"She’s a lifesaver."
"Everyone needs friends like that." He drains the pasta in a colander, steam billowing up around his face. "Team's been asking about you. When you're coming back."
My hands pause in the middle of mixing the salad. "About that..." I say almost at a whisper.
But Dad doesn’t seem to hear me and begins carrying the pasta to the table, focused on dinner. It’s not the right moment. I follow with the salad bowl, my rehearsed speech stuck in my throat.
I officially accepted the offer with the Steel—I start in two weeks. I need to tell Dad though before it all sinks in and feels real.
We sit across from each other at the small table in his dining nook. He serves pasta onto my plate, then his own.
"The team looked better against Philly last night," I say, reaching for the grated parmesan. "Defense tightened up in the third period."
"Too little, too late." He frowns. "We need to be playing hard for a full sixty minutes, not twenty."
"How's Barnes doing?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Dad's eyes flick up to mine, searching. "Better. He had a good week of practice."
I nod, twirling pasta around my fork but unable to eat it. "Dad, there's something I need to tell you."
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "I'm listening."
I set my own fork down, hands suddenly clammy. "I've been offered another job. Sports psychologist for the Chicago Steel."
The fork lowers back to his plate. His face gives nothing away, but his shoulders stiffen slightly. "I see."
"It's a good opportunity," I continue, words tumbling out now. "They need someone right away, and Dr. Shanta recommended me. The interview went really well, and?—"
"You've already interviewed." Not a question.
"Yes. Last week."
He nods slowly, his expression closing like a door being shut. "And you're going to take it."
"I already have."
Dad takes a deliberate bite of pasta, chews thoroughly, swallows. Control in every movement. "What about the program we're building with the Blades? The one you were so excited about?"
"You’ll find someone else to fill my spot," I say. "And Dr. Mendez has been doing great work with the team while I've been away."
"With most of the team," Dad says. "But not with Barnes."
I feel myself tense. "I wouldn't be the right person to continue working with him regardless."
Dad pushes his plate away slightly. "So you're running away."
His words sting. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You made a mistake, and now instead of working through it, you're bailing on your commitment to this team. To me."
"I'm not bailing, Dad. I'm making a professional decision that's best for everyone involved."
"Best for you, you mean."
My throat tightens. "Why is it so hard for you to understand that I might need this? That working for your team, under your shadow, might not be the best thing for my career?"
"My shadow?" His eyebrows draw together. "Is that how you see it?"
