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"Yes."

"Then you're being naive."

"I'm not naive."

"No? You think anybody out there gives a shit what's true?"

He snatches his phone off the counter and holds it up. "They've already got practice clips. Shift counts. Ice time. They're comparing his numbers from before and after he started seeing you. They're asking whether I knew. Whether I gave him opportunities because of you. Whether he's been playing differently because he's trying to impress his coach's daughter."

"That's ridiculous."

"Of course it's fucking ridiculous."

"Then don't treat it like it's true."

"I'm not worried about whether it's true!" His voice finally explodes through the kitchen. "I'm worried about what happens when everybody else decides it is."

Silence drops between us. My pulse pounds in my ears.

But I'm still angry enough to hold my ground.

"What are you trying to say?"

His mouth presses into a hard line. "I'm saying that if you care about Wyatt, you should consider everything this means for him. Don't be selfish."

"Of course I care about him. I'm in love with him, Dad." The words come out quiet but sure.

For one strange second, all the anger disappears from my dad's face.

He stares at me for a long moment.

"And I'm sorry if this puts you in a difficult position," I add.

Dad laughs once, harshly. "You think this only puts me in a bad position? Fine. Forget me. Let's talk about Wyatt."

"I know what you're doing."

"Do you?"

"You're trying to scare me."

"I'm trying to make you think past tomorrow."

"I have."

"No. You've thought about whether you're willing to take the consequences. I'm asking whether you're willing to let him take them."

I fold my arms. "Wyatt can make his own decisions."

“Absolutely. And he’s twenty-four years old, still establishing himself in this league, in love with my daughter, and probably convinced he’d skate through a brick wall if you asked him to.”

"I wouldn't ask him to."

"You already are."

My stomach tightens.

"No, I'm not."