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“Because he’s an idiot,” he answered bluntly. “He has an empty arena to fill, and he’s got you sitting behind a guy who’s over thirty and hasn’t brought him a Cup yet. Half the teams out there would kill to have you on their first line.”

I heard the words, understood each and every syllable, but they didn’t make any fucking sense.

“Stryker Bell is one of the best players in the league,” I pointed out.

My dad sat back in his seat, raising his eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then where are his trophies?”

I tried my best to lock down my emotions, to not react outwardly, but knew I’d failed when his lips twitched to the side. He’d hit his mark, and he knew it. Trophies were the only thing my dad cared about, and Bell had none.

Worse still, I had none—not even from college, though I never let myself think about why that was.

I pulled in a breath, counted to four in my head, and blew it back out slowly, emptying my head of everything I wanted to say. If I acted hysterical, he’d call me hysterical, and it’d only make things worse.

“How do you think it looks for my dad to call my GM?” I said once I’d got my emotions under control, making sure my voice was nice and calm.

He waved away my concern. “It looks like your father knows this game better than anyone in that building.”

“No.” I slapped my palm onto the table, making the silverware clatter.

So much for calm, I thought, sliding it into my lap, where I curled my fingers into a fist.

“It looks like I can’t hack it on my own. That the only reason I’ve made it this far is because of you. The other guys already⁠—”

I stopped myself from telling him about the not-quite-whispered conversations I sometimes overheard. The sidelong glances and the comments about my dad and what he must think of me. There was no way he could ever know how much it bothered me.

“How would you have felt,” I pivoted, trying to appeal to his ego, “if Grandpa called up your coach and told him to drop a guy the fans adored in favor of some nobody rookie?”

He lifted his chin, hard blue eyes glinting in the candlelight. “You’re my son. Callahans have never been nobodies in this league.”

I almost wished I could say it was misplaced arrogance or false bravado, but my dad had achieved things no other goalie had come close to achieving since. He wasn’t just a legend to Boston Minutemen fans; he was a legend for every fan—even the ones who hated him.

I shifted in my seat. “Dad, be reasonable. The last thing I need right now is the GM thinking I’ve got my father on speed dial.”

“You act like that’s a bad thing. It’s an advantage. You’d know that if you weren’t always fighting it. You should be grateful.” He turned his glass a slow quarter-turn on the tablecloth. “Everything I do is because I’m invested in you. Maybe try remembering that next time you want to complain about it.”

There was no answer to that. He was invested in me. Always had been. I just sometimes wished he treated me less like an investment and more like his flesh and blood. Like his fucking son.

Thankfully, the waiter’s arrival meant I didn’t have to think up a response.

“Good evening, gentlemen. May I tell you about tonight’s specials?”

“Please,” my dad said, in the warm, affable voice he saved for anyone who wasn’t me. He even smiled at the guy.

“To start, we are offering a Jonah crab toast with apple and celery, as well as roasted delicata squash with whipped ricotta and toasted pumpkin seed. For our main dishes, we are proud to feature Georges Bank halibut over a celery root purée, with roasted chanterelles and a brown butter–cider jus. We also have a forty-five-day dry-aged ribeye with maitake mushrooms, fondant potatoes, and a bordelaise sauce.”

“We’ll both have the ribeye,” my dad said before the waiter could move on to dessert options. “Rare. And the crab to start. No dessert.”

The waiter glanced my way, and I gave him a look that I hoped came across as apologetic. “I’ll actually have the halibut and the squash, please.”

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly—a small, knowing smile that suggested he knew a little something about overbearing, difficult fathers. Or maybe he’d just seen a thousand different versions of them working here.

My dad rolled his eyes as the waiter left to put in our orders. “Always so contrary. You should get the steak. You need the protein.”

“I get plenty of protein.”

Sadly, this was what it was always like when we were alone together. When my mom joined us, he somehow managed to keep this aspect of his personality mostly in check, but without her acting as a buffer, he had no problem picking me apart.

I’d spent the first half of my life thinking that was just how dads were. It took being out on my own to finally understand what a toxic asshole he really was.