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“You’ve got this, okay?” I gave her shoulder a firm pat. “This isn’t all on you—I promise.”

A smile finally formed, and she nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

The team was getting ready to head out for warmups, so I said a quick goodbye to my teammates—plus a slightly longer one to my girlfriend—and hobbled toward the elevator. With a couple of badge swipes, I got to the second level and into the owners’ box where I settled my aching carcass into a cushy leather seat.

“Are you comfortable?” Dad asked. “Do you want me to see if we can get you some ice for—”

“I’m good.” I offered a reassuring smile.

He didn’t look convinced and neither did my mom. They’d been fawning all over me at home and at every game, and I doubted that would stop any time soon.

I elbowed him gently. “Trust me—I’m fine.”

“Okay. But just say so if you’re not, you hear me?”

I smiled. “I will.”

Below us, the game kicked off again. I hated watching from up here. I wanted to be in on the action, damn it. The last couple of weeks, though, I’d settled into it to some extent. Especially since Sadie—the defensive coach—and I would text throughout the game; I’d tell her things that were more visible to me up here than they were down at ice level.

They’re angling for Anya’s stick side,I said early in the first period.Someone needs to protect that side.

Shortly after that, I noticed a defender stuck closer to that side of the net. Good thing, too—that one shot absolutely would’ve gone in if Sims hadn’t been there to block it. She’d stopped the puck with her boot and limped off the ice, but she’d been back out for her next shift, so I suspected the impact had just stung. Given that she hadn’t let the player score, I didn’t imagine she complained about it too much.

Not long after that, there was a commercial break. The Zamboni gates opened and the ice crew came out to clean the ice.

A roar of applause went up, and I looked to the Jumbotron to figure out why.

As soon as my gaze landed on the screen, my heart dropped into my stomach.

A gray-haired man in a suit stood from his chair in one of the other suite level boxes, beaming as he waved to the cheering crowd.

Below that:

Doran McAvoy. 4-time Cup Champion.

Sabrina McAvoy’s father.

Beside me, my own father bristled. My mother glowered, shaking her head. Neither said anything—they didn’t have to.

The camera changed to Sabrina, who was looking up at the screen as well. When she saw herself, she smiled and waved, and I hoped no one else could see what I did—the hurt behind the smile. The frustration.

Don’t let him get to you, baby,I silently begged.Don’t let him get into your head.

He’d been at most of the games in Pittsburgh since the playoffs started. He and his daughter hadn’t interacted much because there simply hadn’t been time; either she was being dragged away for media availability or a flight, or he was too busy holding court with fans and reporters. All told, over the past four weeks, they’d probably spent an hour in each other’s company.

Sabrina still didn’t know how to feel about his presence. Sometimes she looked up at where he was sitting and she seemed to get choked up. Other times, she’d grit her teeth while his face was on the Jumbotron.

“I’m glad he’s here,” she’d told me in bed the other night. “I’m glad he finally supports me. But I’m so focused on the playoffs, I haven’t had the time or energy to process any of this and figure out what I feel. Or what I should feel.”

I’d wrapped her in my arms and kissed her temple. “He’s a hockey player. He of all people should understand where your focus is right now.”

That had seemed to do the trick, and she’d relaxed and drifted off a moment later. I’d stayed awake, listening to her breathe and mentally threatening Doran McAvoy if he stepped out of line.

I wanted to tell her she had every right to reject his ass. Yeah, he was coming around to her career and her sport, but at what point was it too little too late? If the Olympics and Junior Worlds hadn’t been enough to get his attention, wasn’t she within her rights to say he’d waited too long?

But that wasn’t my place. She had to decide how to deal with him. All I could do was support her and gently encourage her to be kind to herself.

I had suggested a counselor during one of our FaceTime calls a couple of weeks ago. Even if her father’s intentions were good and everything with him was the best-case scenario going forward, there was no shame in talking to a disinterested third party who could help her sort out her emotions. I’d always listen and offer my thoughts, of course, but I wasn’t a trained professional who actually knew how to navigate these murky waters.