My stomach flips. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Tate asks, and I know he’s watching my face, so I keep it neutral.
“Of course.” I keep my eyes closed. “I’m great.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yep.” No. Not even close. I smooth my fingers over my ponytail—a nervous habit—but Tate’s large, warm hand encircles my wrist, pulling it down to inspect it.
“What happened?” he asks, frowning with alarm.
Oh. The scratch. I’ve got another good one across the other arm from trying to get her into her new carrier to take her to the vet on Saturday morning.
“Nothing.” I jerk my wrist back, pulling my jacket sleeve down over it.
The good news: Somehow, she’s in perfect health. The bad news: She’s still a raging bitch and hisses at me every time I enter the same room as her.
The elevator pings on the top floor and the doors open. Like a perfect gentleman, Tate waits for me to exit first.
My father’s door is open, but the walls of his office are glass, and I can see him sitting at his desk, gazing out the window, lost in thought.
He looks lonely, sitting by himself, and emotion washes through me. My motivation falters. What am I doing? Every instinct says to walk away from the man who left me when I needed him most.
“Morning, Ross,” Tate says, taking a seat across from my father’s desk.
“Tate.” My dad nods at him, his eyes on me the entire time, a mix of emotions on his face. Surprise, disbelief, and something softer. Like he missed me.
My heart twists, but I ignore it.
“Hi, Jordan,” he says, quietly. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Hi, Ross.” I’m all business. I turn to Tate and glance pointedly at the door. “Thanks. I can take it from here.”
He settles into his chair. “I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind.”
A singe of fear moves through me at the idea of him watching me fall flat on my face. He’s the last person I want to witness my rejection.
“Fine by me. Hi, Ross.” I already said that. My pulse quickens and my thoughts feel scattered. My hands toy with each other, and I force them to my sides.
He gives me a little smile. “Hi, Jordan.”
He looks older. More gray hair and more lines on his face, but it’s in his eyes, too. Less spark in them, less intensity. I don’t speak to my father anymore and I don’t need him, but his growing older breaks my heart a bit.
I’m here for a reason, though.
“You can’t sell the team.”
Tate lets out a low, amused noise. “Don’t waste any time, do you? Subtle like a battering ram.”
I ignore him. “You love this team,” I say to my dad. “It’s everything to you. Do not sell the team.”
His eyes trail over me with an expression I can’t read. My dadhas always been excellent at hiding his emotions. “It’s time for me to move on, and this team isn’t everything to me.”
It fucking hurts, then, to hear that he chose it over me, again and again. He never made my school events, because he was playing or coaching. Vacations were just me and my mom. Even when he was around, he wasn’t present. He was on the ice, in the dressing room, in his office, thinking about his team.
My mom’s funeral was just the last straw.
One deep breath for courage. “Let’s make a deal, then.”
