The way he looks at me like I’m a problem he needs to fix. A situation he needs to make disappear. Not a person standing in front of him.
Certainly not his daughter.
“I didn’t come here hoping for a relationship,” I say, my voice unsteady no matter how hard I try to lock it down. “I came because I needed answers. Because I deserved to hear the truth from you.”
“And now you have,” he says.
There’s no apology or softness in his voice. I nod while biting down on my lip to contain the tension rising in my throat.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I guess I do.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything else. If I stay, I’m afraid I’ll crumble in front of him at the loss of something he’s made clear he can’t give me.
So I turn and storm out.
I barely make it out of his office before it hits.
Every step down the hallway and out of the building feels like a mile. My pulse pounds in my ears, my chest tight enough that every breath takes effort.
The door to his office clicks shut behind me, and that’s when it hits. I press my lips together, blinking hard as I keep walking. I don’t bother slowing down until I push through the doors, and the cold air hits my face.
All this time, I’ve wondered about my father. Who he was and if he knew about me.
Maybe if he had, he would have come for me?
But he did know. He never missed his chance.
He made a choice, and somehow, that hurts more than his silence ever did.
Chapter Eighteen
Cooper
By the time I get back to the hockey house, my body aches like I was hit by a truck. My shoulder has more of a dull ache, one that has a way of telling me it’s not planning on letting up anytime soon.
I roll it a few times, testing my range in an attempt to loosen it a bit, but the tightness never goes away.
I choose to shower again anyway.
The hot water does its job, the steam filling the bathroom helping ease my muscles enough to take the edge off. I brace my hand against the tile when I lift my arm to rinse my hair, clenching my jaw.
I’m fine. I’ve been through worse.
Maybe if I tell myself enough, I’ll start to believe it.
When I head downstairs afterward, dressed in a pair of gym shorts and no shirt, not wanting to bother with lifting my arm to put it on, Talon is already standing in the kitchen.
He looks up from where he is staring down at his phone, leaning against the counter. His eyes narrow, not at me but at the way I’m favoring one side without realizing it.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Just a bit stiff.”
I’m grateful when he doesn’t ride my ass about it either.
I grab a shaker bottle and scoop protein powder into it, moving on autopilot. My mind keeps drifting back to Brinley.
As if he can sense where my mind has gone, Talon clears his throat and asks, “You talk to Brinley recently?”
