Page 139 of The Pucking Date
That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. But not nothing.
Dinner eventually finds its rhythm. The food is flawless. Clean fuel. Season approved.
Finn tries to be discreet going back for seconds. He fails spectacularly.
“Boy eats,” Wai Po mutters, spooning more potatoes onto her plate. “Strong babies need strong fathers.”
Sophie grins. “If they’re anything like Jess, they’re already running strategy meetings in the womb.”
Finn nudges my foot under the table, and I bite back a smile.
Adam raises his glass. “To the bold, the stubborn, and the ones who never take the easy path. Cheers to the Novak legacy.”
Even Liam snorts.
The laughter fades naturally, and then my father clears his throat. The whole table stills.
“Finn,” he says.
Finn sets his fork down. Dad studies him for a long beat. “Still think dating your coach’s daughter was a dumb move.”
Finn doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. But she’s the one. And I didn’t have a choice.”
Dad exhales, not quite a sigh. “If she chose you…” His gaze flicks to me. “Then I can live with dumb.”
Finn nods. “Appreciate that, sir.”
“Wait,that’sit?” Liam blurts, gesturing wildly. “He gets a one-liner? I had to run suicides until I couldn’t feel my legs!”
Coach turns slowly. “You were hiding it. And Sophie’s younger. Needed to vet you harder.”
Liam gapes. “So I got punished for discretion?”
Coach shrugs. “Timing. And we made the cup last year, did we?”
Liam huffs but doesn’t argue. Adam raises his glass again. “Welcome to the table, man.”
Finn lifts his water in return, and Dad grunts. “My whole damn locker room’s in my dining room. We’ll need a new table.”
Finn leans toward me. “You promised pot roast and medieval torture. I got chicken and emotional ambush. Bit of a bait-and-switch.”
Before I can reply, Mom chimes in. “Pot roast doesn’t meet your macros, sweetheart. Win the Cup again, and I’ll feed you like a retired man.”
Finn raises a brow. “That a challenge?”
She smirks. “It’s extra motivation.”
Laughter ripples around the table, soft and real. And for the first time in weeks, something in my chest loosens.
Then, “Jessica.”
Dad’s voice cuts through gently.
I turn to him.
“I was wrong,” he says. “About how I handled things. About trying to protect you from something you never needed protecting from.” My throat tightens. “I didn’t see what you were building. But your mother’s been telling me. And now I do.” He pauses. “Landing the Morrison Group account in your first month? That takes guts. And talent.” Silence. “I’m proud of you.”
I nod once. “Thanks.”
