life.”
I bit back a retort about how backwards his thinking was. Instead, I simply said, “Kate isn’t a luxury, Dad. She’s essential.”
My father’s eyebrows rose slightly at the conviction in my voice. Before he could respond, Kate returned, sliding back into her seat with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “I got a text from the lab about my cultures.”
“Bacterial emergency?” I teased, reaching for her hand under the table.
“Not yet, but I’m monitoring the situation,” she replied with mock seriousness before turning to my father. “Harold, I was curious about your perspective on Austin’s playing style. As a former coach, you must have insights that casual fans wouldn’t notice.”
And just like that, she’d given my father the opening to do what he loved most—analyze hockey.
For the next twenty minutes, I watched as he detailed the evolution of my defensive strategy over the years, with Kate asking surprisingly insightful follow-up questions that revealed she’d been paying closer attention to my games than I’d realized.
By the time dessert arrived, a small miracle had occurred—my father was treating Kate with genuine respect, and I’d managed to make it through most of a meal with him without feeling like I was being evaluated and found wanting.