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“I’m fine, don’t worry. I want to see goals. That’s the cure for me.”

“Awesome. No one’s putting any pressure on me,” Evan mutters.

We grin at each other through the screen.

The bedroom door opens, and I quickly press the phone to my chest to shield Evan from unwelcome glances. My dad walks into the room with a water bottle. I let out a sigh of relief. “My dad’s here,” I explain to Evan.

Not sure what to do, I look back and forth between the screen and my dad. He arrived in New York after Evan had already left. He hasn’t heard anything about me getting fired from my job or about my boyfriend. He points to the phone in my hand and to the door. “Are you on the phone? Should I wait outside?” he mutters. In his plaid shirt and rough jeans, he looks like he always does. As if he were heading out to run errands in his nice clothes. His wrinkles have become more numerous and deeper since we last saw each other. The slight tremor in his left hand is also new. God, I’ve missed him.

“I want to say hi,” Evan replies. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course,” I say quickly and wave Dad over to me. “Dad, um, I’m talking to my boyfriend right now.”

My dad raises his eyebrows and grins. Aside from a brief relationship in high school, he’s never met any of my boyfriends.

The fact that my dad is a huge fan of professional sports—football, hockey, baseball, basketball, in that order—makes this a bit nerve-racking. I’ve never let on to him that I have anything to do with hockey.

I turn the phone toward him. “Dad, this is Evan.”

“Hello, Mr. Watson.” His words are quick and hurried.

My dad stares at the screen. “I know who Evan Sinclair is, but . . . ”

“Mr. Watson, I’m sorry we’re meeting this way instead of in person. I hope you’ll be staying in New York a while longer so we can make up for it when I’m back.”

“Well, you can count on that. If I finally get the chance to meet one of my son’s friends, I won’t let it slip by.” My father’s gaze remains fixed on Evan.

With my lips pressed together, I turn the screen back toward me. Evan’s grin beams out at me. My dad’s a simple farmer, but he finds the right words surprisingly often.

“Okay. I have to go now.” Pointing his thumb over his shoulder, Evan hints that his game is starting in less than an hour.

“See you later. We’ll be cheering you on.”

We end the call, and I glance up at my dad. He pulls a chair over to me and points to the TV on the wall. “So that’s why you want to watch the game with me?”

“Um, caught red-handed?”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Evan Sinclair,” he quips.

“Dad, you know you can’t tell anyone. No one knows yet. His team does, but no one else.”

My dad waves it off. “Who am I supposed to tell? The chickens?” He pats my leg. “The only thing that matters to me is that you’re happy. I can be excited about that in private. I don’t need to discuss it with anyone. You are happy, aren’t you?”

I nod, which my head doesn’t appreciate. Shit. “Yes. Very. But it’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“By the way, you don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to. We can meet up every now and then, whenever it works out. I know you want to go back to the farm.”

My father stretches his legs out in front of him. “Son, I’m where I want to be. It’s not that I suddenly enjoy New York. But that farm . . . Bobby’s there. We’ve set everything in motion for him to buy it. I told him this is his chance to really see what it’s like when I’m not there.”

I hold out my hand to him, and he engulfs it with his huge fingers. The guilt I’ve kept locked away for years rears its head again. “I’m sorry I wasn’t on the farm more. I mean, I’m still not. It’s not my life.”

“Parker, I know that. And I’ve made my peace with it. Just because it was the best thing in the world for me doesn’t mean it has to be for my son. I don’t have to understand why you’d rather be here surfing on the internet.”

My quiet laugh is melancholic. I’m not on the internet right now.

“Oh, right. I haven’t told you yet. I don’t work for Simon anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do next.”