Page 34 of The Dating Coach
"I'm trying to give you opportunities I never had," he said, but for the first time, he looked uncomfortable. "The connections, the training, the path to success—"
"Your definition of success," I interrupted. "What if I want something different? What if I want to build things instead of destroying my body for entertainment? What if I want a life that doesn't revolve around games and trades and whether my plus-minus is acceptable?"
"Architecture." He said it like profanity. "I know about the applications, Liam. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"
My blood ran cold. "Those are private—"
"Nothing is private when you're on track to be a first-round draft pick." He leaned forward. "I haven't interfered. Yet. But if you continue down this path, if you throw away everything we've built for some fantasy about buildings and urban planning—"
"You'll what?" I met his stare. "Disown me? Cut me off? Go ahead. I'll take out loans like everyone else. At least I'll be building a life that's actually mine."
He threw his napkin on the table, signaling for the check with sharp movements. "The Henley gala is next Sunday. I expect you there, appropriately dressed, with appropriate company. Not some complicated girl with family drama who has you thinking you're too good for the path that's been laid out for you."
"Her name is Gemma," I said. "And she's worth a hundred of the 'appropriate' people you want me to surround myself with."
"Just a few more months, Liam." He signed the check without looking at the total. "A few months until the draft. Don't throw it all away for some girl who won't matter in a year."
He left without another word, leaving me alone at a table that cost more than most people's monthly grocery budget. I sat there for a moment, processing what had just happened. I'd stood up to Victor Delacroix. Told him no. Defended my choices and the people who mattered to me.
It felt terrifying. It felt liberating. It felt like the first honest conversation we'd had in years.
My phone buzzed. A text from Gemma:Mia made cookies and Frank is trying to teach us his 'foolproof' pokerstrategy. You free? Could use someone who actually knows math.
I typed back:On my way. Save me a cookie and whatever money Frank hasn't conned out of you yet.
Her response was immediate:Too late on the money. Cookies are negotiable.
Then, a second text:You okay?
I stared at the screen, at evidence that someone noticed my moods and cared enough to check. Not because of what I could do on the ice or who my father was, but just because I mattered to her.
Better now, I replied.See you in twenty.
Walking out of the restaurant, leaving my father’s expectations behind with the overpriced wine and suffocating atmosphere, I felt lighter than I had in years. He was right about one thing—in a few months, everything would change. But not the way he expected.
In a few months, I’d either be drafted and forced to choose between his dreams and mine, or I’d be free to build the life I actually wanted. Either way, I wasn’t backing down. Not from him, not from my dreams, and definitely not from the complicated girl with trust issues who’d shown me what real courage looked like.
Gemma was at her apartment when I arrived, flour in her hair and frosting on her nose, laughing as Mia tried to explain why her cookies looked like abstract art instead of snowflakes. The scene was so different from the sterile perfection of Chez Laurent that I had to stop in the doorway just to breathe it in.
"Liam!" Mia spotted me first. "Tell Gemma that cookies don't have to be pretty to taste good!"
"Aesthetic matters," Gemma countered, then turned to me with those eyes that saw too much. "Hey. You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it," I said, and meant more than just the cookies.
She studied me for a moment, then crossed the kitchen to press a still-warm cookie into my hand. "Frank is in the living room setting up poker. Fair warning – he's using colored candy as chips and claims the different colors have different values."
"Of course he is." I took a bite of the cookie, which looked like a blob but tasted like happiness. "Perfect," I told Mia, who beamed.
"See! Liam gets it!"
Gemma rolled her eyes but smiled, and when she reached up to brush flour from my shoulder, the simple domesticity of the gesture made my chest tight. This was what I wanted. Not galas and networking events and appropriate company, but flour fights and terrible poker strategies and people who texted to check if I was okay.
"Later," she murmured, quiet enough only I could hear. "You can tell me what happened, if you want."
"Yeah," I agreed, catching her hand briefly. "Later."
For now, there were cookies to eat and money to lose to Frank's questionable poker skills.
