A Secret for a Secret (All In #3)(4)

“That’s a joke, right?” he asks, attention shifting back to the road.

“I can’t call you Dad in front of your staff and the players.”

His hands flex on the steering wheel. “Yeah, you can.”

This is definitely going to be a rough transition. “How professional will that sound?”

His cheek tics and he sighs. “Fine. Everyone calls me Jake, so I guess you can, too, but only in front of them. Otherwise I’m Dad. For the most part they’re nice guys, but a few of them are all over social media for being womanizing assholes.”

“Got it. Jake in front of the players and Dad otherwise. Stay away from the womanizing douches.”

“Not just the douches. Don’t get involved with the players, or the staff,” he adds.

“Is that a rule that everyone has to follow or just me?” I’m only sort of being snide.

“It’s an unofficial policy, not a rule. We both know how much you love rules.” He half smirks.

“Don’t worry, Dad, I won’t date your players.” The last time I dated a hockey player, it blew up in my face. That was years ago, but the experience still haunts me. So much so that I haven’t watched the sport since my first year of college.

“It’s not you I’m worried about, if I’m totally honest. You’re beautiful, just like your mother. Boys couldn’t keep their heads around her, and they’re exactly the same with you.”

I shoot him a glare. “You had to compare me to her, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry. It’s not intended as an insult. I didn’t mean it in any way other than you got your mother’s looks.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze.

“I get it. I just wish I had it together.” What I really mean is that I wish I were less like my mother in this regard. Looking like her is one thing, but I have far too many of her less-than-awesome personality traits. I seem to have inherited her penchant for poor life choices.

She’s always been aimless, flitting from thing to thing, and place to place, and man to man. She was never consistent in my life. But when I was in college in Florida, she wormed her way back in for a short while. She’s always had the uncanny ability to get under my skin like a porcupine quill, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get her out.

She was the reason I ended up dropping out in the final semester of my dual major of art and psychology after being told repeatedly—by her—that I was wasting my dad’s money on a pointless degree, since I’d never be good enough to get my work into a gallery and I was too fucked up to help people. She told me I’d be better off finding someone who could take care of me. And that was the last time I spoke to her.

I hate that I believed her. I also despise that I did exactly what she said I should: I ran back home and let my dad pick up my pieces. But what’s worse is that I’ve been so afraid that she’s right about how screwed up I am that I haven’t even tried to finish what I started.

This year I was hoping I could work on some business-related courses, because that sounds practical, but there was a mix-up with my transcript, and by the time the problem got sorted out, I was late applying and ended up on a wait list. My marks are decent, but it’s a competitive program, and not exactly what I’m passionate about, so it’s probably better that it didn’t work out.

“You’re only twenty-four,” my dad says gently. “You have lots of time to find your passion, Queenie. I don’t want you to feel like you have to pursue something because you think it’ll get you a job in a better pay grade. The money isn’t important. I want you to do what you love, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“I wish I knew what that was.” I know he means well, and that we’ve relied on each other for a lot of years, but I don’t want my dad to take care of me for the rest of my life like a pampered brat. Besides, he’s only forty-four. He has all his hair, he’s in great shape, and he’s an awesome person with a killer sense of humor. It’d be nice if he could find someone who could appreciate all those things about him, aside from me. Since we spend most nights hanging out, I know he’s not actively dating. He doesn’t even have an app on his phone.

“You’ll figure it out, kiddo, and in the meantime we’ll get to spend more time together. It’s pretty much a win all the way around, isn’t it?”

“Total win, Dad.” And I mean it. Mostly. I love spending time with my father. I just worry that working for him isn’t going to be quite as easy as we hope.





CHAPTER 2

SOMEONE’S BABY GIRL

Kingston

“Hey, momster, how’s it goin’?”

Hanna chuckles and shakes her head. “Should I start calling you bro-son, or sother?”

“I told you that nickname would grow on you.”

“Like mold?”

I pause in my mission to clean my breakfast dishes so I can meet her gaze in the two-dimensional screen. “If it bothers you, I won’t call you that anymore, Hanna.”

“It doesn’t bother me. I actually kind of like it.”

“I can hear the but in there.” I set my cereal bowl in the drying rack.

Morning video chats have become a new part of our routine at least twice a week. It’s our way of getting in one-on-one time as we adjust to the new dynamics of our relationship. That’s how the therapist put it. Really we’re just working out the awkwardness and weirdness of the whole thing. Nothing has changed, but everything has changed.