Page 82 of Slots & Sticks
Tristan flicks Knight’s arm. “Not really Dot’s style.”
Viktor rubs his chin. “Skip the proposal. Go straight for the marriage like I did. You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
Bowen crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t recommend the head injury, but I still got the job done.”
I click my tongue. “Well, this has been no help. I guess I’ll figure it out on my own.”
Knight wanders back over to his locker. “Just don’t go see my father. Not sure what was said, but he did mention that the last conversation was really uncomfortable.”
“Duly noted,” I say. “I guess there’s no rush to pop the question.”
“Hey.” Knight spins back to me. “Have you already had your date at the, whatchamacallit? The place with the cheese?”
“The cheese?” I squint at him.
“Yeah, the one you had to book, like, a year out.”
My lips part. “Oh. You mean Gemelli’s? No, that’s still coming up. Are they known for their cheese?”
Knight shrugs. “I don’t know; they’re fancy. I assume they have fancy cheese.”
“Cretin,” Viktor grumbles.
I pull out my phone to check the reminders. Our reservation at Gemelli’s is set for a little under three weeks from now. “It’s soon. That’s a great idea, actually. Thanks, Knight.”
My friend bows low. “That’s why they call me the king of romance.”
“Sure they do.” Viktor coughs a few times. “Daddy.”
A fresh squabble breaks out, but I’m already preoccupied imagining my dinner date with Dot. Viktor said it was the most romantic date he’s ever been on. It’s the perfect opportunity to ask Dot to marry me. A plan this romantic can’t fail. In less than a month, I’m finally going to be engaged to the girl of my dreams.
Chapter Twenty
Dot
“Any idea why Sergio wants to see you?” I ask.
Dad grunts as he pulls himself up out of the car. He’s getting better at that, in part because he’s getting stronger. Every physical therapy session helps with his well-being and his confidence. He needs his cane, but I can tell that he’s not relying on it as much.
“Dad…”
Pain twists Dad’s face as he shuts the car door behind him, but when he speaks, I realize that he’s reacting to more than a pulled muscle or the pinch of scar tissue. “I think they may be letting me go.”
I scoff. “He wouldn’t dare.” For one thing, it would be terrible PR. Plus, after the way Dante spoke about Dad in the hospital, I’m pretty sure he’d kick Sergio’s ass over that kind of stunt.
But I’m already cataloging worst-case scenarios. If Sergio tries anything, I’ll call Dante. I’ll call the board. I’ll call the press. I’ll stand on the roof and scream. Dad lost enough in that fire. He doesn’t lose the rink, too. Not on my watch.
Dad sets out for the front door. “It’s Sergio. I have no idea how he thinks.”
“If he thinks,” I mutter. “But Dante was clear your position was waiting for you to return.” I suppose it’s possible that Sergio might try to go behind his father’s back and fire Dad as part of their ongoing petty feud.
Well, that’s not happening today. I will throw hands. I will throw elbows. Hell, I’ll bite ankles like Skinbad if I have to. Dadhas loved this team for longer than I’ve been alive, and I’m not going to let Sergio take yet another thing away from him.
Renee seems a little surprised when we walk into the office. Without even offering us a greeting, she turns to her keyboard and taps out something on her keyboard. Her eyes narrow.
“Hold on. Coach Shaw, are you Sergio’s two o’clock?” she asks.
Her tone is too bright, her smile too fixed—the customer-service version of a flak jacket. She’s stalling, or buying time, or both. The way her eyes flick to Dad’s cane tells me she clocked his pain the second we walked in. It softens her; it sharpens me.
