"Love it," Nate says, his voice carefully measured. Not the cocky hockey player voice, not the intimate tone he uses with me, but something new—respectful without being deferential.
We follow Dad into the kitchen, where the smell of tomato sauce and herbs fills the air. The table is already set for three, a small detail that makes my throat tighten. He's making an effort.
"Can I help with anything?" I ask, falling into our habitual pattern.
Dad shakes his head. "Just grab wine glasses. Water's already on the table."
Nate stands awkwardly by the doorway until Dad points to the kitchen island. "You can make yourself useful and slice that bread."
I shoot Nate an apologetic look, but he just smiles and rolls up his sleeves. I watch as he grabs the bread knife and gets to work. There's something intimate about seeing him in my childhood kitchen, doing something so domestic.
"How's the Steel treating you?" Dad asks as he pulls the lasagna from the oven.
"Good." I fill three glasses with the Malbec Nate and I brought. "We're implementing a new mental performance program for the rookies. The GM's giving me a lot of freedom with it."
Dad nods. "I heard their shortstop is hitting again."
My eyebrows rise. "You're keeping tabs on my players?"
"I keep tabs on you. And I knew he was having a hard time and now he isn’t." He sets the steaming dish on a trivet.
Nate carries the sliced bread to the table, and for a moment, we all just stand there, the awkwardness thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Looks great," Nate says, breaking the silence. "Thanks for having us over, Coach."
"Let's eat before it gets cold." Dad gestures to the chairs. "And you can call me Anthony when we're not at the rink."
I nearly drop my wine glass. Dad offering Nate the use of his first name feels monumental—a small crack in the wall he's maintained since the moment he learned about us.
We sit, and Dad serves generous portions of lasagna onto our plates. The first few minutes pass in relative silence, broken only by murmurs of appreciation for the food.
"This is incredible," Nate says, and I can tell he genuinely means it. "Did you make this from scratch?"
Dad nods. "Old family recipe. Elena's mother taught me."
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
"She was Italian?" Nate asks carefully.
"Half." Dad takes a sip of wine. "Her mother came from a small town outside Naples. Taught her all the family recipes, and she passed them on to me."
"I wish I could have met her," Nate says quietly.
Dad's eyes find mine across the table. I know he’s thinking about what he told me earlier—how Mom would have liked Nate.
The conversation moves to less fraught territory—recent games, league standings, a controversial call in last night's game against Detroit. I watch as Nate and Dad find common ground in their shared world. The tension gradually ebbs from Dad, and Nate's smile becomes more natural.
"Evans mentioned you've been working with Tucker on his shot," Dad says as he serves second helpings. "Says the kid's accuracy has improved twenty percent."
Nate shrugs, but I can see he's pleased. "He's got natural talent. Just needed some extra help in learning how to use his body weight more effectively."
"And McCoy tells me you've been the first one at practice, last one off the ice."
"Just trying to set a good example." Nate's eyes flick to mine briefly. "Show the rookies what it takes."
Dad sets down his fork, his gaze steady on Nate. "You know, when you first came back to the team, I thought you were going to be a disaster."
I grip my wine glass tighter. "Dad?—"
