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Paloma presses a quick kiss to my cheek and nods, stepping away to follow Sadie across the ballroom. I watch them exit—then pathetically watch the darkened hallway, like she might immediately reappear.
A hand firmly wraps around my forearm, yanking me closer to the wall. My dad, I realize with a shock. He’s dressed in a black tux and bowtie, curls slicked back with gel, eyes dark.
“We need to talk.”
I shrug out of his hold but stay close. “Then talk.”
His voice drops lower, a whispered hiss. “You want to tell me why I got a no-show charge from your therapist?”
Damn it. A no-show charge alert for him, because it wouldn’t be covered by our insurance—an alert to tell him I’ve missed therapy three times in a row.
I keep my face impassive, careful with every twitch of muscle, because my dad has always been the person in every room who understood me most. If I even blink oddly, he’ll pick up on it. Taking a sip from my glass, I dip my chin.
“I’ll pay you back.”
Like lighting a match, his expression boils over—though it’s more hurt than anger spreading across the lines of his face.
“Pay me back,” he mutters, almost breathless. “You’ve got to be fucking joking. What the hell is going on, Ben? Why are you missing therapy?’
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he snaps. “Talk to me. Please, Ben—”
“Honestly, you’re the last person I want to talk to right now, Dad.” My words are cutting, harsh, but I turn away before I can see the blows land. “Besides—”
“Adam Reiner,” yet another voice interrupts. I raise a hand to the bridge of my nose, rubbing my thumb there as a headache starts to form.
The newest Waterfell coach is standing opposite us, invading our circle with a small redheaded girl—Paloma’s roommate, Lily, on the arm of a well-dressed young man that I don’t recognize.
My dad’s brow furrows, and he eyes me for a moment longer before straightening with a sharp smile. “Sorry, do we know each other?”
“Christopher LaBlanc,” he introduces himself, one hand on his chest and the other wrapped around a wine glass stem. “I’m the new assistant coach for the Wolves; more of a favor to Harris than anything else, but”—he shrugs with a wide grin, all gleaming teeth—“here I am.”
“LaBlanc, right,” my dad says, reaching his hand out to shake my coach’s already outstretched palm. “Good to officially meet you. You’re back to coaching, then?”
“I like to have my hands in every part of the business, you know.”
With the quiet lull in conversation, I nod toward Paloma’s roommate. “Lily, good to see you.”
She looks mildly startled that I’ve acknowledged her at all. “Hi, Bennett.”
LaBlanc looks between us. “I had no idea you knew my daughter, Reiner.”
The reality is that I’m only putting together the connection just now, but I nod anyways. “Her roommate is my girlfriend,” I say to my coach, before my eyes scan back to Lily. “Paloma’s here, too, and I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
Her eyes dart to her dad, as if asking permission, but he shakes his head sharply.
“Stay here,” he says, voice different than I’ve heard it before. “You can talk to her when you’re back at your apartment.”
My dad furrows his eyebrows, watching carefully.
“Lily?” I ask again, but she only bites her lip and stares directly at the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
“I’ll talk to her later,” Lily says, before her eyes turn back to the polished floor. “At home, I mean.”
I offer her a smile and nod my head; Lily is important to Paloma, kind to her, one of her only friends, I think. And therefore, she’s important to me.
Excusing myself, I turn to head across the room.
