He smiled. “You always do.”
We spent the next few minutes talking through the package. He asked good questions and made observations that actuallyhelped. This was us at our best, two people who understood hockey and each other.
He started to leave, taking a few steps toward the door before turning back.
“Training camp’s always an adjustment period,” he said. “You know how it is.”
I did know. “It takes time.”
“Some of them are still settling in socially. Camp can be intense.” He leaned against the doorframe. “I’m glad you’re here, Haley. Having someone I trust completely in the building makes the job easier.”
The old warmth moved through me. He’d been my whole world after my mother died, the constant in a life built around his schedule, his rink, and his team. I’d chosen this, every time.
“Training camp has a way of making things feel more significant than they are. Especially for new acquisitions who are still finding their footing.”
He wasn’t naming anyone, but he didn’t have to. He’d seen me talking with Tolrek at the dinner and read more into it than he should.
The rule had existed since I hit puberty. I’d been a freshman in college when he first spelled it out, after I’d spent an entire semester watching one of his senior players, hoping he’d notice I existed. He never had. I’d been invisible, which was worse than heartbroken.
My father had sat me down and explained, gently, that hockey players were off-limits. He’d seen relationships like that detonate teams and careers. He was protecting me.
I’d been mortified then.
Sitting here now, three days after the welcome dinner, and hearing it again in this rink I’d followed him to, it landed differently.
“I understand what you’re saying.” I kept my face neutral. “I’ve always known.”
“Perfect. Glad that’s settled.” He smiled. “You’re the best thing about this program.”
With that, he left.
I turned back to my screens and let out a long breath.
I loved my dad. What I was feeling right now was something closer to grief. He was protecting me. He was also, without knowing it, defining the shape of what I couldn’t have.
During the welcome dinner, I’d stood in a corner with someone who’d talked to me like I was a real person.
Tolrek enjoyed raspberry pastries as much as I did. He’d made a point to seek me out and tell me.
My father’s footsteps faded down the corridor.
I returned to the footage.
Different footsteps rang out in the hallway right away. Tolrek stopped in the doorway, wearing practice gear, his bag hanging over one shoulder, his hair pulled back.
His expression gave me nothing.
I’d been studying him for three days, and I’d gotten good at reading what wasn’t there.
He’d heard what my dad said or some of it.
My pulse kicked against my ribs.
“When’s my tape session?” he said in a voice much too professional. The schedule was posted in the locker room. Any of the assistant coaches could’ve told him.
Instead, he’d asked me.
I filed the fact in the folder I’d been trying not to create.
