“Gala’s in three days,” he says, conversational. “Your final list looked good.”
“It is good,” I say. “We’ll break records.”
“I know,” he says, and it’s not mockery. It’s a fact and a strange sort of compliment:I trust you with my team because I know you like breaking hard things without hurting people.His eyes track my face, though, not my file folder. “You didn’t sleep here.”
“I didn’t.”
He looks at his mug like it might help him pick a tone. When he finds one, it’s not rage. It’s not even edge. It’s the careful voice he uses when he’s telling a kid that what happened on the ice wasn’t their fault and also absolutely was. “I’m not your warden, Samantha.”
“I know,” I say, and my throat burns because he is also not the man I want to accuse of being my jailer.
“I’m your father,” he says. “Which means I’m obligated to be the fool who stands between you and the train even when you tell me you like the noise.”
“It’s not a train,” I say quietly. “It’s a man.”
He doesn’t flinch at my refusal to pretend, and I love and hate him for it. “A man who works for me. A man I care about in a way that has nothing to do with this and entirely too much.”
“Then you know he’s decent,” I say, too fast.
“I know he can be,” he says. “I also know what men look like when desire makes them misread decency as absolution. And what girls look like when being seen feels like salvation.”
I stare at my coffee because if I look at him I will spill tears and confessions that belong to last night, not this kitchen. “I’m not a girl.”
“I know,” he says, with a grief that has nothing to do with disapproval. “That’s the problem and the point.”
We sit there and let the appliance orchestra sing to us. The clock ticks. My heart tries to match it and fails.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, when I can trust my voice again.
“To be careful,” he says. “To remember you’re not immune to harm just because you consent to the risk.”
“I know the difference,” I say. “Between harm and danger.”
“Do you?” he asks, no softness. “Most people don’t until after.”
“I do,” I insist, and I lift my eyes to his. “Because of you.”
That lands exactly where I intended. He nods once, jaw working. “Then hear me say this like a coach and a father both. If he hurts you, I will make sure he never works in this league again.”
“He won’t,” I say, and I say it like a vow because it is one. “And if he does, I’ll help you carry the match to the gasoline.”
He exhales a breath that might be a laugh in another universe. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”
“I hope so,” I whisper.
He stands. He doesn’t kiss my head because we aren’t that version of ourselves in this moment. He taps the table twice with two fingers—the signal we used when I was a kid that meantI’m leaving the room but not you.He heads for the door. Pauses. Looks back.
“If you’re going to do this,” he says, voice rougher now, “don’t make me your enemy to make it easier on yourself.”
It spears me cleanly because I have been setting him up for that in my head, turning him into an obstacle so I could pretend I was righteous, not frightened. “I won’t.”
He nods and leaves. The door shuts. The house resets. My breath staggers like it’s learning to walk.
My phone buzzes where I left it by the keys. Two messages. One fromUnknown. One from a name I never changed in my contacts:Dad.
Dad:Text me when you’re at the rink. We’ll run through the program one more time.
Unknown:Near. Not on you.Unless you ask.
