He crosses his arms. “I think you've made your choice pretty clear.”
“That's exactly what we need to talk about.” I move past him into the kitchen, refusing to be intimidated in my own childhood home. “Because this isn't a choice between you and him, Dad. It never was.”
The kitchen island is covered in bowls and measuring cups. A tray of cinnamon rolls sits cooling on the counter—my favorite. Even pissed at me, he still makes my favorite.
Dad follows me, his footsteps heavy. “He's using you, Hennessy.”
“No, he's not.” I turn to face him. “And if you'd stop being so fucking stubborn for five minutes, you'd see that.”
“Watch your language in my house.”
“Seriously? That's what you're worried about right now? My language?” I laugh, the sound brittle. “Not the fact that you haven't spoken to me in days? That you're throwing away our relationship over some old hockey rivalry?”
His nostrils flare. “This isn't about hockey.”
“Then what is it about? Because I'm struggling to understand why you hate him so much.”
“He's too old for you,” Dad starts, but I cut him off.
“Bullshit.”
Dad's mouth tightens. “He's not good enough for you!”
“Based on what?” I step closer, refusing to back down. “Your twenty-five-year-old grudge? Have you ever actually had a conversation with him that wasn't about hockey?”
Dad's face flushes dark red, and for a moment, I think he's going to start yelling again. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and sighs so deeply it seems to come from his bones.
“You really want to know why I hate him?” His voice drops, suddenly tired. “Because the minute I saw him look at you, I knew I was going to lose you.”
The admission knocks the wind out of me. “What?”
“At that charity game a few years ago. The way he watched you.” Dad turns away, grabbing a dishcloth and wiping flour from the counter with unnecessary force. “I've seen that look before. It's the same way I look at your mother.”
“Dad—”
“And I fucking hated it,” he continues, his movements becoming more agitated. “Because I knew. I knew if he got his hands on you, I'd never be the most important man in your life again.”
My throat tightens. “That's not how it works.”
“Isn't it?” He finally looks at me, and the raw pain in his eyes makes my chest ache. “You haven't spoken to me in days either, mija.”
“Because you wouldn't talk to me!” My voice cracks. “Because you acted like I betrayed you by falling in love!”
The word hangs between us, heavy and undeniable. Dad's shoulders slump slightly.
“Did you ever think,” I continue, softer now, “that maybe I could love you both? That this isn't a competition?”
Dad lets out a harsh laugh. “Everything with Kingston is a competition.”
“Not me.” I step closer, putting my hand on his flour-dusted arm. “I'm not a trophy, Dad.I'm your daughter. And I need you to see me—really see me—as a woman who can make her own choices.”
He stares at my hand on his arm for a long moment, then meets my eyes. “Is he good to you?” The question sounds like it physically pains him to ask.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “Better than good.”
Dad's jaw works back and forth. “And you're happy? With him?”
“I'm the happiest I've ever been.” My voice breaks a little. “I love him, Dad. And he loves me.”
