Page 29

Elena

I ’m standing outside Dad's front door, my finger an inch from the doorbell.

The glass container of dessert—homemade tiramisu, his favorite—is starting to get heavy in my hands.

The weight of what I need to tell him makes my stomach clench like I've swallowed rocks.

I take a deep breath, press the bell, and plaster on a smile.

The door swings open, and Dad fills the frame, dressed in jeans and a light blue polo shirt.

"You're right on time," he says, stepping back to let me in. "And is that what I think it is?" He points at the container.

"Tiramisu." I hold up the container. "I had a little extra time, so I thought I'd make your favorite."

His eyebrows lift. "You buttering me up for something?"

He's joking, but the truth of his words hits a nerve. I follow him into the kitchen, where a pot of pasta sauce bubbles on the stove. The house smells like garlic and tomatoes and basil.

"Need help?" I ask, setting the dessert on the counter.

"You can toss the salad." He gestures to a wooden bowl filled with greens. "I've got the rest under control."

We work in comfortable silence. This is our rhythm—most comfortable when focused on a task. We've always communicated better side by side than face to face.

"How was your time off?" he asks, stirring the sauce. "You look like you’re feeling better. More rested."

"It was good. Reese and I went up to her family cabin in Lake Geneva for a couple days."

"That's nice." He nods, tasting the sauce with a small spoon. "You two have been friends for forever. It’s good to have people in your life that have gone through so much with you."

"She’s a lifesaver."

"Everyone needs friends like that." He drains the pasta in a colander, steam billowing up around his face. "Team's been asking about you. When you're coming back."

My hands pause in the middle of mixing the salad. "About that..." I say almost at a whisper.

But Dad doesn’t seem to hear me and begins carrying the pasta to the table, focused on dinner. It’s not the right moment. I follow with the salad bowl, my rehearsed speech stuck in my throat.

I officially accepted the offer with the Steel—I start in two weeks. I need to tell Dad though before it all sinks in and feels real.

We sit across from each other at the small table in his dining nook. He serves pasta onto my plate, then his own.

"The team looked better against Philly last night," I say, reaching for the grated parmesan. "Defense tightened up in the third period."

"Too little, too late." He frowns. "We need to be playing hard for a full sixty minutes, not twenty."

"How's Barnes doing?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

Dad's eyes flick up to mine, searching. "Better. He had a good week of practice."

I nod, twirling pasta around my fork but unable to eat it. "Dad, there's something I need to tell you."

His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "I'm listening."

I set my own fork down, hands suddenly clammy. "I've been offered another job. Sports psychologist for the Chicago Steel."

The fork lowers back to his plate. His face gives nothing away, but his shoulders stiffen slightly. "I see."

"It's a good opportunity," I continue, words tumbling out now. "They need someone right away, and Dr. Shanta recommended me. The interview went really well, and?—"

"You've already interviewed." Not a question.

"Yes. Last week."

He nods slowly, his expression closing like a door being shut. "And you're going to take it."

"I already have."

Dad takes a deliberate bite of pasta, chews thoroughly, swallows. Control in every movement. "What about the program we're building with the Blades? The one you were so excited about?"

"You’ll find someone else to fill my spot," I say. "And Dr. Mendez has been doing great work with the team while I've been away."

"With most of the team," Dad says. "But not with Barnes."

I feel myself tense. "I wouldn't be the right person to continue working with him regardless."

Dad pushes his plate away slightly. "So you're running away."

His words sting. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You made a mistake, and now instead of working through it, you're bailing on your commitment to this team. To me."

"I'm not bailing, Dad. I'm making a professional decision that's best for everyone involved."

"Best for you, you mean."

My throat tightens. "Why is it so hard for you to understand that I might need this? That working for your team, under your shadow, might not be the best thing for my career?"

"My shadow?" His eyebrows draw together. "Is that how you see it?"

"How could I not?" The words burst out, fueled by months of buried frustration. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be 'Coach Martinez's daughter' every single day? To wonder if people respect me for my work or just because of who my father is?"

Dad sits back in his chair. "I thought working together would be good for you. For us."

"In some ways, it has been," I say, my voice softening. "But I need to establish myself on my own terms. Not as an extension of you."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "And this has nothing to do with Barnes?"

My fingers twist the napkin in my lap. "It's... complicated. The situation with Nate highlighted some things for me. About what I want from my career and my life."

"And what do you want, Elena?"

The question hangs between us, simple but monumental.

"I want to be my own person." My voice is steady now. “I want to stop wondering if every achievement comes with an asterisk because of my last name."

Dad's face softens almost imperceptibly. "I never meant to make you feel this way."

"I know." I reach across the table, touching his hand. "Just like I never meant to let you down by leaving."

"You haven't let me down." He turns his hand to clasp mine. "I'm disappointed, yes. But not in you."

"Then in what?"

"In the situation. In myself, maybe." He sighs. "I've always wanted to protect you. After your mother died, that became my whole purpose. Maybe I've held on too tight."

The mention of Mom sends familar ache through my chest. "I understand why you did. But Dad, I need to make my own mistakes sometimes. Figure things out on my own."

"Even when those mistakes involve Nate Barnes?" he asks.

I look down at our joined hands. "Even then."

He sighs, long and heavy. "The Steel is a good organization. Solid coaching. Their veteran players set a good example for the rookies."

Hope flutters in my chest. "So you’re not mad that I took the job?"

"I think..." He pauses, weighing his words. "I think you need to do what's right for you. Not for me, not for the Blades. For you."

Relief washes through me. "Thank you."

He squeezes my hand once before releasing it. "Just promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"That you’ll never be afraid to talk to me about these types of things. I know I’ve been overprotective your whole life but it’s only because I love you."

I smile, blinking back sudden tears. "I promise."

Dad picks up his fork again, gesturing toward my untouched pasta. "Eat. It's getting cold."

We finish dinner talking about safer topics—a new defense pairing he's trying, my thoughts on a struggling rookie who needs more confidence. The conversation flows easier now, the tension replaced by love and mutual respect.

As I'm leaving, Dad pulls me into a tight hug.

"Your mom would be proud of you," he says quietly. "For standing your ground. For knowing what you need."

His words settle something inside me. I hold him tighter, breathing in his trusted scent. "I love you, Dad."

"Love you too, kid." He steps back, hands on my shoulders. "Now go be the best damn sports psychologist the Steel has ever seen."

I walk to my car feeling lighter than I have in weeks. The path ahead isn't perfectly clear yet, but for the first time in a long time, I'm excited to see where it leads.

The coffee shop bustles with mid-morning activity, laptops open on wooden tables, the hiss of the espresso machine occasionally rising above conversations.

I spot Nate immediately—he sits in the corner, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. An attempt at anonymity in a public place. My stomach flips as I weave between tables toward him.

He looks up, his sweet eyes finding mine across the room. He smiles, and my heart does the same stupid little stutter it always does.

"Hey," he says, rising slightly as I approach. He's wearing a gray T-shirt, dark jeans, and those motorcycle boots I recognize from our first night together. The memory makes me tingle.

"Hi." I slide into the chair across from him, setting my purse on the floor. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Just got here." He pushes a ceramic mug toward me. "I ordered for you. Oat milk latte, right?"

The fact that he remembers this tiny detail about me shouldn't feel significant. But it does.

"Thanks." I wrap my hands around the warm mug, needing something to do with them before they begin shaking with nerves. "How are you?"

"Good. Really good, actually." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "But more importantly, how are you? Did you make a decision about the job?"

I take a sip of my latte, buying time. "I did. I accepted. I start in a little less than two weeks."

His face breaks into a genuine smile. "That's fantastic, Elena. Congratulations."

"You think so?" I search his expression for any hint of disappointment.

"Absolutely. The Steel is getting one hell of a psychologist." He sits back, still smiling. "And your dad? How'd he take it?"

"Better than I expected." I trace the rim of my mug with one finger. "He was disappointed at first, but we talked it through. He gets why I need to do this."

Nate nods, his eyes never leaving mine. "I'm glad. That's important."

A moment of silence stretches between us, charged with all the things we've yet to say. A barista calls out an order. Someone laughs at a nearby table. Nate's knee bumps mine under the table, perhaps accidentally but maybe not.