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“Yeah, I’d like that,” I answer honestly.
The Biters played an away game last week, so this will be the first time we get to see them play in person since Dad bought the team. And no matter how uncomfortable things might be between us right now, I don’t want to miss that.
“Your, uh, husband”—he clears his throat—“can join us.”
Oh right.
That detail.
“I’ll ask him.” My voice is a little higher than usual. “I think he might have a team thing though.”
I made that up, but since he won’t answer my calls or texts, there’s a chance that it’s true. Schrödinger’s schedule. Or something like that.
My left thumb automatically rubs at the underside of the pink band circling my ring finger.
I hate that I kind of love the cheap silicone ring.
I hate that I have to wear it for show.
I hate that if Luke were talking to me, I’d still want this ring and not one with diamonds.
“Good, good.” Dad taps his fingers on the table, then lets out a large sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Dad, you don’t?—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “You look stressed and exhausted, and you shouldn’t look that way as a newlywed.”
I try for a smile. “Just busy.”
He shakes his head. “I know what your busy face looks like. This is different. And I’m sorry for my role in it.”
“Please don’t apologize.” I don’t like how he handled everything, but I can’t exactly blame him for his reaction.
And since I’m still lying to him, it doesn’t feel right for him to apologize.
I slump in my chair. “I wasn’t expecting that stupid video. I should’ve known better, and I’m sorry for the attention it’s brought the company.”
Dad makes a disagreeing sound. “No. I was being unreasonable. You were in an elevator alone, not on the strip. And really, instead of being mad, I should’ve been grateful it took you thirty-two years to make it into the tabloids.”
I snort. “I’d prefer never being in the tabloids. Or on ESPN. Or on the freaking news.”
Dad laughs. “People love celebrity shit.”
I make a face. “I’m not a celebrity.”
He smirks at me. “You’re rich. It’s the same thing.”
I make another more disgusted face.
“And,” he keeps going, “you married a well-known professional athlete. People are gonna care.”
I want to tell him the truth.
I want to tell him everything.
But as I open my mouth to do just that, one of the building staff knocks on the doorframe and enters with my dad’s lunch.
Watching Dad unbox his sandwich, I decide to stay quiet. At least for today.
