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“Oh mygod, Caroline!” Her eyes dart to the box full of what looks like extremely expensive underwear. “You are literally out here living all of our dreams. What’s it like to be God’s favorite? Honestly.” She sighs, flopping down onto the bed next to the box and tossing a few in the air for dramatic effect.
As they cascade around her, I laugh, shaking my head, “It’s just underwear.”
“Just underwear? Caroline, we have been through this. You are literally boning a hot, professional hockey player who was one ofPeople’s sexiest men alive. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s funny, and he sends you freaking like five thousand dollars in Agent Provocateur underwear just because herippeda pair. You better give that man the best blow job of his life tonight.”
As if it’s a chore. I’m convinced he has the best dick on the planet, so…
“Oh!” She sits up and grins. “You should get his jersey and send him a picture wearing a pair. He’d practically come in his pants, I bet.”
“I think you might be right. But unfortunately, right now, I have to go meet my dad for dinner and pretend that I didn’t just get sexy lingerie delivered by one of his players.”
“Go get ’em, girl.” She smirks.
After a quick shower and changing out of the clothes I had been studying in, an Uber drops me off in front of my father’s modest suburban house, complete with a white picket fence. He offered to pick me up from campus, but I insisted on taking an Uber. Living here for the short time I did this summer before I could move into the house… was weird. Living in the house that my father lived in after leaving my mom and me. The home he created that doesn’t include me. The house is a stranger to me, and living here didn’t make it feel like my home. I felt like a guest in my own father’s home.
I walk up the path that loops through the manicured lawn and raise my hand to knock, only for the door to swing open, and my dad appears.
“Caroline!” he says as he pulls me over the threshold into his arms. I pat his back awkwardly.
“Hi, Dad.”
“We really have to discuss you taking an Uber. I hate those damn things. They’re not safe, and there’s no accountability.”
“Dad,” I warn, pulling back to narrow my eyes. “I know you worry, but I’m an adult. Remember?”
A frown forms on his lips, the line between his brows deepening, “I know, Care Bear. It’s just this world is so dangerous now, and you’re my little girl.”
Hearing him call me his little girl does something to my already battered heart. How many nights did I wish for this moment? To have my dad back, all to myself, making up for the time that we lost.
It’s hard not to feel… abandoned. Where was he all of those years that I needed him? He was with his hockey players, not me. I’ve spent a lot of years seeing a therapist, learning how to let go of that anger. One of the questions that she asked was if I truly wanted to repair the relationship with my dad, and the answer is yes, I do.
Sometimes it’s just hard to look past everything we’ve been through to get from that point to feel like it’s possible to get to a new one.
“Come in, come in. I made your favorite,” he says, smiling warmly.
His house is decorated simply, and while I know his salary with the NHL is more than I’ll probably make in ten years, you wouldn’t be able to tell from his home or what he drives. If anything, my father is frugal. He doesn’t drive a flashy car, have a huge mansion, or wear expensive suits.
Imagine the fight we had when he offered to pay for my tuition.
I appreciate the fact that he’s trying so hard, I do. Trying to repair our relationship is going to take a lot of work on both of our parts, but I also want to keep the independence that I’ve worked hard for.
“Here, let me take your bag,” he says, and I hand it off to him. He hangs it on the wooden hook near the door next to the coats and umbrellas hanging neatly next to each other.
The walls are painted a pale beige, and there are very few photos or decorations along the wall aside from a few random pieces of landscape art.
“I decided to make homemade pot pie because I remembered how much you loved it when you were younger. Remember when you turned eight and we asked where you wanted to go for dinner for your birthday? Man, you could’ve chosen anywhere, but you asked me to make you a pot pie.” There’s sadness in his tone, the same sadness I feel when talking about the past.
“I remember. Thanks, Dad.” I smile, taking a seat at the modest kitchen table. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I watch as he grabs a pair of black oven mitts and opens the oven, pulling out the steaming hot pot pie. “So, how was training camp?”
“Good. We’ve got a great group of guys, and thankfully, the vets are good guys. They’re welcoming to the rookies, and I’m excited to see them work together as a team,” he says while he pulls the mitts off and leans against the counter. “I know hockey has never really been your thing, but I was hoping you could make it out to a few games this year?”
Oh god. Seeing Hudson play in the flesh? I don’t know if my heart… or my vagina… could take it.
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Uhm, yeah, I’d love to. I just have to check my schedule, you know, with school, internship, and the sorority. If I can sneak away, I will.”
His grin is contagious, and I find myself smiling in return. “That works, Care Bear. I’ll leave you a few tickets at will call so you can bring Tatum if you want? How’s that going?”
“She’s great. We get along really well, and being her roommate is honestly one of the highlights of moving here. She’s very neat, and she knows that studying is my top priority.”
