"And after, when I found out who he was, I should have shut it down completely. That's on me. I knew better." I take a breath. "But what happened between us... it wasn't just a fling or a physical thing. There was—is—something real there."
"Elena—"
"Please, let me finish." My voice is steady now. "I'm not asking for your permission, Dad. I'm twenty-six, not fifteen. I'm just trying to be honest with you. Nate and I are together again. We're taking it slowly this time. But I need you to know that he's important to me."
"Is this why you took the Steel job? So you could be with him?"
"No. Yes. Partly." I struggle to articulate the complex truth. "I took it because I needed my own identity, like we talked about before. But also because it removes the professional conflict. It gives us a chance to see if what we have is real, without all the complications."
"And you believe he's changed? That he won't hurt you?"
The question is fair. I've asked myself the same thing countless times.
"I believe he's trying," I say carefully. "I believe we both are. I can't promise it will work out, but I need to find out."
Dad is quiet for a long moment, fiddling with his napkin. Finally, he looks up.
"You know, your mother would have liked him."
The statement blindsides me. "What?"
"She always had a soft spot for the complicated ones. Said they were the most interesting." A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "She'd have seen through his bullshit right away, just like you do."
My eyes burn with unexpected tears.
"I just want you to be happy, Elena," he continues. "And safe. Barnes has a history?—"
"I know his history," I interrupt. "I also know he's not defined by it."
Dad nods slowly. "Fair enough." He picks up his fork again, cutting into his abandoned slice of pizza. "Just promise me one thing?"
"What's that?"
"If he reverts to his old ways, if he hurts you—you walk away. No second chances."
I think about the Nate I've come to know—the man who holds me while I sleep, who's confronting his demons in therapy, who kisses me like I'm precious and laughs with me so hard we almost cry sometimes.
"I promise," I say. "But he's not going to hurt me."
"I hope you're right." Dad lifts his beer in a small toast. "To new beginnings, then."
I clink my glass against his, while I feel the relief rush through me. "To new beginnings."
As we finish our meal, we talk about mundane stuff—the upcoming baseball season, the Blades current ranking, my recent seven mile run that almost killed me. But something has shifted between us, a new understanding taking root.
When we part outside the restaurant, Dad hugs me tightly. "Tell Nate I'm watching him." His eyes narrow in possibly mock threat, but maybe not. “If he hurts you I’m coming after his ass.”
I laugh. "I'll be sure to pass that along."
The Steel's facility smells of freshly cut grass and leather, a world away from the ice and sweat of the hockey arena. I settle at my desk with an oat milk latte, thinking about how last night's dinner with Dad went better than I could have hoped. For the first time in months, all the pieces of my life seem to be falling into place.
I spend the morning reviewing player assessments, making notes on areas of concern and potential intervention strategies. The Steel's roster includes several promising rookies strugglingwith the transition to the majors, and two veterans coming back from career-threatening injuries. Complex cases that will challenge me professionally—exactly what I wanted.
By noon, my stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t eat breakfast. I stretch, feeling a satisfying pop in my spine, and decide to take a proper lunch break. The cafeteria here is surprisingly good, with healthier options than the fried-everything menu at the Blades facility.
I grab a salad and find a quiet corner table, pulling out my phone to catch up on messages. There's one from Reese asking about weekend plans, another from a friend from San Francisco who I haven’t talked to in a long time. And a simple "Miss you already" from Nate that somehow makes me feel seventeen again.
I open Instagram, scrolling mindlessly while I eat. A sports blog I follow has posted a new gallery of images. I tap through them—mostly standard shots of players at charity events or training.
