Heart to Heart
Sloane
My dad doesn’t say a word as he guides me away from the crowd, the pink bus, and the cameras circling like vultures, desperate for a tearjerker shot.
He keeps an arm around my shoulders—a solid, familiar weight that makes me feel five years old again. Scraped knee. Absolute certainty that Dad can fix anything.
We stop behind a cluster of fir trees, where the snow is still untouched and the noise of the party reaches us muffled, like it belongs to another world.
He turns to face me.
His blue eyes—the same ones I see in the mirror every morning—scan me with a precision you can’t escape. He’s not checking for bruises or sprains.
He’s looking for cracks.
“Dad, I’m really fine,” I lie. My voice comes out thin, unconvincing. “It’s just the stress of the show. The cameras. The competition.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Sloane. I changed your diapers. I taught you how to drive. I watched you cry over a bad grade and a stupid boy. Do you really think I can’t tell when my girl’s falling apart?”
My lower lip trembles. I bite it hard to stop it.
Guilt hits me like a wave—sharp and awful.
“You should be home,” I whisper. “You should be with Mom. Why are you here? Is… is everything okay between you two?”
The question slips out with a thread of panic. After that conversation in the kitchen with my mom, the fear that they’re splitting up has never fully left me.
Dad’s face softens. A crease of amusement—maybe tenderness—appears at the corner of his eyes.
“Your mother is perfectly fine. Actually, she basically kicked me out of the house.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “She said, ‘Go check on Sloane, Julian. I have a feeling she needs her dad.’”
He brushes his rough thumb over my cheek.
“And like always, she was right. So stop worrying about us and tell me what’s going on.
” His eyes narrow, half teasing, half deadly serious.
“And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ or I swear I’ll start breaking noses.
And just so we’re clear—I’m not naming names, but a cocky athlete and a certified jackass are at the top of my list.”
I let out a watery, broken laugh.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ve got time. That bus isn’t leaving for another hour.”
I inhale deeply, the icy air burning my lungs.
I look at the snow. I look at my boots. Then I look at him.
I can’t keep it in anymore—not with him. He’s the only man in the world, besides Cohen, who deserves the truth.
“Dad… do you remember the article?” I ask quietly. “The one that started this whole mess? The mystery girl at the club… the one Cohen got photographed with?”
My dad’s jaw tightens instantly. The vein at his temple starts to pulse—the warning sign every Lakewood player knows and fears.
“Yeah,” he growls.
“She wasn’t a fan,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
I close my eyes.
“It was me.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
I don’t even hear the wind in the trees.
I crack one eye open.
My dad is frozen. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes wide with total shock—like I just told him I’d decided to become a die-hard fan of the rival team.
“You?” he repeats. “You… and Becker? At the club?”
I nod miserably.
“Yeah. I was the angel. I mean—Cupid, technically.” My voice wobbles. “It happened months ago. Before he became my client. You know when. And then… then it happened again. And then I actually started getting to know him and—”
Shock.
Disbelief.
Then realization.
His face turns red. His hands curl into fists.
“Becker,” he snaps. “Did he touch you?”
He starts to turn, already ready to hunt Cohen down and commit murder, so I grab his arms.
“No! Dad—stop! This isn’t his fault!”
“Sloane—he’s my player, and you’re my daughter—”
“He didn’t know who I was! It just happened!” I shout.
And then I break.
Ugly sobs rack my chest and steal my breath. I cry for Cohen. For the lie. For the fear that I’ve ruined everything before I even got to build something real.
My dad’s anger evaporates instantly.
“Hey—hey. No, sweetheart.”
He pulls me against his chest, wrapping me in his massive arms. I feel small. Protected. Safe in a way I haven’t felt in weeks.
“Shhh. Dad’s here. I’m not mad at you.”
We stay like that until my tears finally slow.
“I screwed up, Dad,” I hiccup. “I made a huge mess.”
He holds me tighter.
“Do you like that boy?” he asks. Resigned—but gentle.
I pull back just enough to look at him.
“I’m afraid I do.”
Julian Heart sighs—a long, deep breath that feels like it comes from the foundation of the earth itself. He tips his head back, staring up at the sky like he’s asking the universe for patience.
“He’s an idiot,” Dad says. “He makes me furious—God, you have no idea. Every time he opens his mouth in a press conference, I lose a year off my life.”
Then he pauses, meeting my eyes.
“But he’s no more of an idiot than I was at his age.” A beat. “Or than I probably still am.”
I blink, confused, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. “What?”
Dad gives me a reluctant half-smile.
“He’s a good kid, underneath it all. Yeah, he’s arrogant.
He makes questionable choices. And I regularly fantasize about making him run punishment laps until he throws up.
” His mouth twitches. “But I care about him. I would’ve kicked him off the team a long time ago if I didn’t see his value. And I don’t just mean on the field.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets, staring off for a second.
“And don’t you ever tell him this—because his ego would become a public safety hazard—but I’m proud of how he handled that day with the press.”
He looks back at me, serious now.
“I didn’t know you were the girl, but even then… I was proud. He was in real trouble. His career was on the line. And he didn’t name her. He didn’t blame her. He didn’t call it a mistake like everyone told him to. He took the hit.”
He reaches out and smooths my hair.
“Does that sound like a bad man to you?”
His words hit me straight in the chest.
He’s right. Cohen protected me. Always. Even when he didn’t know me. Even when I insulted him.
“No,” I whisper. “He isn’t.”
Dad studies me for a moment.
“Then why are you crying like someone died?”
My throat tightens. “Because I don’t think he’ll ever want to see me again,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I think… I think he believes I was with him just because I wanted to forget Joe.”
Saying that name still hurts—but saying it to my dad feels different. Safer. He knows what Joe did to me.
Dad pulls me into a hard hug—one that very clearly translates to if I ever see that guy, I will end him—then lifts my chin.
He kisses my forehead.
“I think,” he says, with that unshakable dad certainty, “he’ll understand.”
Then his gaze shifts—just over my shoulder.
I turn.
Cohen is there.
He came back.
He’s standing a few steps away, hands in his pockets, watching us. He looks exhausted—wrecked—but he’s here.
My dad gives me a small pinch at my side.
“I love you, baby girl.”
Then he walks toward Cohen.
My heart stops. Oh my God. He’s going to hit him.
But Julian Heart stops in front of his number nine.
They hold each other’s gaze for a long, charged second.
Man to man.
Then my dad lifts a hand and claps Cohen on the shoulder. Not gentle. Firm. Heavy with meaning.
A warning. And a blessing.
Cohen absorbs the impact without flinching, meeting his eyes.
Dad nods once. Then he turns and walks back toward the bus without looking back.
He leaves us alone.
Cohen stays in the shadow of the trees.
And I’m standing here in full sunlight—
my heart in my hands.