Page 183 of Slapshot Kiss

Now I walk straight through the main entrance.

The relationship is public.

Diane Mercer helped us put out a short statement after the original video went viral. It confirmed that Wyatt and I were dating, that our relationship was personal, and that the organization would continue handling all hockey decisions through its usual processes.

The internet had opinions.

Lots of them.

For about two weeks, strangers analyzed everything from Wyatt's ice time to my facial expressions in photographs. One particularly dedicated account even suggested that my father had deliberately arranged the entire relationship to improve team morale.

I'm still trying to figure out how that would work.

Then the team won three games in a row, somebody else got caught doing something scandalous, and the internet found a new obsession.

It hasn't disappeared completely. Every now and then, someone still makes a comment about Wyatt dating the coach's daughter.

But Wyatt keeps showing up, keeps working, and keeps earning his minutes.

And he's still playing for LA Ice.

Looking back, all the fears I had three months ago seem so small and insignificant now. Did I really let those fears pull Wyatt and me apart?

“Quinn.”

I turn at the sound of my name.

Dad is standing a few feet away, his tie loosened and his jacket slung over one arm.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Good game?”

I smile. “You tell me. You're the coach.”

“I'm asking whether you enjoyed it.”

“Oh.” I laugh. “Yeah. It was great.”

He nods, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

Things have been better between us lately.

Not perfect.

We had a pretty spectacular argument after Wyatt and I got back together, during which I told Dad that I loved him, respected him, and would appreciate it if he stopped trying to manage my personal life like it was a poorly performing power play.

He didn't particularly enjoy that conversation. I didn't enjoy it either, but we needed to have it.

Since then, we've had dinner twice, talked on the phone, and even managed to discuss hockey without either of us raising our voice.

Progress.

Dad glances toward the lounge.

“Got a minute?”

My stomach tightens. “Is something wrong?”