Chapter 30 Amelia

"I need to see my dad. Now."

When I grab Parker's arm and demand this, I can tell she wants to tell me that it's impossible to get to my dad, the coach, at this exact moment, which is less than two minutes after their game ended. But I saw the look on Dad's face when he glanced over at me and Van, and I strongly suspect my presence is needed.

The guys left the ice only moments ago, and fans are streaming up the stairs toward the exits. We're still squeezed in our row, and I barely managed to stop Parker before she flitted off to help wrangle all the visiting families.

"I don't think I'm familiar enough with the building to get down there myself. Please . Dad looked like he might punch Van again. I just don't want him to do or say something to hurt Van. Or his own career."

As far as I know, the guys didn't say anything to anyone about my dad hitting Van. I can't see a world in which he wouldn't lose his job over that.

I might be upset with him, but I don't want him to flush his career down the toilet.

A variety of emotions flicker over Parker's face like a spinning game show wheel, waiting to land on one. "Um," she says. "So, the thing about that is, usually family waits in the designated room and right after a game it's hard to?—"

Callie steps up beside me. "I do believe the lady said now ."

Alexandra flanks my other side and Grey squeezes in next to her. I'm not sure if we look intimidating or ridiculous or maybe a little bit of both—what with the face paint. I'm more than ready to wash it off. I swear, I can feel my pores gasping for oxygen.

Parker sighs. "I can make no promises. I'll get you there, but I don't know about the rest."

"Just get us to him."

And we're off. Parker guides us through a door with a security guard who nods to her and barely holds back a smile at Van's sisters and me. I really need to get this face paint off.

Once we're in the bowels of the building, it takes a minute for me to recognize the way to the locker room. Parker is practically vibrating with nerves beside me, and Van's sisters walking just behind us are giving off prison guard transfer vibes.

"Hey," I say, pulling Parker to a stop when I see the locker room door. "You can go. I don't want you to get in trouble for butting into their post-game whatever."

"Are you sure? It's just … I feel like your dad might forgive you more easily than me."

She might be surprised. "It's fine. I promise."

Parker starts to walk off, then stops and bites her lip. "Will you … tell me how things are going? Just keep me in the loop for whatever is going on with you and your dad and you and Van. I don't want anyone losing their jobs. Or faces. When you feel ready. No pressure. Mild pressure," she amends. "Or medium."

I laugh. "I'll tell you. Thanks."

"Oh, and definitely knock first!" Parker calls from down the hallway. "But you still might want to cover your eyes when you go in there."

Lex steps in front of me and kneads my shoulders like I'm a boxer about to head into the ring. "Don't show fear. Just be yourself."

"Is this really necessary?" I ask.

"I don't know," Lex says. "We're not sure what your plan is. But this kind of speech seems to work in the movies."

"One question." Callie nudges Lex aside and makes pointed eye contact. "Are you going to break his heart?"

Lex and Grey say nothing, but I can practically feel all three of them holding their breath.

I remember the expression on Van's face when he saw me with his sisters. When he skated over to me right after the game. When he pressed his forehead to the glass.

"No. Now, step aside and wish me luck." I step toward the door and knock loudly. "I need to see Coach Davis!" I call. But I don't wait for a response. "I'm coming in!"

Taking Parker's words to heart, I cover my eyes and step inside the room, peeking only between my fingers. From my limited view, I don't see tons of skin on display, so I think I'm safe. When I drop my hand, I see a few guys are out of their jerseys, but at least everyone's still wearing pants. Van is in a white tank top, showing off the tip of his dragon tattoo.

"Amelia?" My dad frowns.

I drop my hand and glare at my father, who's standing across the room. Very near Van, I can't help but notice. There's no blood, but there's definitely tension. The assistant coaches and Malik are standing close too, though, like maybe I'm not the only one worried about my dad lashing out right now.

"You two," I say, pointing between my dad and Van. "Your office. We need to talk."

When they don't immediately stop staring at each other and move, I clap my hands. "I'm serious. Now . Then you can get back to …" I trail off and look around, wondering exactly what I've interrupted.

Eli grins at me, flipping his sweaty blond hair out of his eyes. "Coach was just yelling at us for"—my dad clears his throat and Eli pauses—"um, sorry—he was telling us we should have played the whole game the way we played in the third period."

"Yes. That about sums it up," Dad says. "Though I did have something else I wanted to say to Van."

Oh, boy.

Van glances at me, then back to my dad. "Yes, sir?"

I'm not sure if my dad is being dramatic on purpose, dragging this out to make Van sweat, or if he's pausing for another reason. The whole room is waiting.

And I'd bet Van's sisters have their ears pressed to the door, also waiting.

"You made a good call with that assist," he says finally. "You could have gone for the glory, taken the risky shot. But you made the better choice for the team. Good job."

I almost fall over. Van looks equally surprised. Maybe there's hope after all.

"Thank you, sir," Van says.

"But as far as my daughter is concerned?—"

Never mind.

"Hey," I shout across the room. "Not here. Come on."

Dad looks at the assistant coaches. Ken waves him on, telling him he's got this. Malik gives me a thumbs up, clearly wishing me luck.

I'm going to need it. Luck or bravery.

I definitely need both.

I'd rather talk somewhere more neutral than Dad's office, but there aren't many neutral spaces in the building, so I guess his office is as good as anywhere. Van urges me inside ahead of him, a hand on my lower back. He drops it when he sees my father trying to burn a hole through his bones with a look.

I close the door, but don't take a seat like my dad or Van.

Hands on hips, I remain standing in what Morgan would call a power pose. I channel the fierce directness she always uses when facing hard things head-on. I'm no Morgan, but I do feel more powerful.

Maybe it's just knowing, possibly for the first time in my life with absolute certainty, what I want.

Stepping closer to Van, I drop a hand to his shoulder, feeling the muscles bunch under my fingertips. I don't miss the way my dad's focus lasers in on that point of contact. Van shifts a little in his seat and places his hand on top of mine. Dad's eyes are practically slits, paper-cut thin.

"You always tried to keep me away from hockey players," I start, not sure if this is even the best place to begin. But it will do. "And I understand why. To a point. But you've invested your life into these guys on the team. I've spent time with them—they're good guys, dad."

"Some of them are," he says in a tone that makes it clear he's not sure Van is one of them.

But if I'm not imagining it, his gaze softens. Slightly.

"Did you know Van and I met about a year ago?" I ask. "Neither knew who the other was, but when he figured out I was your daughter, he panicked and sort of disappeared."

"I was afraid you'd kill me, sir."

"You were right to be afraid," Dad says.

"Knock it off." My tone is so hard that Dad blinks in surprise. "While I appreciate how protective you are and how you've taken care of me since Mom died, this is too far."

"Or not far enough."

I know Dad has been through a lot. While Drew's actions mostly were hard for me, they were a challenge for Dad in a different way. I can't imagine the stress, and I do know the cost—which hopefully he'll be able to recoup from Drew. But the rift between Dad and Uncle Bobby, plus everything with Becky—it's a lot.

Then … finding out about this the way he did, on top of everything else.

I tell myself to have some compassion, even though what I'd like to do is put him into a time out since he's acting like an overgrown toddler.

"Dad, you trusted Van enough to send him with me to Florida," I point out.

"I was desperate," he says. "I didn't want you to be alone. Not after everything. Van was already with you, and I knew he wouldn't let anything happen to you." Dad's frown becomes a glower. "I also assumed he'd know not to get involved with you."

Van clears his throat. "You did make that very clear, sir."

"But it's not your choice to make," I say.

"And I was already getting on the plane before you called. Sir," Van adds.

"You can't actually think that this"—Dad points between us— "is real. This … marriage." His lip curls when he says it.

So does mine, but for a different reason. Van squeezes my hand, and I meet his gaze. We may not have spent many cumulative hours together, but I can read his expression right now.

And shockingly, I get the sense he wants me to go easy on my dad.

Almost as shocking—I feel myself soften.

Drawing in a breath, I look back at my dad. "Is it just how quickly this happened? Or is this about who I'm with?"

He blinks like he's surprised I'm asking for clarification at all. "Both. You can't possibly take marriage seriously when it happens on a whim."

Van flinches. I curl my fingers around his shoulder, squeezing.

"That's not how it works," Dad says, shaking his head. "Marriage takes time, and love is hard work and it's?—"

I cut him off. "That's not what you raised me to believe."

"Excuse me?"

"You always told me about how you and Mom fell in love. You were friends first, and it grew into something more."

"Exactly," Dad says, stabbing a finger into his desk. "Over time."

"But you also said everyone has their own love story waiting to be told. If that's true then why can't this be my story?" I flip my palm and lace my fingers through Van's, offering him a shy smile. " Our story."

"But he?—"

I hold up my other hand. "Stop. I won't let you disparage him. As I said before, you don't know him as well as you think. You see a part, not a whole."

"You really think you know him better than I do?"

"Yes." Firm. Concise. Sure.

I silently will my father not to press me for details. Somehow, I doubt he would want me to categorize all the ways I know Van better than he does.

Van gets it. I know from the way he tilts his head, faking a sneeze to hide a laugh.

Thankfully, Dad moves in another direction.

"You're sure this is what you want? Being with him til death do you part?" Dad chokes a little. "Raising babies together?"

Van chokes a little too.

"I'm … not totally sure about all the details, though that's definitely an important point to cover. For the future," I say, looking at Van. "No babies today."

"Good," he says, then gives me a little smirk that I swear tells me he's thinking about the making babies part of babies. I squeeze his hand hard enough to make the smirk disappear.

"I mean, I'm scared. I have doubts. I have questions," I say. "There are things to figure out."

"You barely know him," Dad protests, circling back to this argument.

I smile at Van again. Wait—did I stop smiling at him? "In some ways, you're right—I barely know him. Which makes this more exciting than it is terrifying. I'll get to know him. But I already know enough. I'm all in."

This is said more for Van's sake than my father's. And I wish I were saying it alone, but I think it actually may mean more to him being said this way, in front of my father.

"Sir, I'd like to say—" Van starts.

But my dad interrupts.

"If you're going to try to convince me your worthy of my daughter?—"

Van barks out a laugh. "I would never try to convince you of that. I'm absolutely not worthy of her. I'll never be."

"For once, we agree on something," Dad says dryly. But there's a little spark in his eyes that makes a matching tiny spark bloom in my chest.

It's not quite a baby step. What's smaller than that? A baby … crawl? A scoot?

"It's a good start, wouldn't you say?" Van says.

"Don't get ahead of yourself there, son." Dad's eyes go wide the moment the word son leaves his mouth. So do Van's. "I didn't mean to call you son like son son. Literally son—or son-in-law. It was just an expression!"

He looks so panicked I cover my mouth to hide a laugh.

Van lifts a shoulder, smiling smugly. "Sorry. You said it. Can't take it back, Dad. Can I call you that on the ice? It sounds better than coach …"

My dad tips his head back and groans, muttering something about of all the guys I would have warned you away from …

But it's in this very moment I catch a glimpse of the future. I'm not sure Van will ever not drive Dad crazy. It seems almost like his natural setting—poking the bear. The thing is … maybe my dad needs to be poked. He needs someone who doesn't just fall in line the way I always have, my whole life.

Until Van.

The two of them are already starting to bicker again. But I've lost my patience for this conversation.

I raise my voice over theirs. "Now that we've had this discussion, I'm stealing your player. Hopefully, he wasn't scheduled to do any press. Because he can't. He has a prior obligation."

"I do?" Van asks, but he stands when I give his hand a tug. "I do."

"Wait," Dad says, following us to the door. He glances at Van, then holds out his hand, even though there's a slight curl to his lip. Van stares at his hand for a moment before taking it. "I'm sorry for hitting you. Both times. But especially the one this week. It was out of line."

Van nods and shakes his hand. "Thank you."

Dad seems to be turning the handshake into some kind of competition. They're still shaking and seem to be squeezing one another's hands too hard.

"Hey," I say. "Enough."

Releasing Van, Dad shifts his expression to me. "Milly, I'm sorry for what I said."

"Which thing?" I'm almost shocked at my own question. But I don't take it back or apologize.

Dad scratches his head. "All of them. But especially the thing I said about your mom. You've never reminded me of her more than today."

I wrap him up in a hug, and I can feel his shuddery breaths as he hugs me back. My own breathing feels just as wobbly, and I blink back tears. I wait until he's steady before backing away.

"I'll be back later to get my stuff," I tell him. I'm staying at Van's." I grin. "With my husband."

Dad drags a hand over his face. "It's going to take some time to get used to this."

"We've got nothing but time," I say, then pull Van out of Dad's office. "Is there another way out of here that doesn't involve going through the locker room?"

"I probably should change," he says.

I shake my head. "No time."

He chuckles. "Follow me." As we're about to push through a door, he says, "But close your eyes. I'll guide you."

"Why would I?—"

He opens the door and steam billows out. Along with the sound of running water. Ohhhh … the shower room. And it's clearly in use.

I keep a hand firmly clamped over my head as Van pulls me through the room. There are catcalls and shouts and people making kissing sounds. Someone starts singing the chorus to Taylor Swift's "Trouble."

Van slows, and I hear the sound of a door being pulled open.

"You've got a nice voice," I call. "I think the more appropriate song, though, is ‘But Daddy I Love Him.'"

This earns me a chuckle from Van and roars of laughter that fade as he pulls me out into the hallway. Thankfully, I recognize where we are. Now I'm the one pulling him.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"You'll see."

Finally, the door appears at the end of a quiet hallway, and I open it and lead Van inside.

Van grins. "The stairwell is my prior obligation?"

"It's our stairwell," I correct.

"Right." His gaze drops to my mouth. "I remember."

And it's only as he leans forward that I remember how I look. "The face paint," I say, shoulder's slumping. "I'm all blue. It will get everywhere."

"I don't mind getting a little messy," Van says.

And then we're kissing like two people who haven't for ages . Two people desperate for each other. Who belong together.

Who do not care that blue face paint is smearing everywhere.

"Can I put this back?" Van asks, and he takes my right hand in both of his.

It takes me a moment to realize he means my mother's ring. My eyes well with tears, and I nod, biting my lip. Van slips it on my left hand.

"Where's yours?" I ask. "I probably should upgrade it to something that won't turn your finger green."

He blinks. "How did you know it turned my finger green?"

Giggling, I say, "It did?"

"Yep. But"—he fishes inside his collar and pulls out a thin chain I didn't even notice—"I kept it on."

He starts to take it off the chain, and I cover his hands with mine. "Keep it there for now."

He slips it back inside his tank and then goes back to kissing me breathless.

"I've got two questions for you," I say, minutes or hours later, my lips moving against his blue-tinged mouth.

"Shoot."

"Will you grow your beard back?"

"You like the beard? I'll grow back the beard." He places a lingering kiss on the corner of my mouth and I chase his lips.

A moment later, we're both breathing heavy, his hands tangled in my hair and mine cupping his jaw. Which is now half blue with a little smear of white.

I dip my finger into his tank top, touching his tattoo. "Hey, Frisky. I've missed you."

Van chuckles. "I forgot you named him that."

"I didn't forget." I give Frisky a blue stripe on his neck. "Oh! I met your fish by the way, since we're talking about your animals."

"Confession," Van says, looking guilty. "I lied in Florida about having a fish. I bought Theodore when I got home."

"Why?"

Van brushes my hair away from my neck. "I didn't like keeping the stuff with your dad from you. The only other lie I told was about the fish. So, I made it true. Are you mad?"

"Nope. But thanks for telling me. From now on, the truth. Okay, hotshot?"

He grins at the nickname. "Truth. Didn't you have one more question?"

"Ah, yes." I wipe at the turquoise paint on his cheek. "Do you happen to know how easy your sister's face paint is to clean off?"

Van laughs, the sound rich and low. I watch the bob of his throat as he throws his head back.

"I don't think it's too bad," he says, smiling back at me. "But until we figure it out, I don't mind every person I see knowing exactly where my mouth has been."

I lean forward, leaving more blue paint on him as I kiss his neck. It's slightly damp, and his skin smells sharp and salty. But I'm starting to notice that his sweat-soaked tank top … doesn't.

"We should probably clean up," I suggest, wrinkling my nose.

"You make a cute Smurf," he says. "But yes. We should. And then, let's go home."

Home. The word sends a thrill through me, and I grin as Van takes my hand, leading me back up the stairs—him with my face paint smudged on his skin and me wearing his name across my chest.