I pull out the chair across from him, the same chair I sat in when I was twelve, and lower myself into it. Some part of me is braced to run, calculating the exit, and I hate that instinct because this is my father, and he has never given me a reason to be afraid of honesty.
Except I've been giving myself reasons for weeks.
"I'm not here because of tomorrow's meeting," I say. "I'm here because you deserve to hear this from me. Tonight. Not in your office with the boys sitting across from you like it's a disciplinary hearing."
He studies me for a moment, then sets his mug down. "What I said on the field today, I meant. But that was for the team." His voice is quieter now, stripped of the coaching authority he wore on the sideline. "This conversation is for us."
Here, in this kitchen, he's my father. And he's giving me the space to talk to him as his daughter.
"I'm dating Milo and Quentin Vark." The words come out steady because I've been rehearsing them in my head for the entire drive, shaping them into something that sounds like a statement instead of a confession. "Both of them. It started the night of the Fab Feb auction and it's been going on for almost two weeks."
He nods once. "I know."
"You knew before today?"
"I suspected after the first week. Your mood changed. You started smiling at practice, which you haven't done since freshman year." The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. "And Milo's scent control is genuinely terrible. The boy smells like a bakery every time you walk onto the field."
A sound escapes me that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "He's on suppressants. They're just not strong enough for—"
"For being around you constantly. I figured." He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes steady on mine over the rim. "I didn't say anything because I was waiting for you to come to me. That's always been our deal, Iris. You handle your business, and if you need me, you ask."
"I should have asked sooner."
"Yeah." No softening, no reassurance. Just the truth, delivered bluntly the way he always has. "You should have. Not because I needed to approve it or because you need my permission to date anyone. But because I've been watching my daughter hide something that makes her happy, and that's a hard thing for a father to sit with."
Seeing the disappointment in his eyes hurts. "I was scared," I admit, though the word feels too small. "Not of you. Of what it would mean. For the team, for your position, for how people would look at you if they found out your daughter was with two of your players."
"People are going to look at me however they want to look at me. That's been true since I took this job." He throws me a small smile. "What I care about is you. Are you happy?"
"Yes."
"Are they good to you?"
"Yes." My voice catches on it, just slightly, the composure I've been holding cracking at the simplest question he could have asked. "They're good to me, Dad."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, reading my face the way he's read it my entire life, cataloguing what's real and what's performance. Whatever he finds must satisfy him because his shoulders drop a fraction, the tension he's been carrying releasing into something closer to resignation.
"There's more," I say, because stopping now would be a half-truth and I'm done with those. "Chad Mercer has been harassing me. It wasn’t that bad but it escalated recently. He called me from Kevin's phone, threatened to tell you about the twins, and tried to use it as leverage." I pull my phone from my coat pocket and set it on the table between us. "He confronted me between classes two days ago.”
The softness drains from my father’s face, replaced by something harder. "How long has this been going on?"
"The asking out, over a year. Forty-seven times. I kept count." A thin smile crosses my face. "The threats started after the auction. The physical confrontation was two days ago. And you saw what he did to Quentin today."
"You kept records."
"Dates, times, everything. I also found evidence that he paid someone to write his ethics paper last semester. And there are supplements in his locker that aren't on any approved list."
My father's hand flattens on the table, his palm pressing against the wood. I can see him processing it, filing each piece into the framework he uses to handle problems, separating the personal from the professional the way he's trained himself to do. “Did he touch you?” My hesitation is answer enough but my dad has always wanted my words. “Iris, answer the question.”
“Yeah, when he cornered me, he grabbed my arm. He told me he'd been watching my apartment and tracking when the Vark twins come and go." I innocently rub my wrist and then stop, knowing my father tracked the movement.
His nostrils flare once, the only visible crack in the composure, and I know that underneath the coach is a father whose daughter just told him that a boy has been harassing her. "I'll handle Chad. That’s not your problem anymore."
"Dad—"
"It stopped being your problem the moment he put his hands on you. I should have stepped in a long time ago. You told me you could handle it, and I believed you, and I shouldn't have let it go on this long." He clears his throat, his hand sliding off the table into his lap. "That's on me."
The silence that follows is heavy, cutting into me. I twist my hands on the table, waiting for the next beat. I can already feel that it’s going to be a strange question.
