I’m the other one—the son who skates for the team his father owns.
“Dinner’s in ten,” she says, linking her arm through mine as we head toward the dining room. “Mom made lamb. Dad opened the good wine. You’re in for a full interrogation. Lucky you.”
“Can’t wait.”
The smell of rosemary and butter hits me halfway down the hall, mingled with the faint citrus of my mother’s perfume. The dining room is as polished as ever—mahogany table set with crystal and linen, fire crackling in the stone hearth. My mothersits at the far end, graceful as always, scrolling her tablet with manicured fingers. My father stands by the window, phone in one hand, a tumbler of scotch in the other.
He looks up as we enter.
“There’s my boy,” he says, smiling the way CEOs do for cameras—warm but practiced. “How’s the season treating you, Son?”
“Good,” I lie smoothly, taking my seat beside Molly. “We’re third in the division.”
“Third?” he repeats, brows lifting. “That’s not bad. Notgreat, either.”
Molly groans softly. “Dad, let him eat before the performance review.”
My mother looks up, her expression softer. “Ignore your father, darling. You look thin. Are you eating properly?”
I’m six feet tall and mostly muscle, of course I’m eating.
“Mom,” I protest, but she’s already reaching over to fix my collar like I’m still twelve.
Dinner arrives in silver dishes—lamb, roasted potatoes, sautéed green beans. It’s perfect, like everything in this house. Theconversation starts light: weather, travel schedules, my sister’s latest surgical miracle. Then it shifts. It always does.
“So,” my father says, cutting into his lamb with precision. “I saw the press piece on you and that defense partner of yours. Thorn, isn’t it?”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “Yeah. Kyle Thorn.”
He gives me that assessing look that could double as a lie detector. “Are you two seeing each other?”
Across the table, Molly hides a smirk behind her wineglass. “Subtle as ever.”
“It’s a reasonable question,” he says, unbothered. “There’s chatter online. Photos, dinner, something about you two being… cozy.”
I set my fork down carefully. “It was just a couple of dinners, that’s all. We’re friends. Teammates.”
Molly raises an eyebrow. “Youdolook good together, though. All that blond-blue symmetry. Your PR team must be drooling.”
My father chuckles. “She’s not wrong. You should think strategically, Alaric. Public perception matters, especially in our market. A relationship like that could humanize you—show people you’re not just the stoic Hale heir. It’d be good for the brand.”
I stare at him. “Thebrand.You mean the team.”
He shrugs, swirling his scotch. “You, the team—it’s all connected. Optics matter. The Hale name carries weight. If people see you in a stable, respectable relationship, that’s good press. Especially with someone like Thorn—solid player, clean record. Makes you both look dependable.”
“Jesus, Dad.” Molly shakes her head. “You can’t treat his love life like a marketing campaign.”
“I’m not,” he says mildly. “I’m treating it like reality. Everything’s PR now. You know that better than anyone, Doctor.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s different. My hospital doesn’t own me.”
He laughs softly. “Doesn’t it, though?”
“Stop,” my mother says gently. “Both of you.” Then, to me: “Your father just wants you to be happy. However that looks.”
“No, he wants me to be useful,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang there, heavy and sharp.
