He didn’t respond, just sat there waiting for me to continue.
I exhaled again, shoulders dropping. “I just…had a rough week. I didn’t skate well, and then I made it worse.” I paused again. “I said something I shouldn’t have.”
“Does it have something to do with a certain quarterback that’s been moping around my field all week?”
When I glanced up, he raised his glass to his mouth with a lifted eyebrow.
“A little,” I mumbled. “I was upset about not skating well, and I might have taken it out on him.”
“I see. I take it that’s why you ignored my messages and calls?” he asked over the rim of his glass.
I winced. “Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t respond.”
“I get it. Not doing as well as you wanted is hard.” If anyone understood where I was coming from, it was my dad. “You didn’t place first. That happens. No one’s perfect the first time they step out there.”
“I can handle not winning,” I said, shaking my head, once again about to voice my fear. “I just… I don’t want to go out there and have you see me fail. Like all of this was for nothing.” My voice cracked. “Like I’ve disappointed you.”
My dad gave up a lot to raise me on his own. Gave up a football career. Moved us here so I could train. Paid the ungodly amount for new skates, outfits, and to have Marcy coach me. One of the reasons I pushed myself so hard to be the best was so none of that went to waste. So all of the sacrifices my dad made were worth something.
“You could never disappoint me, Emmie.” He sat his drink down, shaking his head like the idea didn’t even make sense. “Do you hear yourself? You’ve already done more than I ever dreamed for you.”
He shifted closer on the couch, reaching for my hand. “I don’t care about placements. I don’t care about medals.” His grip tightened slightly. “I care that you’re out there doing what you love. That you’re happy.”
His voice softened, a small quiver to it. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
My throat tightened, and my vision blurred. Not trusting that a sob wouldn’t break free, I quickly closed the space between us, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
“I love you, Em Bear,” he said against my head.
“I love you, too, Dad.”
For the first time in a week, the pressure in my chest eased.
“You know,you can come out and watch the game instead of peeking around your door frame every few minutes,” Erin called from her spot on the couch, the TV showing the Titans’ football game.
Ever since I got home from seeing Marcy, I’d been peeking around my door to see bits and pieces of the game. Even if things between Mateo and I were over, I was still going to watch him play and root for him to win.
My chest ached at the thought of not being in the stands. I should be there right now, but instead, I decided to be a complete bitch and ruin the best thing to ever happen to me.
Sighing, I finally came out of my room and plopped down beside her. “I swear you have eyes in the back of your head.”
“Of course I do. I know all.” She shoved a handful of Cheetos in her mouth, eyes glued to the TV to watch her two men play.
“If you know all, then how come you didn’t know that Foot Man was taking secret photos of your feet and selling them online until you caught him in the middle of the night painting your toes—four months into the relationship?” I asked.
“Emmie!”
I dodged the flying Cheeto with a cackle.
“We vowed to never, ever bring that up again!” She threw another one. I caught it and shoved it in my mouth.
I shrugged. “Still think you should have gotten all that money he earned.”
“Me too,” she mumbled.
I turned to the screen, the opposing team trying to scoreagainst the Titans’ defense. Mateo wasn’t on the field, but my eyes searched for his jersey number regardless.
“How are they playing?” I asked, trying to pretend I was asking about the team instead of Mateo.
