5. Sara

SARA

I'm curled up on the couch, wearing my favorite pair of soft, pink pajamas, my eyes glued to the TV screen. It's been a long day, and I'm enjoying the chance to unwind, gorge myself on snacks and watch a fun, romantic comedy. The apartment is quiet, and I assume Dad is out celebrating with the team after their big win. I can't help but smile as I think about the game, the excitement, and the way Emile seemed…happy…when he saw me wearing his jersey. He even called me his good luck charm.

Smiling to myself as I settle deeper into the cushions, I startle when I hear the front door open and the sound of my dad's footsteps in the hallway. He's humming to himself, a sure sign that he's had a few celebratory drinks with the players at Russo's. I pause the movie and look up as he enters the living room.

"Hey, Dad. Good night?"

He grins, his eyes a little glassy. "The best, pumpkin. We finally beat those damn Rockets. It's a night for the history books, and my name goes down as the coach who did it."

I laugh as he does a little victory dance on his way to the kitchen. "I'm so proud of you and the team, Dad. You deserve to celebrate."

"Oh, I celebrated," he says as I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, probably getting a glass of water. But then there's a pause, followed by a confused, "Sara?" He shuffles back toward the living room. "What's this?"

My stomach ties up in knots when I look up to see him holding the jersey with Emile's number on it. Oh shit. I must have left it over the back of a chair when I got home from the game. I meant to put that away. His brow furrows as he holds it up, examining it like it's some sort of alien artifact.

"Dad, that's not?—"

"Why do you have a jersey with the rookie's number on it?"

"Um." I swallow hard, my mind racing for an excuse. I settle for the same lame one I gave Emile. "I was cold at the game, and Emile's sister gave it to me to wear. I just forgot to give it back to her afterward."

He looks at me for a long moment, and I immediately know he doesn't believe me. But he nods anyway. "Just make sure you return it to her. I don't like the idea of anyone thinking my daughter is mixed up with one of the players."

"As if anyone would believe that even if it were true," I mutter, remembering the puck bunny who was practically throwing herself at Emile after the game. He's probably out there right now, celebrating with a dozen more like her. The thought makes my stomach churn. I'm not jealous. I'm just…tired. Tired of tiny pretty girls always having their pick of the tall, gorgeous guys when I've never had my pick of even an average guy. It gets old. Lonely. And while I love my dad, and I love hockey, this only highlights my desire to find myself a job away from it all, so this kind of thing is no longer in my face on the regular.

"Why wouldn't they believe it?" Dad asks, setting the jersey down and taking a seat next to me on the couch, gently tucking my hair back from my face so he can see me. "Unpack that with me."

Letting out a sigh, I hug a pillow to my chest. "Look at me, Dad. I'm not like the girls who line up to date the players. I could wear the entire team's numbers in rotation and no one would ever believe I'm involved with them. They'd just think I was a sad fan."

Dad's eyes soften, and for a moment, I see the man who used to take me skating when I was little, holding my hand as I wobbled on the ice. "Sara, you know that's not true. You're just as beautiful as any of those girls."

I give him a disbelieving look. "You clearly don't have eyes."

Dad chuckles and shakes his head. "I do have eyes, and what I see is a brilliant young woman who's just as beautiful as her mother was. Those puck bunnies hanging out at the games are just regular girls with a bunch of face paint on. And they might be fun for a while, but when a man gets to a point in his life when he's ready to settle down and really fall in love, it's girls like you they go after."

I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I sniff, trying to hold them back. "I think you're just saying that because you're my dad. But thank you anyway."

He pulls me into a hug, and I bury my face in his shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of his aftershave and the faint hint of alcohol from his night out. It's not often that I get all down on myself like this. Normally, I'm just fine with my looks and my size, but tonight, knowing I'm sitting here alone while Emile is probably surrounded by those effortlessly glamorous puck bunnies, it all just kind of got to me.

Dad pulls back and looks me in the eye, his expression serious. "So, how's the job hunt going? Have you given any more thought to coming to work for the Nighthawks?"

"Oh my god. Are you for real? We were just having a lovely moment, and…" I sigh, shaking my head. "Dad, we've been over this. I don't want to work for the team. I need to find a job on my own."

"I know, I know. But you're too talented to be wasting time in coffee shops and bookstores, Sara. You've got so much potential. I just hate seeing you struggle."

I let out a long breath, feeling the familiar pressure settle on my shoulders. "I'm not struggling, Dad. I'm figuring things out in my own way."

He nods. "I understand, pumpkin. But promise me you'll keep an open mind? You could even work there temporarily while you wait for the right opportunity. It doesn't have to be forever."

I give him a small smile. "I know you mean well, Dad. I do. But actually, I already have a job lined up at that new Creole fusion place near the rink."

Dad's eyebrows shoot up. "Waitressing? I thought you were terrible at that."

"I was," I admit, twisting my fingers together. "I am. But it's just a temporary position that'll give me time to interview for other positions. Plus, I think it'll be good for me to step out of my comfort zone. And who knows? Maybe I'll be better at it this time."

His expression softens a bit then nods slowly. "All right. If you think it's the right move, then I support you. I mean, it's not going to pay anywhere near as well as a job at the arena. But just know that the offer will always stand if you ever change your mind."

I reach over and squeeze his hand, appreciating his effort to understand. "Thanks, Dad."

"OK. And on that note, I'll leave you to get back to your movie. I'm heading upstairs to get some shuteye." He stands up and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Don't stay up too late, pumpkin. And don't forget to return that jersey."

"I won't. Good night, Dad."

"Good night, Sara."

As he heads upstairs, I sink back into the couch cushions and unpause the movie. And while I try to lose myself in the predictable plot, my mind keeps drifting to the jersey draped over the chair across the room. Emile's jersey. And before I can even stop myself, I'm grabbing it and pulling it over my head, hugging it to my body like it was somehow a gift from him directly, and not a loan from his sister.

And as I settle back into the coach wearing his jersey over my pajamas, I realize that this is more than just an epic crush. It's a full-blown infatuation. And I have no idea what to do about it.