Page 32 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

The woman sitting across from me at the campus coffee shop looked like Gemma might in twenty years – same determined jawline, same intelligent eyes, but with laugh lines that suggested she'd found more joy in life than her niece currently allowed herself.

"I'm Penelope," she said, extending a hand. "Gemma's aunt. The one from Philadelphia."

I shook her hand automatically, my mind racing. "She mentioned you. You helped raise her and Mia?"

"I did, when their parents were too busy condemning everyone to actually parent." She stirred her coffee with deliberate movements. "But that's not why I wanted to meet you."

"Why then?" I asked, though I suspected I knew.

"Because my niece called me at 2 AM three weeks ago, sobbing so hard I could barely understand her." Penelope's eyes sharpened. "Something about ruining your life and doing the right thing and being just like her mother."

"She didn't ruin anything," I said immediately. "She—"

"Saved you from herself?" Penelope suggested with a knowing smile. "Protected your future by removing herself from it? Made a unilateral decision about what's best for you?"

The accuracy stung. "Something like that."

"Mm." She took a sip of coffee, studying me. "Tell me, Liam – may I call you Liam? – what do you know about Gemma's childhood?"

"Enough," I said carefully. "Religious fundamentalist parents. Conditional love. Having to hide who she was."

"That's the summary," Penelope agreed. "But did she tell you about the competitions? How her parents would only attend her swim meets if she placed first? How they'd withdraw affection for weeks if her grades slipped below perfect?"

My jaw clenched. "No. She didn't share that particular detail."

"Or about the time she gave up a full scholarship to a prestigious swim camp because Mia needed her that summer? Their parents were threatening to send Mia to one of those awful pray-away-the-gay camps because they started suspecting Mia’s friendships with girls."

"Jesus," I muttered.

"Indeed. Gemma was eighteen. Already sacrificing her dreams for her sister's safety." Penelope leaned forward. "Do you see the pattern? She's been trained since birth to believe love means giving up what you want for others' benefit. That her worth is tied to what she sacrifices, not who she is."

"I told her I didn't want her sacrifice," I said, frustration bleeding through. "That I could make my own choices."

"Of course you did. And I'm sure she nodded and smiled and then did what she thought best anyway.

" At my expression, she smiled sadly. "Gemma doesn't know how to be loved without cost. Everyone who's claimed to love her has demanded payment – perfect grades, hidden identity, sacrificed opportunities. "

"I never demanded anything," I protested.

"No," Penelope agreed. "Which is probably why she's terrified. You're the first person to love her without conditions, and she has no framework for that. So, she creates conditions. Sacrifices herself before you can ask her to."

The truth of it hit like a slap shot to the chest. All those times Gemma had pulled back when things got too good, too easy. She'd been waiting for the catch—for the moment I’d demand she change, sacrifice, or perform to earn my love.

“What do I do?” I asked quietly. “She won’t answer my calls or reply to my messages. She’s decided I’m better off without her.”

"Here's what you need to understand," Penelope said, finishing her coffee. "Gemma has never had anyone fight to keep her. She's always been the one who fights – for Mia, for grades, for everyone else's happiness. No one has ever looked at her walking away and said 'no, you're worth fighting for.'"

"I tried—"

"Try harder," she interrupted gently. "My niece is brilliant and stubborn and absolutely convinced she's poison to everyone she loves. Prove her wrong. Show her that some people are worth keeping, even when they try to save you from themselves."

She stood, pulling on her coat. "The championship game is tomorrow, yes? She'll be there. Hiding in the nosebleeds, probably, but there. She can't help herself – she loves you too much to stay away entirely."

"How do you know?"

"Because she told me," Penelope said simply. "In between sobs about ruining your life, she admitted she can't breathe without you. That pushing you away feels like cutting off her own arm. That she watches your games on her laptop and cries when you don't smile after scoring."

My throat tightened. "She said that?"

"She said more, but that's the relevant part." Penelope squeezed my shoulder. "Fight for her, Liam. She's never had anyone think she was worth the effort. Change that."

She left me sitting there, staring at my cold coffee and reconsidering everything. Gemma hadn't left because she didn't love me. She'd left because she loved me too much to let me "sacrifice" anything for her.

Time to show her that choosing her wasn't a sacrifice – it was the easiest decision I'd ever made.

That night, I sat at my drafting table sketching plans. Not buildings this time, but a future. One that included both our dreams, our cobbled-together family, and a life built on mutual choice rather than sacrifice.

Tomorrow was the championship. Win or lose on the ice, I had a more important victory to claim.

The morning of the championship game, I woke to pounding on my hotel room door. The team had stayed at a downtown hotel to avoid distractions, but apparently, distractions had found me anyway.

My father stood in the hallway like an avenging angel in Armani, flanked by what looked like a small army – PR representatives, two men in suits who screamed "agents," and incredibly, a young woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a society magazine.

"Get dressed," Victor commanded. "We have a meeting in the conference room. Time to discuss your future properly."

"My game's in six hours," I said, not moving from the doorway. "Whatever this is can wait."

"This is your career," he said impatiently. "I've spent weeks doing damage control after your little stunt. These men are here to help salvage your prospects."

"I don't need salvaging," I said evenly. "I need to prepare for a game."

"The game is one day. Your career is forever." He gestured to the woman. "This is Astrid. Her father owns significant stakes in three NHL teams. She understands the importance of image in professional sports."

I stared at the woman – blonde, beautiful, and looking deeply uncomfortable with the situation. "Did you seriously bring me a replacement girlfriend?"

"I brought you an appropriate partner," Victor corrected. "Someone who understands our world, who won't drag you into controversy—"

"Get out." The words came out deadly quiet.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get out. All of you." I stepped back, ready to close the door. "I have a game to prepare for."

Victor's hand shot out, stopping the door. "We're not done discussing this. The conference room. Twenty minutes. Don't make me come get you."

He left with his entourage, clearly expecting obedience. I stood there for a moment, rage building like pressure in a boiler. Then I got dressed – not for a meeting, but for war.

The conference room was set up like a business presentation. Charts showing my "declining market value," quotes from scouts about my "questionable judgment," projections of earnings if I "returned to form." Astrid sat in a corner, looking like she wanted to disappear.

"Here's what's going to happen," Victor began the moment I entered. "You'll put this whole mess with that girl behind you. Bradley has crafted a statement about youthful indiscretion and renewed focus. Astrid has graciously agreed to be seen with you at some events, help rehabilitate your image—"

"No."

The word hung in the air like a challenge.

"No?" Victor's face darkened. "You don't get to say no. I've spent twenty-one years—"

"Building your dream, not mine," I interrupted. "Twenty one years of you living through me, controlling me, treating me like an investment instead of a son."

"Everything I've done has been for you!"

"Everything you've done has been for you!

" The words exploded out, years of suppressed rage finally finding voice.

"The camps that stole my summers. The coaches who taught me to play through injuries that still ache.

The constant pressure to be perfect, to perform, to justify your existence through my achievements. "

"You ungrateful—"

“I have someone I love, too,” Astrid announced, cutting him off.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

"What?" she said with a shrug. "My father doesn't know, obviously. But I'm not pretending to date someone to please our families. That's medieval." She looked at me. "Go get your girl. Love who you love. Life's too short for this bullshit."

"Astrid!" one of the suits – presumably her handler – looked apoplectic.

"Oh, stuff it, Richard." She stood, smoothing her designer dress. "I'm done being a prop in someone else's show." She headed for the door, pausing to look back at me. "Good luck in your game. And with the girl. Anyone worth this much drama must be special."

Her exit created chaos. The agents started arguing about damage control. The PR team scrambled to adjust their strategies. And Victor... Victor looked at me like I was a stranger.

"You're throwing everything away," he said quietly. "For what? For someone who already left you?"

"I'm choosing my own life," I corrected. "And yeah, maybe she left. But she left because she loves me too much to let me sacrifice anything for her. She doesn't understand that she's not a sacrifice – she's the prize."

"Pretty words," Victor sneered. "See how pretty they are when you're riding buses in the minor leagues, struggling to make rent."

"Actually," I said, pulling out my phone to check the date, "in two weeks, I turn twenty-two. Know what happens then?"

His face went white. He'd forgotten about the trust fund.

"That's right," I continued. "Grandma saw you coming. Set it up so you couldn't touch it, couldn't control it. Enough to live on while I figure out what I actually want."

"If you walk out of this room—"

"You'll what? Disown me? Stop speaking to me? Withdraw your conditional love?" I laughed, but it wasn't bitter anymore. Just tired. "Go ahead. I've got all the family I need."

I left them all there – agents, handlers, PR flacks, and one furious father. My phone was already ringing with his rage, but I sent it to voicemail. I had a game to play.

More importantly, I had a girl to win back.

In the locker room, my teammates took one look at my face and gave me space. Henry eventually approached, cautious.

"You good?"

"I will be," I said, pulling on my gear with steady hands. "My father tried to set me up with a replacement girlfriend."

"He what?" Henry's voice hit a pitch I'd never heard before.

"Blonde, connected, understood the importance of image." I shrugged. "She loves someone else too, actually. She told me to go get my girl."

"Smart woman," Frank said, joining us. "Speaking of your girl..."

"She'll be there," I said with more confidence than I felt. "Hiding, but there."

"And after?" Henry pressed. "What's the plan?"

"Win the game. Win the girl. Build a life that's actually mine." I stood, fully dressed, ready for battle. "Not necessarily in that order."

Frank grinned. "Now that's the captain I remember. Welcome back, brother."

The arena was packed, energy electric with championship atmosphere. During warm-ups, I scanned the crowd methodically. Not the lower sections where she'd be too visible, but up high where someone could hide in plain sight.

My eyes swept across row after row, searching for shoulders that would try to become invisible. She had to be here. Despite everything, despite the hurt and the silence, she had to be here.

I kept looking, kept hoping, kept believing that somewhere in this sea of faces, she was watching.

My helmet clicked into place. The puck dropped. I still hadn’t seen her—but I knew she’d show. Now all I had to do was find her before the final buzzer.