Page 13

Remy

R ain pelts my windshield as I pull into my father’s driveway, the wipers barely able to keep up with Portland’s latest deluge.

The weather matches my mood—dark, turbulent, and showing no signs of letting up anytime soon. I’ve been a bundle of nerves since Dad’s text yesterday, my stomach churning with anxiety that not even Stone’s steady stream of supportive messages could fully calm.

Just breathe , his latest text read. If he knew about us, he wouldn’t have invited me to dinner. He’d have invited me to the bad part of town to be mugged and torn to pieces by feral dogs.

He’s probably right, but that hasn’t kept my palms from sweating all over the wheel.

Allegedly, Dad seemed normal enough with Stone after the storage room incident, and Justin being invited makes it logical that this is just the usual start of the season teambuilding thing Dad likes to do.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s...off.

Maybe because good things rarely come from being summoned to my father’s house for dinner. The last time he insisted I come over for smoked salmon, he spent two hours explaining why I should reconsider my decision to take the promotion I’d been offered without a bigger pay raise. He refused to acknowledge the reality that admin salaries don’t increase that dramatically with each step up the ladder and that Juliet had already fought to get me an extra 10k a year.

The time before that, he’d tried to talk me into moving into the apartment over his garage to “save money” right after I’d renewed the lease on my place, again refusing to believe that I had signed an iron-clad agreement and couldn’t simply “change my mind.”

Though I was really glad it was “iron-clad.” The last thing Dad and I need is to live under the same roof ever again. We love each other, but we’d also kill each other. Or I’d jump out a window to avoid a debate over every single choice I make, from the job I take to the car I drive to what I wear on the sidelines while I’m coaching.

My father’s definition of looking out for me almost always involves trying to control my life. He means well, but it gets insulting after a while and…exhausting. I’m just so tired of defending my choices every two to three weeks, when Dad decides it’s time for some “family bonding” over lean protein and roasted root vegetables.

“Then tell him to stop,” I mutter to myself, killing the engine. “You’re a grown woman. Either draw a boundary or accept that this is how things are and quit whining. Whining is annoying.”

It is annoying.

And the tough self-love actually makes me feel better, though I know Stone would want me to take a gentler approach.

The thought of Stone steadies me, even as it sends a fresh wave of anxiety rushing through my system. Having him here, under my father’s roof, feels risky. Worlds are colliding in ways that they were never meant to.

What if Dad picks up on a vibe between us? Dad isn’t the best with vibes, but our vibes are very…vibey.

Especially lately.

But nothing kills a vibe like being under Coach Lauder’s watchful gray eyes, and there’s no time to freak out now. Thanks to a last-minute crisis with Zamboni replacement parts being delayed in the mail, I’m already ten minutes late.

Grabbing my purse, I make a dash for the covered porch, managing to stay mostly dry despite the downpour.

I pause at the door, taking a deep breath before letting myself in. The house smells the same as always—a mix of leather furniture polish and whatever Dad’s housekeeper, Claudia, made for dinner. Tonight, it smells like prime rib, my favorite.

Huh…

Prime rib usually means Dad’s either trying to apologize for something he’s done without actually saying “I’m sorry,” or attempting to soften the blow of whatever controversial conversation he’s about to put on the table along with the horseradish mashed potatoes.

Neither option is particularly comforting.

Hanging my coat in the entry closet, I catch my reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed from the dash through the rain, hair frizzed despite my best efforts with product this morning. I smooth it down, but it’s a lost cause, and it’s not like this is a formal event.

The sound of male laughter drifts from the living room, along with the distinctive clink of ice in glasses. Following the murmur of conversation, I pass the familiar gallery of photos lining the hall. There’s me at six, brandishing my first hockey stick with a “come at me, bro” look that’s pretty funny on a tiny kid. Me at twelve, accepting a trophy as big as I was. Me at eighteen, signing my letter of intent to play college hockey with Dad right behind me. Our old housekeeper, Maryanne, back in Michigan, took that one.

They’re good pictures, but it’s hard not to see what’s missing. The birthday party shots. The candid moments. The kind of laid-back, real-life memories that most people’s parents preserve. But then, Mom was the one who took those kinds of pictures, and she’s been gone for a long time.

The last image of my mother shows her beaming at me at my first figure skating competition. I’m five, sitting in her lap with a giant bottle of orange juice, wearing a sparkly blue dress, and missing my two front teeth. After that, it’s all hockey, all achievement, carefully curated moments that tell the story of a successful offspring, a successful life.

But that’s just my dad. He’s the same with his own life. The moments that matter are the ones that move him higher up the ladder, closer to his next goal. It isn’t personal, just…kind of sad.

“There you are, Remy,” Dad says as I round the corner into the living room. He’s in his favorite armchair. Stone and Justin occupy opposite ends of the leather couch. All three are nursing fancy whiskey, the only kind Dad buys, and which he only pulls out on momentous occasions.

My heart starts racing again, even before Dad arches a brow and adds, “It’s not like you to be late. Is everything all right?”

“Sorry, we’re having a supply chain issue with parts for the backup Zamboni, but we’ll get it sorted before the season starts. Hey guys.” I manage a tight smile for Justin and Stone as I perch on the edge of the large ottoman near Dad, hyper-aware of Stone’s presence just a few feet away.

Meanwhile, my golden retriever boyfriend looks perfectly at ease…at least to the untrained eye. But I know Stone well enough to realize that the hint of tension in his jaw is a tell that he’s pretty fucking stressed.

My boyfriend…

Just thinking about our new status is still enough to make me flutter a little inside…

“Hey, Remy,” Stone rumbles with a carefully friendly smile. “Glad you didn’t get into trouble in the rain. It’s nasty out there.”

“So gross,” Justin agrees easily. “And looks like we’re under a flood watch until tomorrow morning.” He looks comfortable, too, sprawled on the couch in a way I’ve never managed in this house.

But Justin’s notoriously chill and excellent at navigating complicated social situations. It’s part of what makes him such a good captain.

“Your dad was just telling us about the first time he got you out on the ice,” Justin adds, surprising me. Dad usually doesn’t talk about me at dinners like this, especially not personal stuff.

I fight to conceal my surprise as I ask, “Really?” I glance Dad’s way to find a small smile curving his lips.

Strange…

“You were only eighteen months old, the youngest toddler at the rink,” he says, sounding proud. “But you raced right out there, and kept getting up and going again, no matter how many times you fell down.”

I exhale an uncomfortable laugh. “Glutton for punishment, I guess. Even as a kid.”

“Determined and formidable, I’d say,” Stone counters.

“And impressive,” Justin says, wrinkling his nose as he adds, “Makes me think I need to get my little menace on skates sooner than I thought.”

“Would you like a drink?” Dad asks me, already rising to fetch. “I have that pinot noir you like.”

I almost say no—alcohol and anxiety aren’t always the best mix—but decide I could use something to take the edge off. “Sure, thanks.”

As Dad heads to the kitchen for the wine, I study Stone and Justin, trying to read the room. They both seem fine. Normal, even.

Stone gives me a subtle thumbs up and mouths, “It’s all good,” and Justin hisses, “Glad you’re here. If we don’t eat soon, I’m going to be crunk off this whiskey. I barely drink anymore. Libby and I are tired old parent people who go to bed sober at nine.”

“I’m a big fan of a nine p.m. bedtime, and I don’t even have a kid as an excuse,” I whisper with a smile. “We should eat soon. Dad doesn’t like to have dinner too late.”

Justin nods, seeming relieved, and Stone continues to look calm and reassuring.

Maybe I really am worried about nothing...

“Here you go.” Dad returns with my wine, and I accept it with a more relaxed smile. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why I asked you here tonight. So, I’ll get right to it. My daughter needs your help. Rather urgently.”

I sputter and almost choke on my first sip of pinot.

Before I can recover and demand to know what the heck he’s talking about, he continues, “In just a few weeks, Remy has the interview of a lifetime with the Seattle Sirens, a team that stands to be the best in the new women’s league. But if she wants a shot at being competitive during that interview, she needs to show she’s got what it takes to skate with the pros.”

Finally regaining my voice, I ask, “What are you talking about, Dad? And how did you even know about the interview? I wanted to keep that private until I knew I had the job.”

“Hockey’s a small world, Remy. You should know that by now. Word gets around, especially when your father’s in the NHL,” he says in a way that makes me feel about two inches tall. As if he can’t believe I ever thought I could make a move in this sport without him knowing all about it. “But that’s neither here nor there. The point is, you need to be properly prepared. The women’s pro league is expanding, but there are still only seven teams. Competition for coaching positions isn’t just fierce, it’s cutthroat. You’re going to need more than a few solid seasons with an amateur team to stand out.”

The casual way he dismisses the Bushtits makes my jaw clench. These women work their asses off, juggling demanding jobs and family responsibilities while still showing up to every practice ready to give their all. They might not be pros, but they’re skilled athletes who deserve respect.

And it’s not like they could have played as a career, even if they’d wanted to. Women’s hockey is just now going pro. Right now, a good six years too late for me and most of my players I coach to have a shot at making pro dreams come true. Cecelia’s the only one both young enough and skilled enough to give it a shot, and she isn’t sure she’s ready to take that step. Her family and friends are here, and for most people, that means a lot.

Not everyone puts a career playing sports above everything else.

“My team is more than solid, Dad,” I say, struggling to keep my tone even. The calmer I remain, the quicker I’ll be able to shut this down. “They’re incredible players who have grown so much under my leadership, and I have two years of game tape highlight reel to prove it. They were almost undefeated last year, and so far, this year, we’re on track to have?—”

“Undefeated against other amateur teams,” he cuts in. “Which is fine. But pro hockey is a different world. You need exposure to a higher level of play, better strategy.” He motions to the couch. “That’s why I asked Stone and Justin to be here tonight. I think they’re the best Badger team members to help you prepare. Your offense is the weakest part of your game. Between them, they have over a decade of offensive experience at a pro level. They’ll be able to help you see where you’re missing opportunities to?—”

“Fuck no.” The words burst out of me before I can stop them, leaving my father, who does not tolerate profanity in professional or private settings, gaping. “I’m sorry. Excuse my language, but no. No, Dad. I’m not going to do that.”

“Artemis Lauder, don’t be stubborn for no reason,” he says, still sounding remarkably calm considering I just dropped an “f” bomb in front of company for the first time in my entire life. “Pride is only going to cost you an opportunity to learn what you’re lacking and be thoroughly prepared.”

“I am prepared.” I set my wine down, my hand trembling, but my voice steady as I add, “I’m proud of my team and confident in my abilities. And I’d like this to be the end of the conversation, please.”

Dad sighs, irritation creasing his brow as he huffs, “I’m just trying to make sure you aren’t overlooked. Amateur teams don’t earn the kind of respect you’re going to need for?—”

“Stop saying amateur like it’s a dirty word!” My voice rises despite my best efforts to keep from brawling in front of Stone and Justin, who are looking increasingly uncomfortable with every passing second. “There was no pro-hockey for women until a couple of years ago, Dad. How were they supposed to get pro experience? How was I? It’s not like NHL teams are rushing to hire female coaches. Believe me. I applied for a dozen assistant positions before I ended up in admin for the Badgers. Those teams wouldn’t even give me an interview. They took one look at the clearly female name on my resume and passed.”

“Citing sexism isn’t productive, Remy,” Dad says, his scowl now fully fledged. “Yes, it’s real, but?—”

“I think you both make some great points,” Stone interjects in an upbeat tone that makes Dad and me both snap a hard look his way. Stone winces and lifts his hands in surrender. “And you’ve given us all some stuff to think about, for sure. For our parts, Justin and I are happy to help you prep for your interview if you’d like a hand.” Stone glances at Justin, who nods hastily, clearly also wanting this to be over ASAP. “And if you don’t, that’s fine, too. As far as I’m concerned, all Lauders in this room are forces and coaches to be reckoned with and very good at what they do.”

Dad’s mouth tightens. “Very politic of you, Stone.”

Stone’s grin wobbles, but remains in place as he says, “Thank you, Coach. I’m considering running for something after I retire. It’s important to give back, you know?”

“But we won’t talk politics,” Justin adds with a charming grin of his own. “Because we all know better and weren’t raised in a barn. But could we talk about the new mascot sketches? The retro ones? Because I think I speak for everyone when I say this version of Bucky might be scarier than the one from the 80s.”

After another beat of uncomfortable silence, during which Dad and I both continue to glare at random objects in the room, refusing to make eye contact, he

clears his throat. “Let’s discuss the sketches over dinner. The prime rib should be ready. Shall we move to the dining room?”

The meal that follows is delicious and excruciating. The men carry the conversation, discussing Bucky, the first travel game, and the team’s prospects for the season while I shove food into my mouth, ensuring I’m too busy chewing to contribute. Stone is careful not to focus too much attention my way, but I feel his concerned gaze on me more than once.

And I hate it.

I hate feeling like this, like some dumb teenager who got in trouble in front of her friends. I can’t remember the last time I was this embarrassed. And I hate that my father still has the ability to make me feel small and unprepared and never quite good enough.

When we finally finish dessert—apple pie, I barely taste—I make my excuses about an early morning tomorrow and head for the door. Dad walks us out, and I endure his perfunctory hug with rigid shoulders.

“Think about what I said, all right? Even if I didn’t ask in the way that you might have preferred?” he murmurs before releasing me. “I only want to see you succeed.”

I manage a nod before fleeing into the rain.

Stone catches up to me at my car, touching my elbow lightly. “Hey. You okay?”

“Fine.” But my voice cracks on the word. I can’t talk to him right now, not when I still need to keep up the “just friends” facade on the off-chance Dad decides to glance out the window. “Want to come to my place?”

“Right behind you,” he promises, concern in his eyes.

I climb into my car, my stomach churning as I start the engine. In my rearview mirror, I watch Stone and Justin say goodbye to each other, just like they usually would. Friendly. Warm. Clapping shoulders. Totally normal.

But nothing feels normal right now.

As I pull away from the curb, refusing to let the angry tears pushing at my eyes out onto my face, I try to focus on the one positive of this shitty evening.

Dad clearly has no idea about Stone and me.

That’s a relief.

Or…it should be.

So why do I feel so hollow inside?