"As serious as a penalty kill in overtime."
"I just spent two hours getting rejected on the ice and now I have to sit through a three-course meal pretending to care about people whose greatest athletic achievement is a vigorous round of golf?" I throw my head back against the couch. "I am not wearing a dress. I refuse. I will die before I put on a dress for the Beaumonts."
He laughs, and the sound is so warm that it temporarily dissolves the cold knot of anxiety that has been lodged beneath my sternum since the parking lot.
"Alright, Miss Suit and Tie. Wear whatever you want. But I will say this." He holds up a finger, his expression shifting intomock seriousness. "If you ever get married, it is going to have to be a wedding dress. There are some traditions even I cannot override."
"Married." I snort, pushing myself off the couch with the heavy reluctance of someone being asked to leave the only comfortable place in a very uncomfortable house. "Dad. I cannot even find a man. Let alone a pack. Let alone a group of Alphas unhinged enough to bond with an Omega who would rather bodycheck them into the boards than bake them a casserole." I shake my head, running both hands through my tangled, still-sweaty hair. "Marriage is on the back burner. Way back. Behind the burner. Behind the stove. In a different kitchen entirely."
He laughs again, harder this time, the sound filling his cluttered office and bouncing off trophies and coaching manuals and the faded photograph of a nineteen-year-old kid on a frozen pond who had no idea that his greatest achievement would not be listed on any plaque.
"You never know, Sage." He settles back behind his desk, pulling his reading glasses down from his forehead to their proper position on his nose. "I found your mother when I was coaching the game that changed my life. Was not looking for her. Was not expecting her. She walked into that arena like she owned it, and I spent the next six months trying to figure out how a woman who hated hockey married a hockey coach."
He shrugs, his lips twitching.
"You may find a man when you least expect it. And if you are very lucky, he might actually have the balls to handle you. Him and his entire pack."
"Good luck to them," I say, and the laugh that escapes me is genuine. Bright. The first real laugh I have produced in weeks, and it catches me off guard with its own existence. "They will need therapy. And protective equipment. And a very good insurance policy."
Dad grins.
"That is my girl."
I head toward the door, my hand finding the brass knob that has been polished smooth by decades of turnings. The hallway beyond is quiet, the evening light filtering through tall windows and casting amber rectangles across the hardwood floor. Somewhere deeper in the house, I can hear the muffled sound of my mother on a phone call, her voice carrying that clipped, authoritative cadence she reserves for subordinates and household staff and anyone else she considers beneath the threshold of genuine engagement.
I pause at the threshold.
Turn back.
My father is already bent over his desk, scribbling notes on what looks like a practice schedule. His glasses have slid to the end of his nose again. His flannel is still untucked. A cold cup of peppermint tea sits at his elbow, forgotten in favor of whatever play he is diagramming on a napkin because napkins are apparently an acceptable substitute for professional coaching software.
He is the most disorganized, brilliant, stubbornly optimistic person I have ever met.
And he is the only reason I have not given up.
"Thank you, Dad."
The whisper barely carries across the room, but he hears it. Lifts his head. Meets my eyes with that quiet, private smile.
"Love you, Sage."
"Love you always."
He holds my gaze for one more beat, and then the smile sharpens into determination.
"Get that application submitted tonight. Give them one more shot to see your skills in a place that will not find it easy to say no."
I nod.
Step through the door.
Pull it closed behind me with a soft click that sounds like the period at the end of a very long sentence.
The hallway stretches before me, long and polished and lined with family portraits that chronicle the Holloway-Ashford dynasty in oil paint and gilded frames. My mother at thirty, resplendent in a gown that cost more than most people's annual rent. My parents on their wedding day, her smile radiant and his slightly bewildered, like he still cannot believe the woman next to him agreed to legally bind herself to a man who organizes his trophies by vibes instead of chronological order.
And me.
Age seven. Sitting on the bench at my first competitive game, gap-toothed smile, oversized helmet, jersey hanging past my knees because they did not make them small enough for Omega children.
