Page 11 of Wild Card 13

Dad didn’t flinch. “That’s part of why I’d want you there.”

I stared at him. “Because I hate hockey?”

Dad sighed softly. “You hate what hockey took from you.”

My fingers tightened instinctively around my napkin.

Across the table, Bea’s expression shifted immediately, humor dimming into quiet attention. Beside my father, Lo lowered her eyes toward her plate with the grace of someone deliberately pretending not to witness a private moment unfolding in front of her.

Dad exhaled slowly through his nose, regret flickering briefly across his face. “I’m not trying to make that sound simple.”

“It is simple,” I answered, softer than I intended. “You had a job. It mattered. I got it.”

His expression changed again then. And for one terrible second, I thought he might apologize.

Not here.

Not over rosemary chicken and roasted potatoes.

Not after years of learning how to love him around the edges of everything his life demanded from him.

So I reached for my water again and forced my voice lighter before either of us accidentally said something honest enough to ruin lunch. “Besides,” I added, “I already survived one hockey-related career path. I tutored Ty Burns through sophomore biology. I’ve done my time.”

“The organization is growing,” Dad continued, ignoring my protest. “Fast. Messy in places. We’re trying to build something sustainable, and I need people I trust who can see systems, not just personalities. You understand operations. You understand how people move through structures. You know how to make chaos functional.”

“Very flattering,” I murmured. “Still hockey.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “But hockey is also contracts, travel, scheduling, compliance, player conduct, sponsor obligations, media risk, medical coordination, family support, community appearances, and twenty other things nobody sees because they’re too busy watching the puck.”

Bea lifted her wine glass slightly. “He’s not wrong.”

I pointed at her immediately. “You are supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on the side of you not being psychologically damaged by a man who uses Messenger like a tactical assault weapon.”

Dad’s mouth twitched faintly. “Come in temporarily,” he offered. “Help us build better systems. If you hate it, leave. If something better comes along, take it. No guilt. No pressure.”

No pressure, from my father, usually meant he had already considered seventeen possible outcomes and quietly decided which one he preferred while pretending I had equal footing in the conversation.

My father just had the kind of confidence that came from years of making impossible decisions in expensive rooms while everyone else waited for him to speak first. He could sound casual while placing a life raft directly in front of you. And I was tired enough to want the raft.

“I don’t want to be one of those owner’s daughter hires,” I finally admitted.

“You won’t be,” he replied quickly.

“People will think I am.”

“People think a lot of things,” Bea snickered, a knowing smirk tugging at her mouth.

“That is not a business strategy.”

“No,” Dad agreed calmly. “Hiring someone competent is.”

I looked away first because unfortunately that had been a good answer.

Beyond the sunroom windows, late autumn had turned the backyard pale and quiet. The planters Lo filled every spring sat empty now, dark soil damp from last night’s rain. The maple tree near the fence had lost almost all its leaves, thin branches scratching softly against the gray sky.

When I was little, I used to sit out there with sketchbooks while my father took calls inside. I had drawn everything in that backyard at least a hundred times. The maple tree. The chipped birdbath Lo eventually replaced after claiming it looked “dangerously haunted.” The back of my father’s head through the glass while he paced the kitchen talking about contracts and trades and systems I didn’t understand yet. I had spent most of my life near hockey without ever really belonging to it. Near the arena, the noise, the players. Never fully inside. Never fully away.