Page 48 of Wrong Pucking Jersey

“No,” Father admits with an eye roll but gives me his full attention.

“You’re giving him another chance?” He gets right to the point. He doesn’t sound judgmental about it. He’s not hiding his anger, which is expected and healthy of him.

“We’ve come to a consensus,” I confirm. “Nothing serious, but I feel we’ve changed these last five years. Enough that we’re willing to confront the elephant in the room versus acting like little children and ignoring what’s glaring in our faces.”

Father slowly nods before he mutters, “And Winchester?”

“What about him?” I counter.

“Nothing with him?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “We’re still rocky, and I’m sure he’ll fight with Maddox like usual. Cats and dogs with knives ready to kill one another.”

“More like hockey sticks,” Father mutters, but I don’t get what he’s referring to. “Glad O’Riley brought you home. You got wasted.”

“I did get pretty wasted,” I admit.

“Did you have fun?” I know that’s all he truly cares about.

“I did, Dad.” My smile is proof of it. “I’m starving, though. I didn’t eat much yesterday.”

“Breakfast is in the microwave. Your lover boy made pancakes.”

“Shit! He cooked, too?”

Father is giving me the judgment brow, but I roll my eyes.

“Shit is not a swear word.”

He doesn’t argue.

“I’m impressed they’re correcting themselves,” he admits and heads to the stairs, which encourages me to follow him.

That really means the boys are off the hook and can escape while he’s gone.

“Some habits die hard,” I voice, but I really am moved by their effort to appease my old ‘requests’ when they’re around my family.

“Take today off, but remember tomorrow, you need to be at the new stadium to sign your internship papers.”

His reminder makes me gasp.

“So soon? Damn. It’s good you reminded me, or I’d forget!”

“Alexandra called to pass the message to you. Figured you’d wake up late. She’s having lunch with some relative, or she would have come and told you herself.”

“Thanks for the message, Dad,” I praise as I catch up to him. Reaching for his arm, I stop him before he can go inside and quietly whisper, “Thank you for letting me be independent.”

He glances down at me for a few seconds.

“You’re an adult now, so I can’t involve myself in everything,” he admits. Glancing away, he grumbles, “But if that bulk mass of testosterone is in our house without shorts and a t-shirt on, he’s banned from this property forever.”

“Forever?!” I gasp. “Wh-What was he wearing?”

Please don’t say he was naked. Please don’t say he was—

“Boxers.”

I sigh in relief, which has my sweet father glaring daggers my way. So, I whistle innocently before I slip past him.

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