Allie’s father loathes me from the instant our eyes meet. If I confessed this to Allie, she’d likely dismiss my unease, insisting he’s just been grumpy lately or that’s simply his nature. But she’d be misguided. The moment Joe Hayes swings the door open and spots me standing there, a condescending glare etched across his face, it’s clear: I, Dean, am not welcome. Suddenly, I feel grossly overdressed. Allie had insisted I dress “nice,” so I opted for a crisp white Tom Ford dress shirt paired with sharp gray Armani trousers. No suit coat—just my understated black Ralph Lauren jacket. In stark contrast, Mr. Hayes emerges before me in an unimpressive ensemble of sweatpants and a flannel shirt. “You’re AJ’s friend from school?” he growls, his baritone a mix of irritation and disdain. I furrow my brow at the use of “AJ.” “Ah, yes, sir. I know her as Allie.” “And you didn’t know her nickname?” His tone drips with derision, cutting deep. “Not much of a friend, are you?” With a dismissive grunt, he motions for me to enter and then shuffles away, a thin cane supporting his weight as he strolls through the entrance. Allie had cautioned me about her father's MS, warning me to tiptoe carefully around that topic. So, in silence, I observe him, noting the stiff, agonizing effort it takes just to move across the wooden floor. Following him into a surprisingly spacious main area, I take in the gleaming hardwood floors and the vintage woodwork that surely adorns this brownstone's original design. Allie and her dad reside on two lower floors, and while he succinctly mentions their four bedrooms and three baths, it eludes me just how they managed to secure such an enviable apartment in this upscale Brooklyn Heights neighborhood—perhaps pro-hockey scouts do earn more than I'd previously imagined. He leads me into a sunlit living room, a bay window framing a flourishing garden out back. “Do you garden?” I ask, attempting to spark some friendly conversation. His eyes darken. “The woman upstairs does.” Ah, noted. Just then, a beacon of relief shines through the oppressive atmosphere. “Dean! Hey!” Allie’s voice breaks in, and I feel my heartbeat steady as I catch sight of her knee-length blue dress—casual yet delightful enough to shake off my prior anxiety about appearing out of place. “Would you like something to drink?” she asks, enveloping me in a quick hug before glancing over at her father, who settles into the brown leather couch, a beer already shaking in his unsteady grip. “Uh… a beer would be nice,” I hesitate as I take in the way Mr. Hayes’s hand trembles while he lifts the bottle to his lips, an unsettling sight that I desperately strive not to dwell on. “Coors or Bud?” Allie asks. “Bud.” “Coming right up,” she replies with a smile, leaving me yet again in the chilly company of Mr. Hayes, whose blue eyes are glued to the Lions game flashing on the flat screen above. I tower over him by a good five inches and weigh thirty pounds more, yet fear pulses through me—this man has an aura of authority, the very essence of a bruiser from his days on the ice. “What are you waiting for, pretty boy? Sit down already,” he grumbles, sparking an involuntary cringe within me at the endearment. Pretty boy? Why did I think my chic attire would earn me points here? Reluctantly, I take a seat at the other end of the sectional, that hefty barrel chest of his looming over me. “AJ says you play hockey,” he states bluntly. “Yes, sir,” I reply. “Forward?” “Defenseman,” I correct him. “What’re your stats so far this season?” Panic rises within me. Does he genuinely expect me to regurgitate a string of numbers—goals, assists, penalty minutes? I could throw out rough estimates, but that feels brazen. “They're decent,” I reply evasively. “The team’s had a rocky start. We won the Frozen Four last season, though.” He nods curtly, his expression betraying nothing as he states, “Won it junior year. Boston College.” “Nice. Uh, congrats,” I stammer, but he doesn't react, leaving me to wonder if we’re locked in some invisible pissing contest. Luckily, Allie returns with my beer just in time, and I snatch it from her hand, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks, babe,” I murmur, and we freeze simultaneously when the term of endearment slips from my tongue. Shit. Of course he heard. I twist off the bottle cap and take a desperate swig of the cool liquid. “So what did I miss?” Allie asks, her voice overly bright as if to mask the tension hanging thick in the air. Mr. Hayes scoffs, “Pretty boy over here was just telling me how he won the Frozen Four.” Oh hell. Dinner, as it progresses, proves to be a nightmare—not because of the food; to Allie’s credit, she has managed to orchestrate quite the flavorful feast despite her claims of culinary ineptitude. It’s the atmosphere that clings to the air like rancid smoke; Mr. Hayes seems determined to pry and provoke. His favorite retort, spoken with a flat, cutting tone, is always, “Of course.” Whenever Allie mentions something significant—my future in law school, our family’s place in Manhattan, even my thanks for the lovely dinner—Mr. Hayes sneers back with his condescending “of course.” It’s torture to sit here, my politeness increasingly fraying at the edges. In desperate attempts to break through, I probe about his career as a pro scout, but all I fetch is a half-hearted grunt in return. I try complimenting the house, only to receive a thinly veiled “thank you.” Eventually, I resign to silence, while Allie happily fills the void with animated tales of her life—her upcoming auditions, her theater play, her vibrant coursework. For a fleeting moment, Mr. Hayes seems genuinely engaged, his presence transforming as he listens intently, a hint of warmth flickering in his demeanor that is otherwise hidden beneath layers of gruffness. However, a shadow crosses his features when she mentions having coffee with Sean. “Never liked that boy,” he grumbles. For once, I find myself nodding in agreement. “Aw, that’s not true. You always got along with him when we visited,” Allie protests, and subtly, I see a glimmer of good-natured humor cross his face, a mere hint before he returns to business-like firmness. “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 anymore.” I bite my lip, stifling a laugh. “Boy was too needy,” Mr. Hayes continues. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.” “How did he look at me?” Allie inquires, brow raised. “Like you were his entire world.” And just like that, the mood shifts again. “And that’s a bad thing?” She frowns, instinctively defending her past relationship. “Damn right it is,” he shoots back. “Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life revolves around one person and they leave… what are you left with? Absolutely nothing.” His voice drops into a resolute growl. “I said, not healthy.” In a way, it’s impressive how he carries such straightforward insight amid his struggles. “Now you’re just making me feel sorry for Sean. Can we change the subject?” “Dean, tell my dad about your last game.” I grimace internally. “Really? The one I was thrown out of?” He grunts, “Of course.” Tension coils back into the air, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the dinner comes to an end, eagerly rising to help Allie gather the dishes. Mr. Hayes, however, rises unsteadily. “I’ll get that,” I offer, but he shoots me a fierce look. “I’m not an invalid, AJ,” he snaps at Allie. “I am perfectly capable of carrying one plate to the kitchen.” Yet, as if in defiance of his own claim, the platter wobbles in his grip, slipping from his fingers and clamoring to the floor. Ceramics explode, turkey skids across the hardwood, the room filled with startled shouts. “Goddamn it,” Mr. Hayes barks. “I’ll take care of the mess.” “No.” Allie’s voice is commanding, no room for argument. She snatches a piece of broken ceramic from my hand, turning to me. “Dean, could you take Dad to the living room and make sure he stays there?” His glare brings back memories of my parents’ sternest looks, but I quail at the thought of Allie’s wrath. Sighing quietly, I gently lead Mr. Hayes out of the dining room, the scowl etched on his face remaining stiff. “I could’ve cleaned it up myself,” he mutters. “I know,” I reply nonchalantly, “but I think we made the right call sneaking out. For such a petite figure, your daughter sure does become intimidating when she sets her mind to something.” His scowl morphs slightly, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, and I nearly recoil in shock—was that the prelude to a smile? Alas, his moment of humor vanishes. “What do you want with AJ?” he asks, lowering his voice to a hushed but deadly tone. I blink in confusion, searching for clarity. “I don’t understand the question.” “I see the way you look at her, too.” His jaw tenses, the focus shifting back to the danger of the situation. “You like her.” “Of course I do,” I say, caught off-guard. “We’re friends.” “Don’t feed me that bull.” He growls. “I’ve been alive longer than you. You think I can’t tell when a man is in lust?” Hell. “I get it. AJ’s a catch,” he concedes. “She’s smart, pretty like her mom. She’s caring—too caring sometimes. If she loves you, she’ll always put your needs ahead of hers.” His gaze darkens, a father’s vulnerability emerging as he explains how Allie puts his needs before her own, bordering on martyrdom. “She needs a man who will take care of her,” he continues. Suddenly, his tone sharpens again, an edge curling around each syllable. “You’re not that man, kid. You’re incapable of that.” The insult prickles my skin, stinging deep. Who is he to judge? Chuckling without warmth, he goes on, “I was a hockey scout for over twenty years. You think you’re the first cocky SOB to cross my path? You’re even cockier because you grew up with money. You’ve got that entitled perspective of importance that follows a player as soon as they nab their first seven-figure contract.” I hold back a bitter response, catching myself as I focus on keeping my hands loose. “Just because my family has money, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, sir.” “I’m not saying that. But guys like you know nothing about real-world problems. And if things do go wrong, you throw a little money at it and poof—all fixed.” His blue gaze, darker than Allie’s, scrutinizes me. “You’re not what she needs. You wouldn’t step up for her when it counts.” With that, he shifts back to the football game as if dismissing me altogether, leaving me to ponder whether this Thanksgiving dinner will ever escape the shadow it’s cast across us both.