Page 33 of The Dating Coach
His hand found mine under the table, and this time I didn't think about control or complications. I just held on.
"Good," he said softly. "You deserve to be happy, Gemma Spears. Even when you take second place."
"Especially then?" I suggested.
"Especially then," he agreed, and sealed it with a squeeze of my hand that felt like a promise.
The booth erupted as Frank accidentally launched a mozzarella stick across the table, hitting Henry square in the forehead. In the chaos that followed, Liam and I stayed connected under the table, a secret anchor in the storm of flying appetizers and laughter.
Chapter 16: Liam
My father occupied space like he owned it, which, given his minority stake in the Bruins and general approach to life, he probably felt he did. He sat across from me at Chez Laurent, the kind of restaurant where even the water had pedigree and the prices required a small loan. His choice, naturally – Victor Delacroix didn't do anything without making a statement.
"You're distracted," he observed, cutting into his sixty-dollar steak with surgical precision. "Coach Jack mentioned you've been leaving practice early."
"Twice," I corrected, maintaining eye contact. Never show weakness with Victor. "I left twice. To help a friend with an emergency."
"A friend." He managed to make two words sound like an accusation. "Would this friend happen to be the swimmer I've been hearing about?"
Of course he'd been hearing about her. Victor had a network of informants that would make the CIA jealous. "Gemma Spears. And yes, she's a friend."
"Pre-med student. Captain of the swim team. Strong academics, but recently failed organic chemistry." He recited her resume like he was reading a scouting report. "Also currently harboring her minor sister who ran away from home. Complicated situation."
My jaw clenched. "How do you—"
"I make it my business to know what might affect your performance." He took a sip of wine that probably cost morethan most people's rent. "You're just a few months away from the NHL draft. This is not the time for distractions."
"She's not a distraction," I said, too quickly, too defensively.
"No?" His eyebrow arched in that familiar way. "Then why are you spending hours tutoring her instead of working on your wrist shot? Why did three separate people see you at the campus library when you should have been in the weight room?"
"Because I have a life outside hockey," I said, amazed at how steady my voice sounded when inside I was vibrating with years of suppressed frustration. "Because I'm more than your draft projection."
"You're a Delacroix," he countered, like that explained everything. "Hockey isn't just what we do, it's who we are. Your grandfather—"
"Died at fifty-eight from complications related to repeated concussions," I interrupted. "After spending his retirement unable to remember his grandchildren's names. That's the legacy you want me to continue?"
Silence stretched between us, the kind that used to make me babble apologies. Not anymore.
"Your mother called," he said finally, changing tactics. "She's concerned. Says you haven't been home in two months."
"I've been busy. Team responsibilities." The lie tasted bitter, but less bitter than admitting I couldn't stand his museum of a house where every photo was from a game, every conversation led back to hockey.
"She also mentioned you haven't RSVP'd to the Henley Foundation gala. The scouts will be there. Good opportunity to network before the draft."
"I have plans that night," I said, even though I didn't know what night he was talking about. Any night that required me to perform the part of Victor Delacroix's son was a night I had plans.
"With the swimmer?" He made it sound like a disease.
"With friends. Maybe including Gemma. Is that a problem?"
"It is if she's affecting your focus. You're so close, Liam. Everything we've worked for—"
"Everything you've worked for," I corrected. "I never asked for private coaches at age six. I never asked to spend every summer at elite camps instead of with friends. I never asked for any of it."
"You never complained either," he pointed out.
"Because I was a child who wanted his father's approval!" The words exploded out of me, too loud for the restaurant's hushed atmosphere. Several diners turned to stare. I lowered my voice but not my intensity. "I did everything you wanted. Gave up everything else. And for what? So you could live out your NHL dreams through me?"
