The restaurant buzzes with energy—families sharing massive deep-dish pies, couples leaning close across tables, waiters balancing trays of beer. Dad looks up from his menu and waves me over.
"Sorry I'm late," I say, sliding into the booth. "Our meeting ran long."
"No problem. I just got here myself." He folds his menu and sets it aside. "How's the new job treating you?"
"It's going well. Really well, actually." I pick up a menu though I already know what I want. "The team has a completely different vibe from the Blades."
"How so?"
"Less testosterone, for one thing." I smile and roll my eyes. "Baseball players are intense in their own way, but it's different from hockey. Less aggression."
Dad nods, genuinely interested. "Is management giving you the support you need?"
"Absolutely. They've been incredibly receptive to my ideas for expanding the mental health program. And they're giving me a lot of autonomy."
A waiter appears, and we order—a half-mushroom, half-pepperoni deep dish and two beers. When he leaves, Dad leans forward, elbows on the table.
"You look good, Elena. Happier."
"I feel happier," I admit. "The Steel is a good fit for me. And I like being able to establish myself separately from..." I trail off, not wanting to sound ungrateful.
"From me," he finishes, no offense in his voice. "I get it. And I'm glad. You deserve your own spotlight."
The beer arrives, and I take a long sip, trying to calm my jittery nerves. In the corner of the restaurant, a birthday celebration erupts with off-key singing. Dad watches the scene with amusement.
"Remember when you turned twelve and insisted on having your birthday at that fancy French restaurant?" he asks. "You ordered escargot and pretended to love it even though I could tell you were horrified."
I laugh at the memory. "I was trying so hard to be grown-up."
"You've always been that way. Determined to tackle things head-on, even when they scared you."
The conversation flows easily between us. Dad tells me about recent trades, I share stories about quirky baseball superstitions I've encountered. By the time our pizza arrives, mouthwatering and hot, the knot in my stomach has loosened slightly.
We dig in, the first few bites eaten in silence. I'm halfway through my slice when Dad sets his fork down and takes a drink of beer.
"So, Barnes…" He says the name and my heart about jumps out of my chest. "He’s different these days."
I set my own fork down. I can’t eat and have this conversation at the same time. "Different how?"
Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin. "More focused. Less volatile. He's been mentoring some of the younger players, if you can believe it." He pauses. "I'm still pissed off about what happened with the two of you, but I can't deny he's trying."
This is such a surprise. I'd expected judgment or disappointment. Not this somewhat grudging acknowledgment.
"He is trying," I say softly. "He's been seeing a therapist. Working through some stuff from his past."
Dad's eyebrows lift slightly. "Voluntarily?"
"Yes. It was his idea."
A long moment passes between us. I gather my courage, knowing it's time for complete honesty.
"Dad, there's something I need to tell you. About Nate and me."
He sits back, arms crossing over his chest. "Go ahead."
"The night we met—that first time, at the hotel bar? I was the one who pursued him." The words tumble out in a rush. "He didn't know who I was, and I didn't know he was a Blades player. But I was the one who suggested going to my room."
Dad frowns slightly, but doesn't interrupt.
