Page 99 of Slap Shot Daddies

I sputter, laughing while drinking, nearly sending the tea spraying across the table.

Dad doesn’t react, calmly spooning mashed potatoes into his mouth as if nothing happened.

"Mom," I protest, setting my fork down with a soft clatter. "I met him for five minutes."

"He’s got a steady accounting job, Kenzie. Owns his own house, drives a luxury car, both are completely paid off. What more could you ask for?" she presses, her tone insistent.

I rub my temples, feeling the tension gather there. "I don’t know, Mom. Maybe someone I actually want to date?"

Mom huffs, her knife slicing through the meatloaf with a touch of irritation. "Well, maybe the kind of guys you want don’t want you. That’s why you’re still single," she remarks, her words sharp as the knife in her hand.

The words hit me like a slap, a scorching wave of embarrassment spreading across my cheeks. I set my fork down with a soft clink and press my napkin firmly against my lap, forcing a tight, humorless laugh to bubble up from my throat.

"Wow, okay. Thanks for that, Mom," I manage to say, trying to keep my voice steady.

She just shrugs casually, as if she hasn't just sliced open a fresh wound, and takes another slow sip of her chamomile tea. The steam curls lazily from the cup, contrasting sharply with the sharpness of her words.

"I’m just saying," she continues, her tone dripping with a syrupy sweetness that only adds salt to the injury, "you’re not getting any younger, Kenzie. And it’s not like you have men lining up at your door. Maybe it’s time to stop being so picky."

I grip my napkin so tightly that the fabric strains against my knuckles, a slow ache spreading through my hands.

Dad finally looks up from his mashed potatoes, sensing the tension thickening the air around us. "Now, honey, " he begins, his eyes flicking to my mom in a silent plea for peace.

Mom dismisses him with a wave, her hand slicing through the air. "I’m just being realistic. She doesn’t want to end up alone, does she?"

My stomach twists uncomfortably, the delicious aroma of the roast and vegetables from minutes ago now turning sour in mymind, sitting like a leaden weight in my gut. I push my chair back abruptly, the legs scraping loudly against the polished hardwood floor, a sound that echoes my inner turmoil.

"Excuse me," I say, my voice strained and barely above a whisper, "I need to use the bathroom."

I don't wait for any response, my feet already carrying me away from the table, the pulse pounding in my ears drowning out any other noise.

I knew this trip was a mistake.

I step into the cramped hallway bathroom, the door closing behind me with a soft click that echoes in the silence. My fingers curl around the edges of the porcelain sink, its surface cool and unyielding beneath my touch.

I draw in a deep breath, releasing it slowly, as I attempt to unravel the tension that twists tightly in my stomach like a coiled spring.

Then, I hear them.

Their voices seep through the thin walls, muffled but distinct enough to make out.

"You pushed too hard," Dad says, his voice quieter than usual but carrying a firm edge. "Kenzie’s barely been here an hour, and you’re already trying to shove her into some guy’s arms. Let her breathe, for goodness sake."

I blink at my reflection, my eyes wide with surprise. Dad never stands up for me when it comes to Mom’s relentless pressure.

"I’m just worried about her!" Mom's voice cuts through the air, sharp with a mix of desperation and frustration. "She’s twenty-four, Douglas! Twenty-four and completely alone! If she doesn’t settle down soon, she’s going to be a spinster. Or worse…a single mother from some fling!"

I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest.

Dad lets out a scoff, filled with disbelief. "Kenzie would never do that. She’s responsible. She’s not one ofthosegirls."

A wave of nausea hits me as my stomach clenches tight.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my cheeks flushed a deep crimson, my chocolate eyes slightly glassy with unshed tears. I take a deep, shaky breath, willing my racing heart to slow its feverish pace.

I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I refuse to.

Without a second thought, I pivot sharply, my hand gripping the doorknob with determination, and I stride back into the dining room.

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