Like the last time, Dad wants me to walk him back to his office so we can chat privately, without my siblings listening in.

He goes straight to his desk and plops down, checking his phone and email before giving me his attention, so I grab a magazine on the table next to my chair and thumb through it.

“Give me one quick second,” he says while tapping out a text message.

I wait.

And wait.

He sets his phone down, folding his hands in front of him on the surface of his desk. “There.”

I wonder what he’s about to say, assuming it’s important since he dragged me all the way up here to say it.

“So.” The word lingers in the air between us. “Trace Wallace.”

Ah. There it is.

To be honest, I’m surprised he’s bringing this up. Dad has never really shown a vested interest in my dating life, personal life, or otherwise. He cared where I went to college. Cared where I got my master’s. Cared where I bought my first house (using the money I inherited when my grandmother died).

But he’s never said a word about men because he’s never been privy to their identities. Not to mention, I’m not actually dating Buzz Wallace, and if he’d done his homework, he would know that. He wouldn’t be ambushing me for information.

There are a few ways I can go with this.

Play dumb: Trace? What about him?

Play really, really dumb: Trace who?

Or, sit it out and wait for him to elucidate his point, forcing him to spell out what information he’s looking for me to spew.

I choose the latter.

“I hear you’ve spent some time with him.”

I nod. “We’re friends.”

Dad studies my face with an unwavering expression. Poker face. Stone-faced. Whatever you want to call it, that’s how he’s looking at me. Watching me.

The clock on his bookshelf ticks; I can actually hear it. It’s one of those wooden numbers you bring back from Europe and have to wind in the back with a gold key. Shiny, polished, worth a small fortune, and someone will inherit it when he dies.

It ticks.

It tocks.

Tick.

Tock.

See, if there’s one thing I learned from my dad, it’s this: the less you say, the less you give away. People talk when they’re nervous. People talk when they lie. People talk and give more information than they should, because they’re nervous, and that’s what he wants me to do right now—talk.

So. I say nothing at all.

I have nothing to defend; I’ve done nothing wrong.

He had no problem with me dating Marlon Dickhead—he had to have known, though we never talked about it openly. So why would he care that I’ve hung out with Buzz Wallace a few times? And how the heck did he find out?

There are rats scurrying everywhere.

“Well?” he asks.

“Well what?”

Wrong thing to say. “Why are you friends with him?”

“Why not? He’s a nice guy.”

Dad’s lips press together and turn white. “He’s the best closer we’ve had in ten years—he doesn’t need distractions.”

Ah. So this isn’t about my best interests; it’s about the team’s.

The whole thing makes me laugh. “I’m hardly the kind of girl men get distracted by, Dad, but thanks for the compliment.”

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“Um, kind of?” The words slip out before I can stop them, because honestly—this is the most ridiculous conversation. If my father thinks Buzz Wallace—one of the best-looking and best players on our team—is interested in me romantically? He’s delusional.

But even if he was, what difference would it make? Does Dad not want me to be happy? Does he not want me to find love?

Evidently not with one of the Chicago Steam.

I’m insulted.

“I’d love it if you weren’t friends with him during the season.” Or the off-season. He doesn’t say it, but there’s no doubt he’s thinking it.

Lovely.

“What kind of friend would I be if I just ghosted someone because my dad told me to?”

“Ghosted?”

Oh that’s right—my dad is old and out of touch with what we young people are doing these days. “It means shut someone out. Stop talking to them for no reason and not tell them about it. Block them.”

He nods, satisfied. “Good. Do that.”

“Dad! I am not ghosting Buzz! He hasn’t done anything!”

“He doesn’t have to—he has a job to do and I don’t want you getting in the way.”

“I am so flattered you think I’m capable of—”

“Hollis Maxine Westbrooke.” He slams his fists on the desk and rises. “I am not asking.”

Whoa. He is being such an asshole, throwing out that horrible middle name and making demands.

“I’m not a child.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

I rise. “How am I acting like a child? You’re the one who has an issue with me being friends with a player. It’s not even a big deal—you’re making it a big deal and now I’m pissed!”

His eyes get wide. “Don’t curse at me.”