He holds up a hand. "Let me finish, Elena." He turns back to Nate. "I thought you were talented but uncoachable. A liability we'd have to manage until your contract expired."
Nate swallows hard but meets Dad's eyes directly. "That was a fair assessment at the time."
"Maybe." Dad nods. "But lately, you've been proving me wrong."
The room goes still. I hold my breath, afraid to stop whatever's happening between them.
"You're playing the best hockey of your career," Dad continues. "Not just scoring—though your numbers are up—but in all the ways that don't show up on a stat sheet. Leadership. Responsibility. Putting the team first."
Nate's face shows genuine surprise. "Thank you, sir."
Dad glances at me, a softness in his eyes I rarely see. "My daughter has good judgment. Always has. Even when I've disagreed with her choices."
I feel tears pricking behind my eyes.
"She told me she believed in you. Said you were changing." Dad's voice grows quieter. "I was skeptical. Thought maybe you were just putting on a show to impress her."
"I wasn't," Nate says firmly.
"I know that now." Dad picks up his wine glass and takes a sip. "You've turned into a man I'm proud to have on my team."
The words hang in the air, simple but profound. I blink rapidly, trying to hold back the emotion threatening to spill over. Under the table, Nate's hand finds mine, squeezing gently.
"That means a lot, coming from you," he says, his voice slightly rough.
Dad clears his throat, clearly reaching his limit for emotional conversations. "Well. Anyone want dessert? I've got tiramisu."
The moment breaks, but something has fundamentally shifted. We finish dinner with talk of upcoming games and my latest running route around the city. By the time we're saying goodbye at the door, Dad actually claps Nate on the shoulder—a gesture I've seen him use with players he respects.
"Take care of my girl," he says.
"Always," Nate promises, and I believe him completely.
Dad hugs me tightly. "Love you, kiddo," he whispers.
"Love you too, Daddy."
Outside, the December evening is frigid. The streetlights cast long shadows as we walk hand-in-hand back toward Nate's place, our breaths forming clouds in the chilly air.
“Who thought walking here from your place was a good idea?” I ask.
“Ha! Not me, and you know it.”
I fake-punch his arm. “We need to walk off all that rich food anyway.”
"That went better than I expected," Nate says, running his thumb over my gloved knuckles.
"Understatement of the year." I lean against his side, seeking his warmth. "I never thought I'd see the day my dad would actually approve of you."
"He's a good man. Intimidating as hell, but good." Nate brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my fingers.
I smile up at him. "Take me home," I whisper.
His eyes darken. "With pleasure."
We burst through Nate's door, laughing as we stamp our feet to get the blood flowing again. "I can't feel my nose," I complain, rubbing it with my palm.
Nate pulls me against him, his hands sliding under my coat. "I know exactly how to warm you up," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. A different kind of shiver runs through me then—one that has nothing to do with the temperature.
