29. Brielle

Dad lounges in his favorite armchair, eyes glued to the TV screen. I can't remember the last time I sat down to watch a game with him, which is a bit sad considering how often we used to watch the game together.

"Hey, Brielle," he says, tearing his gaze away from the sporting event for a moment. "What are your plans for dinner? Mind joining me to watch the rest of the game?"

"Sure, Dad," I agree, feeling a sudden warmth at his invitation. "I haven't been keeping up with the games lately, but I'm sure I'll catch up easily enough."

"Great!" Dad grins, his eyes twinkling with the same excitement that always seems to accompany a good football game.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"When aren't I?"

A whiff of grease and sweat fills the air as I contemplate dinner options. "How about fried chicken sandwiches with a side of roasted broccoli and cheese?" I suggest, knowing full well that Dad has never been a fan of vegetables.

"Broccoli?" He raises an eyebrow, his nose scrunching up in distaste. "You know how I feel about those green things."

"Exactly why you need them, Dad," I tease, poking him playfully in the ribs. "You can't survive on fried foods alone. Plus, they say eating your greens helps keep that dad bod in check." My fingers dance across his stomach, causing him to squirm in his seat.

"Alright, alright," he concedes, chuckling at my persistence. "But only because you're making it."

"Deal." I grin, already planning my culinary masterpiece. I head to the kitchen with one more look at the screen.

The sizzle of frying oil fills the kitchen as I dip pieces of seasoned chicken into a bowl of flour. My fingers are coated with batter, yet I work deftly, lost in the familiar rhythm of preparing comfort food. The mouthwatering aroma wafts through the room, stirring up memories of Mom's home-cooked meals.

"Smells amazing, Brie!" Dad calls out from the living room, his voice barely audible over the roar of the football game on TV.

"Wait until you taste it," I reply, flipping the golden-brown chicken to ensure even cooking. As the last piece cooks, I turn my attention to the broccoli. Chopping it into bite-sized florets, I arrange them on a baking sheet and sprinkle shredded cheese on top.

Broccoli never looked so good, I think to myself, sliding the tray into the oven. In no time, the cheese melts into a bubbly, golden blanket over the green veggies.

With the timer ticking down on the oven, I grab some soft buns and begin assembling the sandwiches. Juicy fried chicken, crispy lettuce, and tangy pickles come together in a symphony of textures and flavors. I can't help but sneak a bite, the satisfying crunch echoing in my ears.

"Almost done here, Dad!" I announce, plating the sandwiches alongside generous heaps of potato chips. I retrieve the now-roasted broccoli from the oven, its cheesy goodness still bubbling. Setting everything on a tray, I balance it carefully as I navigate my way back to the living room.

"Here we go," I say, placing the food-laden tray on the coffee table. Dad's eyes widen in appreciation, clearly impressed by my culinary skills. "Now that's what I call dinner."

He grabs a sandwich and takes an enthusiastic bite. "Mmm, that's some good chicken!"

"Thanks." I beam, pleased with his reaction. My attention shifts to the TV, the game now in full swing, and we settle into a comfortable silence and enjoy our meal together.

"Hey, Brie," he says between bites, "would you mind grabbing me a beer from the fridge?"

"Sure thing, Dad," I reply, rising to my feet. As I head toward the kitchen, I call over my shoulder, "But remember, everything in moderation! Too much alcohol isn't good for you."

"Ha, yeah, I know," he chuckles, eyes glued to the TV screen.

I open the fridge, the cold air brushing against my skin as I grab a beer and pop the cap off. Returning to the living room, I hand it to Dad who wastes no time taking a swig.

"Want a sip?" he offers, holding the bottle out to me.

"Ugh, no thanks." I grimace, wrinkling my nose at the thought. "Never been a fan of the taste."

Dad shrugs and takes another gulp. "Suit yourself."

I settle back onto the couch, my focus shifting between the game and Dad's animated reactions.

I've missed this.

"Y'know, Brie," he begins, "I've been thinking about something since I saw you at the hospital with Conrad and the others."

My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard that I can barely breathe. Has he figured it out? Does he know about my involvement with his best friends?

"Uh, what's up, Dad?" I force myself to sound casual, trying to keep the panic from creeping into my voice.

He takes a swig of his beer before continuing. "I just wanted to say that it's nice to see you spending time with them."

The relief that washes over me is overwhelming, and I feel a giddy laugh bubble up in my chest. "Thanks, Dad," I reply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about someone I know. His name is Xavier. He's a good kid, and you know his father is a friend of mine. You two would make a great couple."

I groan inwardly. "Dad, since when do you play matchmaker?"

"I know, I know, but give him a chance, Brie," my dad insists, his eyes conveying genuine concern for my happiness. "For me."

I sigh, knowing how stubborn he can be when he has an idea in his head. "Alright, Dad. I'll consider it," I relent, hoping that will be enough to satisfy him.

"Good," he says, nodding decisively.

As we continue to watch the game, I can't help but feel conflicted. On one hand, I want to make my dad happy—but on the other, I know that my heart lies elsewhere.

The tension in the room builds as the quarterback launches the football into the air. Dad and I lean forward, eyes glued to the screen, holding our breaths as we watch the ball arc through the air. The wide receiver leaps, his fingertips just grazing the ball before he pulls it in for a stunning catch. Touchdown!

"YES!" Dad and I both yell, springing from our seats and high-fiving each other with excitement.

I laugh, feeling the adrenaline from the game wash over me and momentarily pushing aside my worries about relationships and my dad's insistence on Xavier.

"Hey, Brie," Dad says, grinning as the excitement from the touchdown lingers. "Why don't you make those pastries you love so much to celebrate? I know we have all the ingredients."

"Sure thing, Dad," I reply, chuckling at his not-so-subtle way of asking for a treat. "You sure know how to sweet-talk your way into some dessert."

"Guilty," he admits, raising his hands in mock surrender.