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And despite all of that, I respected him. I’d be a liar and an ingrate if I claimed otherwise. The man had built a career most players only got to dream about, and then he’d built me into the player I was today.
So yeah, I knew exactly what I owed my dad—and I hated it.
And this type of “quality time” made it so fucking hard to keep that truth buried.
“You’ve lost weight.”
“I assure you, I haven’t.”
“You definitely look thinner.”
“I’ve gained three pounds.”
He grunted, unconvinced, and I felt my jaw tighten in annoyance. I made myself relax before he could clock the tell.
“Well, it’s clear to me they’re not feeding you enough.”
“I’m eating fine. Same as I always have.”
Though that wasn’t entirely true.
The meals I shared with Mikey weren’t what they should be—nutritionally speaking—and I couldn’t pretend otherwise. I’d eaten more takeout these past few weeks than I’d consumed my entire time at Harvard. I did my best to supplement with protein shakes and vitamins, but that could only get me so far. I really needed to get on one of those meal delivery services the team nutritionist had recommended.
I tried to catch the eye of the sommelier, but she seemed determined to avoid us.
I couldn’t even blame her.
It didn’t take long after our appetizers were cleared for two new waiters to arrive at our table, large white plates balanced along their forearms. The younger of the two set my halibut down in front of me, then lifted an oversized pepper grinder in silent question. I nodded, and he ground it over my meal while the other man placed the ribeye in front of my dad.
“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” he asked, taking a step back and linking his hands behind his back.
“Another Balvenie. Otherwise, no,” my dad said, reaching for his knife.
They tipped their chins in acknowledgement and left us to our meals.
My dad sliced into his steak to check for the dark-red center he preferred, thankfully satisfied. “I’ve been talking to Charles,” he said without preamble.
Charles was his personal media guy, a man who largely spoke in buzzwords and who was obsessed with the idea of me going viral.
I swallowed my bite of fish and washed it down with a glug of water as a waitress set my dad’s drink next to his elbow and retreated silently.
“Let me guess,” I said, wiping my mouth. “I have to post more.”
“Charles thinks you need to be better about building an online presence. You’ve got, what, a few thousand followers? And you only post a couple of times a month.” He shook his head. “You need to really start pushing content so you’re positioned for significant brand endorsements by mid-season. We should be shooting for the kind of deals guys like Chekhov, Sorenson, and Wilder are bringing in.”
I set my fork down and leaned back in my seat, folding my hand in my lap. “That’s not … I’m not good at that shit, Dad. You know this.”
The guys he’d just rattled off? They loved the spotlight—the gorgeous women, the fancy clothes, the fast cars. I just wanted to be left alone. The idea of putting my face out there for any random fuck to see and critique? It literally made me want to puke.
He scoffed, annoyed. “You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to make yourself available. A professional will manage it for you.”
He dragged the bread basket toward him, pulling out a fresh roll and yanking off a chunk to mop up the sauce on his plate.
“Charles and I agree that it wouldn’t kill you to be seen at high-profile events—things like Fashion Week, movie premieres, parties. Places that aren’t tied to hockey. You know—celebrity shit”
“Nothing with fashion,” I bit out.
Once upon a time, my mom walked those runways. But her career had gone in a much different direction—mostly at my dad’s urging—and now, when people remembered she used to be a model, their comments weren’t always kind. I got enough shit about who my dad was; I didn’t want folks bringing up my mom, too.
