Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Nolan

I drove down the coastline street toward the Dalton estate in Sunset Cliffs, still shaking my head at the memory of my parents' shopping spree earlier in the day at Nordstrom Rack. Despite my protests, they'd insisted on buying new outfits to "fit in" with Zena's parents. Dad was sporting a crisp navy sports jacket over a light blue button-down, paired with tan slacks and loafers. Mom had opted for an elegant knee-length cocktail dress in a soft sage green that matched her eyes.

I pulled up to the property gate and pressed the call button. After a brief wait, the gate swung open, granting me access. I drove up the winding driveway, and then the Dalton mansion gradually came into view.

Dad leaned forward in his seat and gasped. His eyes widened as he took in the sprawling estate through the windshield.

"Good grief," he muttered. "How much is Mr. Dalton worth?"

"Twenty-three billion," I said as I pulled up to the front of the mansion and stuck the car in park.

Dad whistled. "I remember when twenty-three thousand was a lot of money."

"It still is, dear," Mom said.

As we got out of the car, Dad fidgeted with his collar. "Why does this darn thing itch so much? I must be allergic to new clothes."

"Dad, you've still got the tag attached," I pointed out, stifling a laugh. "Mom, you may need to start dressing him."

She chuckled, reaching over to remove the offending tag and smooth out his jacket. "There. Now you look handsome, dear."

"I hope so," he grumbled. "This getup cost me a hundred and fifty bucks."

We made our way to the front door, Mom clutching a potted succulent from Trader Joe's, despite my assurances it wasn't necessary. The doorbell's chime echoed through the house, and moments later, the door swung open to reveal Mr. and Mrs. Dalton, with Zena by their side.

"Welcome!" Mrs. Dalton began, and that was where her greeting ended as everyone's jaws collectively dropped.

Mr. Dalton stood there in a vibrant Hawaiian shirt and crisp Dockers, while Mrs. Dalton wore designer jeans and a casually elegant top that said, "Hip" across the chest, a far cry from their usual formal attire. The contrast between our parents' outfits was so ridiculous and the complete opposite of what they were used to wearing.

"Well, well," Mr. Dalton said with an amused look, breaking the stunned silence, "it seems we all had the same idea. Macy's?"

"Nordstrom Rack," Mom said.

Mrs. Dalton nodded her approval.

Zena beamed. "It's so sweet you all wanted to make each other comfortable." She giggled and pulled out her phone. "This is too good. We need a picture of you four."

"We brought you a little something," Mom said, handing the plant to Zena's mother. "Indoor or outdoor."

"Oh, I adore succulents—thank you," Mrs. Dalton said. "And please! Come in."

After introductions and salutations, our parents posed for the photo, looking both amused and slightly embarrassed. I couldn't help but feel affection for all of them, for wanting to make a good impression. They knew how important this meeting of the parents was for Zena and me.

Once inside, Dad let out another whistle as Mr. Dalton took us all on a tour of the ground floor. "How big is this place, anyway?" He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean.

"Ten bedrooms and ten baths—over ten thousand square feet," Mr. Dalton replied casually. "More than we need, of course. Downsizing is something we considered a while ago, but if the family grows, one never knows."

"Goodness gracious!" Dad exclaimed. "You ever consider installing one of those ‘You are here' mall maps in this place? Seriously, I would need to leave a breadcrumb trail to find my way back to the kitchen."

Mrs. Dalton smiled. "It took me a while to get used to the size. As a child, Zena certainly used the size of the place to her advantage. She'd hide from us whenever she knew she was going to be in trouble."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I always pictured you as a sweet little angel growing up. I didn't know you were a troublemaker."

Zena smirked. "I prefer to think of my former self as rambunctious." She tossed her hair dramatically.

"Rambunctious is accurate," Mr. Dalton chuckled. "I seem to recall a certain young lady who once hid in the wine cellar for three hours because she didn't want to go to her piano lesson."

I laughed at the thought of little Zena staging a rebellion among the vintage bottles. "Sounds like you kept your parents on their toes."

"Oh, you have no idea," Mrs. Dalton said, shaking her head fondly.

Mr. Dalton led us into a spacious room that exuded luxury. A long, solid wood bar stretched along one wall, stocked with every spirit imaginable. In the center, a gleaming pool table stood like an emerald island. But what truly stole the show was the massive screen that covered almost an entire wall, currently displaying the hockey game with crystal clarity.

Leather chairs were scattered throughout the room, perfect for lounging with a drink or watching the game. As I took in the surroundings, I noticed other touches of opulence: the climate-controlled wine cellar visible through a glass wall that Mr. Dalton had mentioned, a poker table in the corner that probably cost more than my yearly salary, and what appeared to be original artwork adorning the walls.

Mr. Dalton gestured to the bar. "We've got wine, beer, you name it. Help yourself or I'd be happy to pour something for you. We also have an excellent selection of brandy, sherry, ports, and Prosecco to your right. Nuts and olives are on the bar, or you can dive right into the desserts."

After everyone picked their poison and had drinks in their hands, Mr. Dalton raised his glass. "To slowing down and enjoying life."

We all echoed the sentiment, clinking glasses.

My eyes were soon drawn to a dessert table that looked like it had been transported straight from a five-star buffet. There were delicate fruit tarts, a towering chocolate mousse cake, red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, tiramisu, and what appeared to be homemade cannoli.

As our parents gravitated toward the desserts and were already helping themselves, Zena nudged me. "What looks good to you?"

I grinned. "I'm not saying. We're going to write it down first."

She rolled her eyes. "This again? Why can't you accept that fact that we have the same great taste, like Jing and Tyson? Do you really think I'm copying you?"

"We'll soon find out—let's do this," I said. "Got something to write with?"

"Hang on …" Zena disappeared behind the bar, returning with a pen and two napkins. "I'll write my choice first, so you can't say I saw what you wrote."

She quickly scribbled her choice and folded the napkin before handing me the pen. I eyed the dessert table once more before writing my selection and folding my napkin.

"Okay, what did you write?" I asked.

Zena unfolded her napkin and showed me. "Tiramisu."

I nodded. "Very interesting."

"Did we pick the same thing?" she asked excitedly.

I shook my head. "Nope, you win. I chose the chocolate mousse cake."

Zena did a little victory dance. "See? I didn't copy you."

"Okay, you're right," I conceded.

As she reached for the tiramisu, I grabbed the same dessert.

She froze, eyeing me suspiciously. "Wait … why are you getting that? I thought you wanted the chocolate mousse cake."

I shrugged. "Maybe I changed my mind." Unfortunately, I could not keep a straight face.

Zena glanced down at my hand. "Let me see your napkin."

I handed it to her, still laughing.

She opened it, then jerked her head back. "Tiramisu! We chose the same thing!" She gave me a knowing smile. "I guess this means you and I are just connected."

"No argument here," I said, leaning closer and kissing her.

Our moment was interrupted by Mr. Dalton yelling at the big screen as the Maple Leafs scored against the Sea Lions.

"Everett, we do have guests, remember?" Mrs. Dalton said.

Mr. Dalton waved it off. "Don't worry about them, Elena. They are adults, plus Vivian and Rowan are from Wisconsin, the heartland of diehard sports fans. These folks are cut from a different cloth. They'll brave the frozen tundra, all for the love of the game. And let me tell you, when their Packers are down, I'm sure their voices can get much louder than mine."

Dad nodded in agreement. "He's not wrong! The last time I was at Lambeau Field, I spilled beer on my lap while it was five below zero, then realized I'd just glued my backside to the stadium seat! Ruined a perfectly good pair of jeans."

Mr. Dalton raised his glass. "Now that's dedication to the game. Cheers."

"Let me get you a refill on that Prosecco," Zena offered with a smile, taking Mom's empty glass from her.

"Thank you, dear," Mom said, then turned to the Daltons. "Zena is absolutely lovely. You did a fabulous job raising her."

Mr. Dalton beamed with pride, momentarily tearing his eyes away from the game. "We certainly are proud of her."

"I feel the same about Nolan," Mrs. Dalton chimed in. "He's a wonderful man. We couldn't be happier that he and Zena found each other. Though I must admit, I was disappointed to learn their engagement wasn't real and that it was only a ruse to get Mitch off her back."

"I felt the same way!" Mom exclaimed, glancing at me, then at Zena with affection. "But I still have high hopes it will happen when the time is right. In fact, the screensaver on my phone is a photo of Nolan and Zena together, and she is wearing that gorgeous ring."

Mrs. Dalton's eyes lit up with interest. "I don't recall seeing that photo."

"Oh, you have to see it. Let me show you," Mom offered, reaching for her purse.

Zena and I exchanged a worried glance, both realizing the potential disaster unfolding before us if Mrs. Dalton saw that ring.

She practically sprinted back with the drink and shoved it in Mom's face. "Here's your Prosecco."

"Thank you," she said, immediately setting it down on the bar, then opening up her purse and reaching for her phone.

The tension radiated off Zena, and I wondered if she had an idea to stop them from looking at the photo, but it didn't appear so.

"Mom, didn't you want to see the wine cellar?" I blurted out, trying to distract her. "Let's check it out."

Mom looked at me quizzically. "I never mentioned that. And why are you suddenly acting so strange, Nolan?"

"Me? Strange?" I said, letting out a psychotic laugh. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Before we had a chance to intervene further, she turned her phone toward Zena's mom. "Isn't this the best picture? They are both positively glowing in love. And the ring is breathtaking. It looks so real, like it's from Cartier or Tiffany's!"

Zena and I both were speechless.

When had our brains stopped working?

Mrs. Dalton leaned in, admiring it. "Oh my goodness, Vivian, you are so right. That is lovely." She zoomed in on the image with her two fingers, then tilted her head to the side. "You know, that ring looks very familiar." She blinked a few times, studying it. "Wait, it's identical to one I fell in love with at a jewelry store in Nashville. Zena, where did you get the ring from?"

"I'd love to know that, too!" Mom added helpfully.

Zena opened and closed her mouth.

Yup, still brain-dead.

I needed to say something. Anything.

"Why isn't anyone eating the tiramisu? It is to die for!" I said, which did absolutely nothing to distract anyone.

Mrs. Dalton turned to her husband. "Everett, why is Zena wearing that ring?"

Mr. Dalton's face paled.

He let out Mitch-style grunt, then said, "I'm not sure …"

"Everett?" she pushed. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Well, I …" He glared at me and Zena, then blew out a frustrated breath. "I bought that ring in Nashville, and it was supposed to be a surprise for you."

Mrs. Dalton's jaw dropped. "I don't understand. Why would you buy it for me? You said you didn't like it. And that still doesn't explain why Zena had it on."

"That was an excuse," Mr. Dalton said.

"An excuse for what?" she asked.

"So you wouldn't buy it yourself!" he said. "I went back to the jewelry store that same afternoon you tried it on, and I bought it, hoping to give it to you when we exchanged vows again. Then I gave it to Zena and told her to hold on to it, not to stick it on her finger and parade around town with it."

"I didn't parade around town in it," Zena said. "Okay, sure I?—"

"Exchange vows again?" Mrs. Dalton said, then she swung around to me and Zena. "You told him about the surprise?"

"No!" Zena said. "We?—"

"Then how did he find out?" Mrs. Dalton asked.

"Because I was planning it!" Mr. Dalton said. "How did you know about the surprise?"

"Because I was planning it!" she said.

"I'm so confused right now," Mr. Dalton said.

"That makes two of us!" Mrs. Dalton agreed.

Zena sighed. "Okay, let's calm down. The cat's out of the bag, so I might as well explain. You were both planning surprise vow renewals for the other person. At the same time. For your anniversary. Crazy, right?"

I had no idea how either of Zena's parents would react after finding out their surprises were ruined. Unfortunately, we would have to wait to find out because the night was about to get much worse.

"Mitch Redding is injured," Mr. Dalton said, suddenly looking at the game on the big screen with worry. "Did any of you see what happened?"

None of us did, but our gazes were also glued to the screen.

Mr. Dalton grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. The room fell silent, all eyes drawn to the massive screen where Mitch Redding lay motionless on the ice. Bob Chandler and Jim Ferris, the Sea Lions' veteran television sportscasters, filled the tense silence with their commentary:

"Mitch Redding is still down on the ice, with the medical team assessing the situation, but it does not look good," Jim said.

"Even the players on the Maple Leafs are watching with concern," Bob replied. "As a professional, the ultimate goal is to win, but nobody wants to see an injury like that, no matter what team they're on. The question is, how bad is it? We've seen the replay a few times, and I honestly have never seen a leg contort like that. What are your thoughts?"

Jim's voice dropped an octave. "The pain Redding is exhibiting is definitely not a good sign. I can't help but be reminded of the brutal Patrick Steinhoff injury back in 2015, which ended his career. You have to wonder if we're witnessing a similar fate for Redding."

Mr. Dalton slammed the rest of his brandy and set the empty glass down on the table, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"They're signaling for a stretcher," Jim reported. "This doesn't bode well for Redding or the Sea Lions' playoff hopes."

Bob sighed heavily. "You're right, Jim. Redding has been the cornerstone of this team's comeback. The Sea Lions' bench isn't exactly deep. They've got some promising rookies, but nobody of Redding's caliber. This could be the end of their playoff hopes right here."

Mr. Dalton muted the TV, his face ashen. He set the remote on the bar and reached for his phone with trembling fingers.

"Everett?" Mrs. Dalton said. "How are you doing? Please be careful with your heart."

"I don't like when people speculate—I need to know how bad it really is," Mr. Dalton said, tapping the button on his phone. A few seconds later, he barked, "What is going on with Redding?" He stood and paced, his free hand raking through his hair as he listened to the person on the other end of the call. "Okay, thanks."

"Is Mitch going to be okay?" Mrs. Dalton asked.

Mr. Dalton poured himself a second glass of brandy, his face a mask of defeat. "It's bad. It could even be his last game."

What had begun as a night of fun and celebration had morphed into a perfect storm of disasters. The ruined vow renewal surprise now seemed trivial in the face of this potential career-ending injury.

"I should have known this whole thing would come back to bite me in the backside," Mr. Dalton said, slumped further into his chair, his face etched with guilt. "The plan was a mistake from the beginning. And now look where it got me. It was all for nothing."

Mrs. Dalton placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You were trying to do what was best for the team."

"I'm not so sure that's the case anymore." Mr. Dalton sighed. "I should have just allowed them to play the game and let the chips fall where they may. After our dismal season last year, I was desperate for a change, not only for me, but especially for the people who fill the arena. I care about the fans more than they know."

"You always have, Dad, and that is a wonderful thing," Zena said. "But when your actions take their toll on your health, that's a sign to make some changes. As for injuries, anybody can get hurt at any given moment. This is nobody's fault. It's a risk all players know about before they step on the ice. Ask Nolan."

I nodded. "It's the truth, and that's the case with any athlete playing any sport."

"Don't beat yourself up about this, Everett," Dad said. "I've been there before myself. I got so obsessed with my job, I forgot about my family. Luckily, Vivian set me straight and made me see the light." He reached over and squeezed her hand. "Nothing is more important than family."

"I agree with you wholeheartedly," Mr. Dalton said. "To get my stress levels under control, I'm selling five of my companies. I thought I was on the right track, but it doesn't look like it's enough. Maybe the only way to truly eliminate the stress is to step away from the team."

Zena leaned forward with a compassionate smile. "People take sabbaticals all the time. It's not a bad idea to take a break, recharge, and enjoy other things in life for a little while."

Mr. Dalton shook his head. "I'm talking about a permanent change. It's been on my mind this last week and I think it's best if I sell the Sea Lions."

"What?" Zena and I said in unison.

"Are you sure you've thought this through, Everett?" Mrs. Dalton said. "That seems extreme. Maybe having less responsibility is the best option. Besides, who would you sell the team to? It can't be anyone. It's not a car you can just sell on a whim over the weekend."

"Brock Steadman has been hammering me for over a year to purchase the Sea Lions," he said. "He's President and CEO of Steadman Sports and Entertainment, which owns teams in the NFL, MLS, and the WNBA. He's a good guy, a true sports enthusiast. Look, I love the team, but I think the best thing I can do right now is take him up on his offer."

I felt my stomach drop.

Mr. Dalton was going to sell the team?

We all stood there in shock.

Mr. Dalton's phone pinged, and he glanced at the message. "Maybe this is a sign. It's Brock saying the offer is still on the table, even without Mitch Redding playing for the team." Then he dropped the bomb that nearly knocked me off my feet. "The downside is Brock would move the team to Sacramento and change the name, which I don't like."

"What?" Zena and I exclaimed in unison again.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

This conversation had taken a horrifying turn.

"What a shame," Mom said. "No more Sea Lions?"

"You can't do that," Mrs. Dalton interjected. "That means both Zena and Nolan would lose their jobs, something they're very passionate about."

Mr. Dalton sighed heavily. "It's not like I haven't considered that, but you've all been pushing me to focus on my health. What else can I do? And as for Zena and Nolan, there are so many things they could do that would make them happy. They will have a plethora of options, I'll make sure of it."

Zena exchanged a desperate look with me before turning back to her father. "There has to be something else, Dad. I agree with Mom. This is extreme."

"It may be, but I really don't see any other way around it," Mr. Dalton said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Brock gave me until five p.m. tomorrow to respond to his latest offer, which he says will definitely be his last. My heart is telling me it's the right thing to do. Believe me, I'm not making this decision lightly, and if you can think of a better option, I'm all ears. If not, I'm going to sell the team tomorrow."

I glanced at Zena, seeing the same fear and determination in her eyes that I felt. We had twenty-four hours to save not just our jobs, but the entire San Diego Sea Lions franchise. The clock was ticking, and we needed a miracle.