Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HALEY
The morning felt like goodbye even though it wasn’t supposed to. We stood inside his front door, holding hands.
“Whatever happens today,” he said, “we’re still us.”
“We are, but I’m terrified anyway.”
He stroked his thumb across my knuckles. “Me too.”
Beau stood nearby, his stubby tail wagging because he thought this was the start of a fun new game.
Tolrek pulled me close and held me.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too.”
“What do you think he’s going to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Best-case scenario?” I asked.
“He’s had time to think. He’s still angry, but he’s willing to hear us out. We explain that we’re serious about this. That we’re not hiding anymore. He accepts it, eventually.”
“And worst case?”
“He trades me or releases me. Makes it clear I’m not welcome on the team anymore.”
“And me?”
“He’ll never fire you. You’re his daughter.”
“But everything changes between us.” I stared forward at nothing. “That might be worse than losing my job.”
He lifted my hand, kissing it. “It’s going to be alright, no matter what.”
I nodded and stepped into the hallway. Behind me, Beau’s whine cut through the quiet.
The door clicked shut.
We couldn’t arrive together, and we couldn’t be seen leaving the same building at the same time. The street was empty at this hour, the city still waking up. My car sat in the garage where I’d left it yesterday, covered in a thin layer of dust.
The drive to the rink took fifteen minutes. I spent all of them rehearsing what I’d say in my head.
Dad, I’m sorry we lied.
Dad, please don’t fire him.
Dad, I love him, and I’m not giving him up.
None of them sounded right. All of them sounded desperate.
The parking lot was nearly empty when I pulled in at six thirty. I recognized my father’s truck in his usual spot, and I’d bet he’d been here since six or earlier. Had he slept at all?
The thought made guilt churn harder in my belly.
Inside my office, I dropped my bag on the desk and booted up my laptop. Practice footage from yesterday sat in my queue, tagged and ready for review.
Tolrek’s sequences loaded first. I watched him move across the ice with the confidence he’d rebuilt over the past month.
If my father decided the relationship was too much of a complication and benched Tolrek or traded him, I’d be watching footage of what I’d helped him find before I’d helped him lose it again.
I closed the laptop.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor, players arriving early, their voices carrying through the walls.
Mark appeared in the doorway, a coffee mug in one hand and his tablet in the other. He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he nodded once and kept walking.
His nod said it all. He wasn’t going to pile on. He was wishing us good luck.
When it was time for practice, I left my office and walked to the press box, taking a seat. Below, the team took the ice for warm-ups. The sound of skates on fresh ice carried up through the glass, familiar enough that it usually settled me.
Today it made everything worse.
My father stood behind the bench, his arms folded across his chest, watching the players cycle through drills. This was the stance he took when he was operating on three hours of sleep and too much coffee, trying to hold everything together through sheer will.
Practice started, and I logged sequences on autopilot, my attention split between the footage I was supposed to be capturing and the body language of every person on the ice.
Tolrek took his position with the first defensive unit.
My father’s voice came through the headset, calling out adjustments as the drill began. “Nosh, tighten that gap. You’re giving the forward too much space.” His tone sounded clipped, professional to the point of being cold.
Tolrek adjusted, his shoulders pulling back in a way that told me he’d heard the difference too.
The drill continued.
My father didn’t look at Tolrek once after that, not even when he made a perfect positioning read that cut off a developing play.
Not when he called out an adjustment to Mikael that improved the whole unit’s structure.
Not even when he stripped the puck from Crim in a sequence that should’ve earned praise.
The team noticed. Crim glanced between my father and Tolrek multiple times during the water break, his expression thoughtful. Brashe skated close to Tolrek, and the two of them talked, but I couldn’t hear what they said from the press box.
Whatever it was, it helped Tolrek for about thirty seconds.
Then my father called the next drill, and Tolrek’s body language changed again. He was closing off, protecting himself. It showed in how he positioned himself on the ice.
I watched him guard his left side on the next sequence.
The hesitation was back.
My fingers rested on the keyboard, ready to tag the sequence for review, but I held myself back. The footage would sit in my archives as evidence of what I’d helped him build before I’d helped tear it down.
Mikael missed an easy pass and swore loud enough that it carried up to me. He usually cracked a joke after mistakes like that. Today he skated back into position without saying a word.
Several players glanced up at me. Then back down at Tolrek. Then over to my father.
They were piecing it together.
The tension was thick enough to choke on, and we were only twenty minutes into practice.
Eventually, it ended. I packed up my gear, watching the team file off the ice below. Most of them headed straight for the locker room. A few lingered, talking in clusters that broke apart when my father walked past.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
A message lit up the screen. My office. Both of you. 15 minutes. -Dad
Not Jim.
Dad.
The shift from coach to father made my throat tighten, but I couldn’t think about that now.
I texted Tolrek with fingers that finally cooperated, telling him what my father had said.
His response came through immediately. He messaged me too.
I’m scared.
Me too. But we’ll be alright.
The words were enough to get me moving.
The main corridor stretched ahead, full of players milling around in various states of undress. Some still in gear, others in workout clothes, a few already showered and changed into street clothes.
All of them turned to look when I walked past, but no one said anything.
Simone stood near the entrance to the players’ lounge, talking to Fedor. She caught my eye as I passed and gave me a nod, the kind that said, I’m rooting for you, without drawing attention.
The wives and girlfriends definitely knew.
I wondered how many conversations had happened in group chats I wasn’t part of. How many people had put the pieces together before we’d even walked into my father’s house last night?
Tolrek was waiting outside my father’s office.
He’d showered and changed into jeans and a dark Henley, his hair still damp. He stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders tense, staring at the door like he was trying to see through it.
He looked up when I approached.
“Ready?” I asked, stopping beside him.
“No.” His voice rasped. “You?”
“Not even a bit.”
Footsteps echoed from around the corner. Brashe appeared, stopping short when he saw us. His gaze moved from Tolrek to me and back to Tolrek, and something passed between them that I couldn’t read.
Brashe gave us a single nod. The gesture conveyed everything it needed to.
Tolrek nodded back, and the tension in his shoulders eased.
“They all know,” I said quietly after Brashe had left.
“Does that make this easier or harder?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Tolrek reached past me, opened the door, and we stepped inside.
My father sat behind his desk, his shoulders slightly hunched. Elbows on the desk. One hand rubbing his face. He looked older than he had yesterday. Tired beyond just missing sleep.
Two empty chairs sat across from his desk.
“Sit,” he said without looking up.
We did, and I internally started counting. One. Two. Three. Four.
At fifteen, my father finally spoke. “I spent all night thinking about what you both said.” He looked up then, meeting my eyes first. “I never meant to make you feel as if you didn’t have meaning.”
“I know you didn’t,” I croaked out.
“But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.” He leaned back in his chair, and the leather creaked. “When your mother died, you were so young. I thought if I could keep you close, you’d be safe.”
The tears came before I could stop them. I’d told myself in the hallway that I wouldn’t cry, that I’d be strong and handle this like an adult.
I was crying anyway.
“I needed you to be invisible,” my father said, his voice going quieter, “because I was terrified of losing you too. If you stayed in the background, then nothing bad could happen to you. But instead, I made you disappear, even from yourself.”
“I didn’t know how to be anything else,” I said through tears. “I didn’t know how to want something that wasn’t about being near you.”
“And that’s on me.” My father’s jaw tightened. “I should’ve pushed you to build your own life instead of orbiting mine. If I’d seen what I was doing, I would’ve stopped it. But I was selfish. I wanted you close because you were all I had left of her.”
Years of grief sat between us. Mom’s death had carved hollows in us both, and we’d been filling the space with hockey instead of each other.
My father turned to Tolrek. “You should’ve come to me sooner.”
“Agreed,” Tolrek said.
“But.” My father paused. “I also know my daughter well enough to know that if she chose you, and she’s willing to risk everything for you, then you’re worth it.”
Surprise showed on Tolrek’s face.
“She doesn’t do anything halfway,” my father said. “So if she loves you…” The word caught in his throat, and he had to force it out. “Then you’re the real thing.”
My father leaned back in his chair, linking his arms across his chest.