Over the years he’s worked his way up the ladder—taking positions inside the organization that required minimal travel.

But the opportunity of a lifetime presented itself when Seattle took on an expansion team and they offered my dad the general manager position. We were living in Florida at the time, and I’d already transferred colleges once (and lost an entire semester), so I decided to stay behind, hoping I could prove myself capable of adulting. I also wanted my dad to put himself first for once. He didn’t love that I was on the other side of the country, and honestly, neither did I, but I wanted him to have a life that didn’t revolve around me.

So I stayed in Florida and went to school. And for a while it worked. Until it didn’t anymore. I was one semester shy of graduating when the bottom fell out. Again.

So I moved to Seattle, because that’s where my dad was.

I managed to secure a job and got an apartment on my own. Not a great job, or a great apartment, either, but at least I could afford it without help from my dad. I tried a couple of college programs, but neither of them was a good fit. Even still, I was managing okay on my own until I lost another job, and all my prospects dried up. And now here I am, living in my dad’s guesthouse and working as his assistant, until I can figure out what exactly I want to do with my life.

“Should I call you Mr. Masterson, or do you want me to call you Jake?” I ask as we pull out of the sleepy suburbs and head toward the arena.

His brow furrows for what seems like the tenth time this morning. This might be a bit of a rough transition. Sure, I worked for my dad when I was a teenager, running errands and getting coffee, but it’s different now. I’m an adult and a woman who should be self-sufficient but am not. Also, as close as we are, my living in his guesthouse and working with him every day might be more than we can both handle.

“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.