Page 54 of Hard to Love

“Leave my father out of this,” she snarls and the fire that flashes in her eyes is so damn good to see.

Fire I can handle.

Temper I can combat with.

Anything is better than her endless silence and haunted eyes.

“You’re the one who called me, Stevie. I’m the one who showed up.” That fire sputters with my words, and I struggle with what to do or how to do it. “Do you have a place of your own you’d like to go instead? Somewhere that you’d be more comfortable?”

Tears well in her eyes once again as she shakes her head. “Not yet. He still feels like he’s everywhere there.”

“Okay.”

“Plus, when I’m there, everyone knows where I am, my routine. The press, the fans, the . . . just everyone. I’ve lived my life in front of the cameras. Every hiccup, every victory, every mistake. Can’t I just have some time not to? Can’t I just have clear space to breathe for a bit?”

“Take all the time you need.” I lean back in my seat and look out toward the moon in the darkened sky above before looking back to her. “There’s a private tennis court down the street that I’ve secured for you. Kellen is on standby should you want to train . . . or it would be perfectly acceptable in this situation for you to pull out of the Open next month, citing a strained back or muscle or something of the like. Of course that means your rank would fall . . .”

Her back stiffens. It’s good to see it. The sight is such a juxtaposition to the meekness I’ve seen over the past few days and the sadness in her eyes. “I’m not pulling out of the Open. Don’t bring it up again.” She scoots back from her plate that she’s barely touched, her voice softening. “Thank you, Finn. For bringing me here.” She stands, her head down looking at her clasped hands. “I’m sorry for bringing you into this.”

And with that, she leaves the dinner table and heads to her bedroom. I watch her until the door clicks, and I’m left with just my thoughts and the crash of the waves on the beach outside echoing through the house.

I finish both of our sandwiches, clean up, and am headed to my office with the rest of the bottle of wine. When I pass her room, the unmistakable sound of crying comes through the door.

I’m in complete indecision whether I should knock and offer comfort or leave her alone. I stand there for some time, my hand poised to knock, before I continue on to my office.

But even when work should fill my thoughts—new clients, merchandising deals, contract negotiations—I’m left looking out into the darkness of the night, wondering how exactly I let Stevie Lancaster get to me.

Because I did.

And I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

STEVIE

“YOU’VE REACHED LIAM LANCASTER. LEAVE a message and I’ll get back to you when time permits.”

My body aches with the deepest type of sadness when his voice fills my ears.

Then there’s the beep.

“Hi, Dad. It’s me. It’s been a shitshow as of late—what I’ve been doing myself and what my supposed mother has told the world. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. You would be disappointed in me, but after beating Greshenko the other night, I realized I miss the game. There’s something about it—the routine of it, the everything about it—that makes me feel closer to you.

“But more than anything, I called because I want you to know that I don’t care what Mary Johnson says or doesn’t say. You’re my father. You always have been and you always will be. Our bond is so strong that I dare anyone to tell me we’re not related.”

There’s a beep ending the message but I keep talking.

“I’ve taken a few days for myself this week and have done a lot of thinking. About who I am and who I want to be now that you’re not at my side. You’ve always told me it’s the hardest thing in the world to look at yourself and to see and then to face the truth. I’ve faced it, Dad. I realized that I was so busy resenting you that I forgot I still loved you.” I barely choke the words out. “I realized that you did what you did to make me a better person and a stronger tennis player. I may still think of you as a tyrant some days, but I know you were busy pushing me to be everything my mom wasn’t. You were trying to make me be the best me because you knew you weren’t going to be here someday. So, thank you. For your sacrifices, for the nights you went to bed with indigestion because you knew you were too hard on me, but because you knew it was how I learned.” I hiccup over a massive sob. “What I’d give to hear you say, ‘Game on, Stevester,’ one last time. I love you.”

The tears come.

One after another.

The thoughts ebbing and flowing with them.

With how much he gave for me. How much I took for granted. It’s only after this Mary lady has shown up that I realized how much he dedicated his life to give me mine. How much he sacrificed went unnoticed, because I was too busy focusing on what I was missing out on. I never thought of him.

The tears slide down my cheeks and my hands grip my phone and, slowly but surely, I feel lighter.

I call his voicemail again. Just to hear the message.