My father’s jaw tightens a fraction. “Careful, Al.”
Molly kicks my shin under the table. “Play nice.”
I take a breath, force a smile. “I’m fine, Dad. Kyle and I are just… getting to know each other. It’s not serious.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “Then make it serious.”
“What?”
He sets his glass down. “The timing’s perfect. The league’s warming up to visible LGBTQ players, the fans love a romance angle, and you could stand to loosen your image. You’re too rigid. Thorn balances that. He’s approachable. You two together—people eat that up. Sponsors love it.”
“Dad—”
“I’m not saying marry the man,” he cuts in. “I’m saying don’t waste an opportunity.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it stings. Opportunity. That’s all it ever is to him. Not people. Not feelings. Just moves on a chessboard.
Molly sighs, swirling her wine. “You ever think maybe he should date someone because he likes them? Not because it’ll boost the season’s ticket sales?”
My father smirks. “You don’t get to the top by ignoring good press.”
“Maybe not,” she says, “but you also don’t stay sane if every relationship’s a PR stunt.”
I can’t help a small laugh. “She’s right, Dad. Kyle’s great, but it’s… casual. We’re not putting out a press release.”
“You should consider it,” he says, like he’s talking about a business merger. “Bring him to our charity event next week. It’ll be good for the team.”
Molly groans. “Oh my God, just hire a wedding planner.”
That earns her a glare from him and a snort from me. For a moment, the tension breaks. It’s like that with us—sharp edges cushioned by habit. Still, under it all, the pressure hums. I can feel my father watching me, calculating. Always calculating.
When the plates are cleared, Mom insists we move to the sitting room for dessert. She brings out espresso and her signature lemon cake. It’s her way of keeping peace—sweetness after the sting.
Molly sinks into the sofa beside me. “You know he only pushes because he thinks you need direction,” she murmurs. “You’re the golden boy he can still shape.”
I huff. “You make it sound like I’m clay.”
She smirks. “You kind of are. Just really expensive clay.”
“Wow. Thanks.”
She bumps my shoulder lightly. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”
I glance at her. “You ever get tired of being the good one?”
“Every day,” she says without hesitation. “But it’s better than being the one everyone doubts.”
That lands harder than she probably means it to. She winces, reaching for my arm. “Sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” I wave it off, forcing a smile. “It’s fine.”
But it’s not.
The truth is, she’s right. No matter what I do on the ice, there’s always that whisper—Daddy’s money bought his jersey.Never mind the years I spent proving I could stand on my own. The hours of training before dawn, the injuries, the fights. None of it matters. The rumor sticks. It always does.
Maybe that’s why Magnus’s taunts hit so deep. He says the same things the tabloids do—but from him, it feels personal. Like he wants to see if I’ll break.
“You look lost again,” Molly says softly.
