Page 107 of The Blame Game

“Yes, seriously,” Dom said with a grateful sigh.

“Oh, man, I was having fun too.” Nico pouted, but he didn’t continue.

Instead, conversation shifted to the team’s standings—they were close to clinching a spot in the playoffs—and Dom tried to ignore the sour feeling in his gut that he wouldn’t be there to help them with it.

It wasn’t until he left Dustin’s place and climbed into his Aston Martin Vanquish that it hit him that he’d come out to part of the team.

He sat there for a moment, digesting it.

It still left him with that slightly itchy, uncomfortable feeling, but on the whole, he didn’t regret it.

He wasn’t good at opening up. Wasn’t good at being vulnerable. But he was trying. Because even though he hated the way it felt, apparently it was important to other people.

He did love these guys, even if they were ridiculous.

And, if nothing else, the whole stupid conversation had given him some things to think about for his “homework” from Shea.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Hey, good workout, bud,” Tom said, slapping Shea on the shoulder as they finished their late-morning workout and left the gym. “I still think you could have gone heavier on the squats but …”

“Mmm,” Shea said because he wasn’t going to argue with his dad about the fact that he was protecting his knee. With good form, there was nothing inherently wrong with doing squats but he didn’t like to overload the weight.

Shea knew exactly what he could manage, but, as usual, his dad didn’t agree.

When they were back at the house, they went their separate ways to shower and change, and then Shea helped his mom make lunch.

After, she and Emma disappeared to go get manicures and pedicures and then it was just Shea and his dad alone.

Usually a recipe for disaster, but Shea would try to keep his temper in check.

Shea helped his dad move some things up into the attic and then they watched ESPN for a while.

“How’s work been?” Shea asked. His dad worked as a general manager for a chain of gyms.

“Not too bad.”

They killed twenty minutes discussing his dad’s career before they exhausted that subject and fell silent again.

Shea tried not to fidget.

“What about yours?” his dad asked a few minutes later, after the silence had gone past awkward and into downright uncomfortable. “How have things been at the clinic?”

“Oh, pretty good. I’ve had some interesting patients lately. Long hours some days, but it’s always challenging and rewarding.”

Shea told him about a recent client—a high school swimmer with a torn rotator cuff—who had recently returned to competing. “He’s doing great. Didn’t medal or anything but his times were solid.”

His dad nodded. “Yeah, that does sound rewarding. Knowing you helped someone return to the sport they love.”

Shea flinched. “Yeah.”

A guilty look crossed his dad’s face. “I didn’t mean …”

Shea swallowed hard. “Yeah, no, I know. It’s just …”

It was weird now. This distance between him and his dad.

They’d been so close when Shea was growing up.

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