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“So fucking much.”
“I can’t believe I’m going to say this.” He huffs. “But you need to figure out a way for her to return, or you go there. The internship means a lot to her. Albeit it’s not in oncology as she hoped, but she won’t give it up unless there’s a damn good reason.”
“You’re right.” As his words sink in, a thought comes to mind. “I have to let you go. I may just have a plan.”
“Good luck, buddy.”
“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”
We hang up, and I let out a slow, shaky breath. No matter what happens, I will get my woman back. But another pressing problem must be resolved before I can make anything happen.
And that will require a strategy.
CHAPTERFORTY-ONE
BLAKE
I pace the bedroom,tossing a puck in the air and catching it. It’s my go-to when I can’t sit still. Everything Mom told Dad keeps bouncing around in my head like a puck on ice. But my mind keeps snagging on Dad’s inability to pursue his dream. That’s the first I ever heard about him wanting to do anything other than run the company.
Then there’s the underlying fear he’ll change his mind about making Emily the CEO. He has done it before. I have so many questions, but one sticks out more than the others: Why did he insist on benching my NHL dreams? There’s more to the reasoning than family obligation, something deeper I can’t pinpoint.
Fuck it. I’m just going to go talk to him.
The hallway to his study feels longer than the rink at Cessna U. With every step, my chest tightens and my breath gets shorter. Feels like I’m skating at altitude, not just walking through our house.
The door creaks, a sound I’ve heard a million times but never with such weight. Dad’s there, silhouetted against the dim light of his desk lamp, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. The air’s thick and heavy with old books and older secrets. A horse figurine paperweight I’ve admired since childhood sits proudly on his desk.
“Hey, Dad,” I start, voice barely above a whisper. My hands are shoved in my pocket, balled into fists so tight, I’m sure my knuckles are white.
He looks up, shadows playing over his face. “Blake.” Just one word, but it hangs there, loaded with all the things we don’t say.
“Can we talk?” My heart’s hammering, like it does before overtime. This is more than a game, though. This is real life, raw and uncertain.
He nods as I shuffle toward the desk, heart in my throat.
“Dad, I just … know what Mom demanded, but I wanted to talk to you about it—man-to-man.”
As sexist as those words are to my ears, they’re true. This is about my career and his. He is the one standing in the way and holding all of my cards. He demanded I take over the reins and step up simply because I’m a dude.
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest, a fortress of flesh and bone. The creak of leather fills the silence. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t have questions.”
I seize this opportunity. He’s throwing me a bone; I’d be foolish not to take it.
“Dad, I need to understand why you were against the NHL for me.” My voice trembles, betraying the confidence I usually wear like a jersey.
“Blake, it’s a pipe dream. You need something solid.”
“But hockey is solid for me,” I insist, feeling the familiar fire of ambition warming my blood. “It’s not just a game; it’s my future.” One you would know if you ever showed up at a game.
He sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of years and unspoken thoughts. His gaze drifts to the window, where twilight shadows dance across the lawn. “I had told your granddad the same about my love for horses; look where that got me.”
“Times change, Dad.” I step closer, my shadow merging with his on the worn Persian rug. “I don’t know what happened between you and Granddad, but I’ve got a real shot here. They wouldn’t have drafted me otherwise.”
His fingers drum a staccato rhythm on the armrest, a Morse code of anxiety. “Shot or not, life has a way of...” He coughs, a harsh sound that cuts through the quiet room, and for a moment, he looks smaller, frailer.
“Dad?” My concern leaps over the gap between us, more effective than any words I could muster.
The cough subsides, and he waves off my worry with a tired hand. “It’s nothing. Just this damn disease.” His eyes, when they meet mine, are tinged with a sorrow deeper than the COPD clawing at his lungs.
