Allie’s father hates me on sight.
I’m sure if I mentioned it to Allie, she’d wave off my concerns and say things like “he’s just grumpy” or “oh, that’s just how he is with everyone”. But she’d be wrong.
Joe Hayes hates me from the moment he opens the door and sees me standing on the stoop. And hoo boy, don’t I feel overdressed. Allie told me to dress “nice”, so I’d chosen a white Tom Ford dress shirt and gray Armani trousers. No suit coat, but my black Ralph Lauren jacket gets an eyebrow flick from Allie’s dad, who’s in sweatpants and a flannel shirt.
“You AJ’s friend from school?” he barks.
I wrinkle my brow. “AJ?”
“My daughter. Allison Jane?” Mr. Hayes looks annoyed that he has to explain.
“Oh, ah, yes, sir. I know her as Allie, though.”
“And you didn’t know her nickname?” He makes a derisive sound. “Not much of a friend, are ya?” He mutters, “Come in” and turns around stiffly. Stiff in the literal sense, because his gait is visibly labored as he stumbles forward on a slender cane.
Allie had warned me that her father has MS. She also advised me not to bring it up in conversation, saying he doesn’t like talking about it and will most likely bite my head off if I mention it. So I don’t, but it’s clear even with my non-medical background that he’s in pain right now.
I follow Mr. Hayes through a surprisingly large main floor with gleaming hardwood and what looks like the original woodwork and doors from whenever this brownstone was built. Allie and her dad have the two lower floors, which I’m brusquely told contain four bedrooms and three baths. Either the family purchased the apartment before the Brooklyn Heights neighborhood became super exclusive, or pro-hockey scouts make way more money than I thought.
He leads me into a spacious living room with a bay window that overlooks a neatly tended garden and patio. “Do you garden?” I ask politely.
Allie’s dad scowls at me. “Woman upstairs takes care of the garden.”
Okay then.
“Dean. Hey.”
Oh thank Christ. Allie pops into the room, and I’m relieved to see she’s wearing a knee-length blue dress. Not a fancy one, but nice enough that I no longer feel like I showed up to a potluck in a tuxedo.
“You want anything to drink?” she asks after she greets me with a quick hug.
I glance at the brown leather couch that Mr. Hayes is slowly lowering himself on. He tucks the cane on the edge of the sofa and snatches a beer from the coffee table. His hand trembles wildly as he raises the bottle to his lips. When he catches me staring, he scowls again.
“Uh…” I gulp. “A beer would be nice.”
“Coors or Bud?”
“Bud.”
She nods. “Coming right up.”
I’m once again left alone in the clutches of Mr. Hayes, whose blue eyes are now glued to the Lions game flashing on the flat screen. I’ve got about five inches and thirty pounds on the man, but he still fucking terrifies me. I suspect he was a bruiser when he played hockey. He’s got that stocky barrel chest. And the surly attitude.
“What are you waiting for, pretty boy? Sit down already.”
Pretty boy?
Goddamn it. Why did I show up in Ford and Armani? Allie’s dad probably took one look at my expensive getup and decided I was a rich prick.
Very reluctantly, I sit on the other end of the sectional.
Mr. Hayes glances over briefly. “AJ says you play hockey.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Forward?”
“Defenseman.”
“What’re your stats so far this season?”
I pause uncertainly. Wait, does he expect me to rattle off actual numbers? Like goals and assists and penalty minutes? I could probably ballpark it, but reciting my own statistics feels pompous.
“They’re decent,” I say vaguely. “The team’s had a rocky start. We won the Frozen Four last season, though.”
He nods. “Won it junior year. Boston College.”
“Nice. Uh. Congrats.” His face is utterly expressionless, so I can’t be sure if this is some kind of pissing match. If so, I could probably mention I won it the year before, too. But I keep my mouth shut. Luckily, Allie is back with my beer, and I reach for it as if it’s a life preserver. “Thanks, babe.”
We both freeze the moment the endearment leaves my mouth. Shit. I hope Mr. Hayes didn’t hear that.
He’s sitting right here. Of course he heard.
I twist off the bottle cap and take a much-needed swig of alcohol.
“So what did I miss?” Allie asks in an overly cheerful voice.
Her father scoffs. “Pretty boy over here was just telling me how he won the Frozen Four.”
Fucking hell.
This is going to be a long Thanksgiving.
*
Dinner is awful. Well, not the food—for someone who claims to suck at cooking, Allie did a pretty good job with the meal. It’s the act of eating said food that I find excruciating. The conversation is brutal. Mr. Hayes seems to be going out of his way to antagonize me. His preferred phrase of the evening is “of course.” Except it’s spoken in a flat, condescending tone that makes me wish I was spending Thanksgiving in the empty house in Hastings.
When Allie tells him I’m going to law school next fall, he says, “Of course.”
When she mentions my family owns a place in Manhattan, he says, “Of course.”
When I thank him for having me to dinner, he says, “Of course.”
Goddamn. Brutal.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m making a genuine effort to be polite. I ask him what it was like to be a pro scout, but all I get is a half-mumbled, one-sentence response. I compliment him on how nice this brownstone is, and he grunts out a “thank you.”
Eventually I give up, but Allie is more than happy to fill the awkward silence. As she tells her father about the play she’s acting in, her courses, her upcoming auditions, and everything else she has going on, that’s the only time Mr. Hayes seems to come to life. It’s obvious he loves his daughter deeply, and he hangs on to every word she says like she’s offering him the secrets to eternal life. He does scowl at her once, though, after he asks if she’s still in touch with Sean and she admits they had coffee.
“Never liked that boy,” Mr. Hayes mutters. For once, he and I are on the same page.
Allie chews her last bite of gravy-laden mashed potatoes before voicing a protest. “Aw, that’s not true. You guys always got along when we came to visit you.”
Her father chuckles. Well, look at that, he’s actually capable of conveying humor. I never would have guessed.
“He was your boyfriend—I had no choice but to get along with him. Now he’s not, so I don’t have to pretend to like him anymore.”
I cover up a laugh behind my napkin.
“Boy was too needy,” Mr. Hayes continues. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“How did he look at me?” Allie asks warily.
“Like you were his entire world.”
She frowns. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Damn right it is. Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life is centered on one thing—one person—whatcha going to be left with if that person goes away? Absolutely nothing.” He gruffly reiterates, “Not healthy.”
Joe Hayes has a very practical way of looking at things. I’m oddly impressed.
“Well, now you’re just making me feel bad for Sean. Let’s change the subject. Dean, tell my dad about your last game.”
I sigh ruefully. “Really? The one I got thrown out of?”
Her dad harrumphs. “Of course.”
The conversation becomes strained again. I’m relieved when it’s finally time to clear the table, eagerly standing up to help Allie gather the dishes. There’s still half a turkey left in the serving platter, which Mr. Hayes reaches for as he staggers to his feet.
“No, Dad,” Allie says in a strict voice. “Go and watch the rest of the game. Dean and I can clean up.”
“I’m not an invalid, AJ,” he grumbles. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying one plate to the kitchen.”
No sooner do the words exit his mouth than the platter wobbles in his hand. Or rather, his hand wobbles and the platter follows suit, abruptly slipping from his grip and smashing to the hardwood.
The ceramic shatters to pieces, sending the slippery turkey careening across the floor. I immediately set down my plates and hurry around the table. Allie does the same, and our heads bump when we both reach for the same broken piece.
“Goddamn it,” Mr. Hayes bites out. “I’ll take care of the mess.”
“No.” Her tone isn’t strict anymore—it’s commanding. She snatches the ceramic shard from my hand and says, “Dean, would you take Dad to the living room and make sure he stays there?”
Her father levels me with a death glare that makes my balls shrivel up, but no way am I facing Allie’s wrath right now. Stifling a sigh, I lightly clasp Joe’s arm and lead him out of the small dining room.
The scowl stays fixed on his face even after he’s settled on the couch. “I could’ve cleaned it up myself,” he informs me.
“I know.” I shrug. “But I think we made the right call sneaking out of there. For such a tiny little thing, your daughter sure is terrifying when she’s trying to get her way.”
His lips curve ever so slightly. Holy shit, did I almost make him smile?
But whatever shred of humor I might have induced disappears before I can blink. Mr. Hayes lowers his voice to a deadly pitch and asks, “What do you want with AJ?”
I shift in confusion. “I don’t understand the question.”
“I see the way you look at her, too.” His jaw begins to twitch, but I don’t know if it’s from anger, or the disease he’s battling. “You like her.”
“Of course I do,” I say awkwardly. “We’re friends.”
“Don’t feed me that bull. I’ve been alive a lot longer than you, pretty boy. You think I can’t tell when a man is in lust?”
And I thought the dinner conversation was uncomfortable.
“I get it. AJ’s a catch. She’s smart, pretty like her mom. She’s caring—too damn caring sometimes,” he admits. “If she loves you, she’ll always put your needs ahead of hers.” And I know he’s talking about his own relationship with Allie now. It’s obvious that because of his MS, she puts his needs first, not to mention coddles him more than he likes.
“She needs a man who will take care of her.” His voice goes soft for a moment, but then it sharpens. “You’re not that man, kid. You’re incapable of that.”
Insult prickles my skin. Who is he to make that sort of judgment?
He notices my frown and chuckles. “I was a hockey scout for more than twenty years—you think you’re the first cocky SOB I’ve met in my life? Cockier, too, because you grew up with money. You already have that entitled sense of importance that comes after a player signs his first seven-figure contract.”
I force my hands not to clench into fists. “Just because my family has money doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, sir.”
“Not saying that.” He shrugs. “But guys like you, you know nothing about real world problems. And if shit does go wrong, you throw a little money at the problem and poof—all fixed.” Blue eyes, a shade darker than Allie’s, sweep over me from head to toe. “You’re not what she needs, Dean. You wouldn’t step up and be there for her if it came down to it.” A pause. “I don’t trust you to take care of my daughter.”
With that final cutting remark, he shifts his gaze back to the football game.
