“It’s going in my purse,” she announced after the fourth interruption. “You can survive ten minutes without staring at it.”
Dad snorted into his wineglass. “You sound like you’re grounding him.”
“I might,” she replied. “Olympic champions clearly require supervision.”
The restaurant glowed with low amber light and polished wood, every table crowded, conversations folding over one another in Italian while waiters moved through the narrow aisles balancing wine bottles and plates of pasta.
Dad looked good tonight, but that didn’t stop me from glancing often at him, just to check.
Eventually, he caught me at it.
He pointed his fork at me. “Stop monitoring me like I’m a faulty heart valve. They wouldn’t have cleared me to travel if I was about to keel over beside the tiramisu.”
Mom let out a wry chuckle. “If you want to worry about anyone, spare a thought for the poor cardiologist. He looked ready to chain him to the hospital bed when your father announced he was flying to Italy no matter what anybody said.”
Dad looked deeply pleased with himself. “And yet here I am. Miraculous recovery.”
“You bullied your recovery into submission,” Mom corrected.
I laughed, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck while warmth pressed against my skin from the packed restaurant and the wine, and the simple surreal fact that only a few hours ago, I’d stood on Olympic ice listening to the American anthem play for me.
Olympic champion.
Every time the thought surfaced, my brain still stalled around it.
The team had wanted a celebration tonight, but nobody argued when I said I wanted dinner with my parents instead. There’d be time later. Nathan and Brooke still had their event coming up. Harper too. The Games weren’t finished with us yet.
Mom reachedacross the table and squeezed my hand. “We’re proud of you, sweetheart.”
The sincerity in her voice hit hard, because I understood what it had cost both of them to get me here. Early mornings. Missed weekends. Years of skating bills that should’ve terrified any sane parent.
“Thanks,” I managed.
Dad ruined the emotional moment by reaching for another glass of red wine.
Mom’s gaze narrowed. “Should you be having another?”
He gave her a mock glare. “Hey, wine is good for you. It saysso in the Bible. You know, a little wine for your stomach? Isn’t that how it goes?” God, he looked smug.
She snorted. “And whenthatwas written, water was often polluted, so they used wine as a remedy for ailments or to purify drinking water.”
Dad blinked. “And how comeyouknow all this? You’re no Bible scholar.”
“No—I’m a teacher.” She winked at me. “We know everything.” Then she schooled her features. “Doesn’t the Bible also lecture about not getting drunk on wine, because it leads to debauchery?”
Dad snickered. “Ooh, I wouldn’t mind a bit of debauchery tonight.” Mom gasped, and he grabbed her hand. “But only with you, honey.”
I laughed. “You two are unbelievable.”
He smiled. “Nowthere’smy Dean.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been right here for the last two hours.”
Dad leaned back in his chair, studying me over the rim of his wineglass with the kind of sharp observation I’d inherited from him whether I liked it or not.
“Yeah, and you’ve been distracted all night.”
“I just won Olympic gold. I’m allowed to look a little fried.”
