“I talked to Lizzie this morning.” He says it so casually, like he’s muttering a grocery list, that it adds to the anger the statement brews in me. He raises his hands before I have a chance to voice my rage. “Calm down. If you’re not going to care about her feelings, I have to.”
“I do care about her feelings, but it’s not like I was going to marry her or anything,” I reply. It’s an effort to keep my voice low and even. “It was six weeks. We were only together six weeks and she’s acting like I broke up a ten-year marriage. So are you, for that matter.”
“Well, I was hoping for more than ten years when I set it up.”
His words don’t register fully at first. Not the full meaning. Then it’s like a grenade that’s had its pin pulled. It lands smack-dab in the middle of my brain and there’s nothing…and thenBOOM!
“When you set it up? Set up what? Lizzie and me?” I question, glaring at my father/manager/matchmaker, apparently. “How?”
He has the nerve to roll his eyes like I’m the one being dramatic. “You came home from Seattle last summer like a moody teenage girl who didn’t get asked to prom, and you wouldn’t stop bitching about wanting a real relationship.”
Is he for real right now? Is he actually belittling me after I followed all his damn rules my entire career and busted my ass, sacrificing most pieces of a normal life in order to become the best of the best and create the life he’s living right now, at this fancy hotel with his twenty-dollar fucking smoothie I’m sure he’s expensing to me? Is he really fucking doing that?
“Look, I get it, you need to get laid, and you want it steady, like other guys get.” He leans back even farther in his chair, either completely oblivious or completely unruffled by the fury building inside me. “But you aren’t other guys. Everything you do, everyone you do, can affect your bottom line. I knew what type of girl would work with your image—local hometown girl, sweet, does charity work, no crazy half-naked party pictures on social media—so I started doing a little looking and found Lizzie. I told her about you and invited her to that barbeque. The rest was supposed to be happily-ever-after history.”
“How the fuck did you find her? Did you take out a fucking ad and interview women like it was a job? And, no, I won’t stop fucking swearing,” I finish before he can berate me.
He stands up now so we’re almost face-to-face, but my dad is barely five-nine, so I have a couple of inches on him, not to mention pounds. Thankfully, the restaurant is almost empty so no one is paying attention to the father and son who are about to kill each other.
“She’s the daughter of a guy I went to college with,” Don replies. “Now calm down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” I reply sharply. “You don’t get to do that anymore. You can advise me on business matters, but that’s it. You’re nothing but a business manager, do you understand?”
His scowl softens around the edges with something I can’t comprehend, because it looks like remorse or hurt or something equally as uncharacteristic to this man. “Avery, I only had your best interests in mind. I was trying to help.”
“You want to help, do your job and only your job. Or Iwillfire you.” I don’t wait to see what new expression that comment gets. I just leave.
We have never had a fight like that. Never. And we’ve had some doozies. I can’t fucking believe Lizzie was a setup. Of course now that I know, it all makes sense. He probably advised her on me the way he advises me on business. He probably told her what to say, how to act, what food I liked, what music. That time she made me chicken parm before a game was probably because my father told her to do it and not the amazing coincidence I thought it was.
Jesus. What the hell kind of lie was I living? No wonder I felt like something was missing with her. Our relationship was never real or authentic, so of course it didn’t feel right. And Lizzie never told me either. That part bothers me the most.
When I get home, I head up Steph’s staircase and knock. Maddie answers the door and looks surprised to see me. “Hey!” She smiles brightly. “Stephanie’s not home. She went for a ride up the coast, I think. You know how she loves to ride near the beach on a sunny day.”
“Oh.” I can’t hide my disappointment. “I was hoping to talk to her before my nap. See how things went with Seb.”
Maddie leans on the door. “She told Sebastian about you two?”
I nod. “I think she kind of had to since he caught us making out.”
“Ha! That’s awesome.” Maddie laughs and I give her a pained look. “Okay, well, there were subtler ways to tell him, but I think Steph needed that kind of kick in the pants. She was really nervous about being public with you for some reason. Now that Sebastian knows, there’s no reason to keep it secret.”
I think about that and realize how right Maddie is. Stephanie was the one who wanted things on the down-low, which is strange because it’s usually me asking for secrecy. Was she really that worried about her brother’s reaction? Because he didn’t freak out, at least not in front of me. He didn’t try to kill me or even maim me.
“Yeah. We can be public now.” I smile at Maddie, but it’s still uneasy.
Something isn’t sitting right. Why didn’t she call me after Seb left? She once told me that long rides down the Pacific Coast Highway clear her head. Why does she need her head cleared?
“Cool!” Maddie is more enthusiastic than I am. “So we need to plan a double date. I love double dates. Maybe we do a weekend at Catalina Island? That’d be fun, just the four of us.”
I just nod and hop over the railing dividing our porches. “Sure. Let’s figure it out later. Right now I need my pregame nap.”
“Yeah, Ty’s snoozing in my room.” Maddie’s blue eyes drift up toward the ceiling for a minute. “I’ll tell Steph you stopped by. See you tonight after the game.”
“Later.”
I wave and unlock my front door and slip inside. I drop my keys on the hall table and walk into the living room. I always take my pregame naps on the couch, with the same knitted blue-and-gold throw blanket that used to be on our couch at home. I snagged it when I turned pro and moved it to Seattle with me. I pull it out from where I keep it in the bench by the window and pull the curtains closed before dropping onto the couch and getting comfortable.
I stare at my phone screen. Not a word from Stephanie. That makes my gut roll uncomfortably, but I’m not sure why. I decide not to bother her because she’s on her scooter and I don’t want her to be distracted by a phone buzzing in her pocket. So I pull up Seb’s contact instead. The Winterhawks should be settled in L.A. now, and since they don’t play until tomorrow night I know I’m not interrupting a pregame nap when I dial his number.
