Page 38 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

I meet my dad at our favorite Chinese restaurant on Mott Street. He and I have almost nothing in common, but we do share a

deep and abiding love for soup dumplings and have thus hunted down the best of the best. Despite my fluttering nerves, I slide

into the cracked red pleather booth with a hum of anticipation.

“What’s doing, kid?” Dad asks as he sets down his phone. He already has a bottle of Tsingtao beside him, and the menu filled

out.

I don’t protest because he knows what I like here.

Proof of that, the waitress sets down a Tsingtao for me too. She grabs our order and leaves without a word.

“Lots and lots,” I answer before taking a long pull of the beer. It’s bordering on lukewarm, but then we don’t come here for

the beer.

Dad grunts, focuses on his drink. He’s a big guy. Not in the muscular way of Dex, but all long limbs and towering height.

I don’t know how long he’s been in the city. I never ask. Dad’s sort of transient, seems to like it that way. When he’s here, he stays at some swanky, members-only hotel downtown. Which is fine by me.

I love my dad. I really do. Only, aside from a mutual love of dim sum, we have always been painfully awkward in each other’s

presence. I don’t even know why, but it hangs over us like a cloud of bad gas no one wants to mention. And there is the fact

that he’s never approved of me.

To that end, I brace my palms on the worn wooden table and take a breath. “I quit my job today.”

Dad sets down his beer. “Why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does. If you were sexually harassed, I’ll get up and hunt the bastard down, make him sorry he ever lived. If

you were bored, I’ll tell you to get over it, pick a better job next time.” He shrugs. “The reason makes all the difference.”

I am warmed by the idea of my dad kicking someone’s ass for me. “I guess you’re right.”

I tell him why I quit, the whole time shaking deep within the pit of my stomach. I hate admitting failure. But I hated my

situation more.

While I talk, the waitress sets down a steaming basket of fresh soup dumplings.

Dad picks up a delicate, pale little rose of a dumpling. The fragrance of chicken broth and ginger fills the air as he bites

and sucks down the soup hidden within.

“So,” he says, “lesson learned. Don’t trust sudden friends who are after the same position as you.”

I have a mouthful of dumpling, so it takes me a moment to swallow and gape up at him. “You’re not going to give me shit?”

“Why would I do that?” His brow scrunches up, making the wrinkles in his face deeper.

“Um, because you always give me shit about my—” I hold up my fingers to air quote “—‘flighty nature.’?”

He frowns as if he can’t make out what I’ve just said.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, impatient now. “You’ve called me Flighty Fi since I was a kid.”

“Hey, now. It was a nickname. A term of endearment.”

“Your terms of endearment suck, Dad.”

His frown grows to a scowl. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you don’t like the term. but...” He shrugs. “You are kind of flighty.”

Shit. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Enough that I blink to clear my vision.

I push back my plate. “Do you have any clue what it’s done to me to know you think that?”

Dad pauses, dumpling halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lets it settle on his plate. “Honey...” He pauses, his mouth twisting

as if he’s groping for some platitude to placate me.

I want to get out of here, but I can’t run away from this.

“It hurts, Dad. You and Mom, you’re both so proud of Ivy. But me? I’m the sad case that keeps letting you down.”

For a sick moment, I really do empathize with fuck-face Elena. Which makes my feelings sting that much more. I sure as shit

do not want to find common ground with her.

Dad tosses his chopsticks onto the table where they rattle around. “You do not let us down. You’re just... You have so

much potential. We want to see it come to fruition.” He leans forward, the old leather booth creaking beneath him. “Fiona,

you’re my kid. Every father wants to see his kid settled. Or he ought to, anyway.”

A shaking breath gurgles in my throat. “Wanting to see me settled and being dubious of my ability to lead my life are two

separate things. I know I’m not like Ivy—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You’re like me.”

“You?”

“Don’t look so horrified,” he says dryly.

“It’s just... You’re successful, Dad. People aspire to be like you.”

I swear he flushes. He doesn’t meet my eye as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m a lucky bastard who happened to be tall and

coordinated enough to play the game. The agent gig, well...” He shrugs again, grabbing his chopsticks to poke at a dumpling.

“I knew the business by then, so I took an opportunity.”

I can’t believe he’s downplaying what he is.

“You are, though,” he goes on quietly, “like me. I, too, was always searching for something to inspire me, something to get

excited about.”

I gape. I know I do. Because how the fuck did he know that about me? How, when I thought he never paid any attention. My dad

keeps talking.

“My problem is I did that by screwing around on your mom. By drinking and partying too much. You?” He meets my eyes, though

I can tell it’s hard for him by the way he winces. “You’re more constructive. You’re looking for meaning in life. I’m proud

of you for that, Fi. Always have been.”

“Dad...” A watery laugh escapes me. “Shit, you’re going to make me choke up over dumplings.”

“Never waste good dumplings, Fiona.”

I laugh again, and he gives me a tight smile. Being easy and joking with my dad is a new thing. It occurs to me that maybe

he’s shy too. I reach over and nudge his bony wrist with my fist. “I’m proud of you too, Dad.”

“Remember the dumpling,” he says, though he’s flushed again. “And never forget this. As much as I want your respect, you never,

ever live your life to make someone else happy. You got me?”

He stares me down, he expression as earnest as I’ve seen it. Lump in my throat, I nod. He nods too.

We eat in silence for a while, ordering a plate of steamed pork buns.

Around us, Chinese New Yorkers chatter and slurp up dumplings with a deftness that makes me and Dad look like bumbling amateurs.

At the front-window counter, an old guy makes stunning little bundles of food art, occasionally yelling in Mandarin to the hostess by the register.

I soak it in, relish my meal. Four years I spent in the South, playing the part of college party girl. It was fun, but here

in New York? I feel at home. I love this city. It hums through my veins and makes my heart beat. And I’m going to leave it.

Because I want something more.

I’m about to tell my dad this when he speaks again.

“I’m... ah... seeing someone.” Okay, he’s definitely pink now. “Genevieve. She does PR for the Hawks.”

Just like that, I’m grinning. “It must be serious.”

Dad tilts his head in acknowledgment before slurping down a soup dumpling. “She moved into the house,” he says after a moment.

“Good. I don’t like the idea of you rattling around in that big place alone. Just, please tell me she isn’t my age.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Nice, Fi. And you accuse me of giving you shit.”

“Sorry.” It was a low blow.

“She’s only five years younger than me. Is that acceptable?” He’s not smiling, but I can tell he wants to.

“Yeah. Of course. I was being a shit.”

“Wouldn’t be my daughter if you weren’t.”

It’s my turn to duck my head in embarrassment.

“So what are you going to do next?” Dad asks.

“Dex.”

Dad rears back. “What?”

“Shit. No. I mean...” I bite on my lower lip before getting it over with. “I’m seeing someone too. Ethan Dexter.”

Worst segue ever, even if it was probably correct. I really can’t wait to do him again. And again. Shit. I’m blushing now.

Dad stares at me for a long moment, his nostrils slightly pinched, then grunts. “Dexter, eh? I kind of thought you’d fall

for a chef or some sort of arty type—”

“Thanks, Dad.” I don’t bother to clarify that Dex actually is arty.

Dad doesn’t pause. “But he’s a good choice.”

I blink. “Really? You think so?”

“Why not? You like him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“He’s steady, quiet, honest.” Dad rubs a hand over his face. “Not too thrilled about the idea of you doing him, but we’ll just pretend that was never mentioned.”

I bury my head in my hands. “I know. God, I suck at basic conversation with you.”

Dad laughs. “No shit.”

“Can we move along now?” I ask from the safety of my hands.

“Sure.” He falls silent, and I lift my head to find him studying me. “Is he the real deal?”

I’m the one who feels shy now. “Yeah, Dad. He really is. So much so that I’m going to claim him.”

I cringe again. I meant it figuratively, but it probably isn’t something my dad wants to hear. I’m better off stuffing my

mouth with dumplings and not talking again.

Fortunately, Dad just nods. “One less thing.”

I don’t know if he’s right, because the fact is, there are things I need to tell Dex too, and I have no idea how he’s going

to take them.