Chapter 38 MEETING THE DAD

Chapter 38 MEETING THE DAD
SEAN

I hate this part.
Not the game-day nerves, not the media flashes outside the arena—I can handle all that. But this? Sitting here, knowing I'm about to walk into the McKenna house and meet him? It's a different kind of weight pressing on my chest.
Because Ryan's already been through enough. She had, what, a thousand followers before? Just her friends, teammates, family. Then overnight—boom—the tabloids got her face and name and now she's pushing fifty thousand. College Hockey is massive in the US. And those people? They are not fans. Not even real people, half of them. Just busybodies scrolling, dissecting, digging up whatever dirt they think will stick.
She didn't have a private profile, so they picked through every photo like vultures. She hid all the posts. Deleted her profile picture. And it kills me—that she had to erase pieces of herself just to survive this.
It's disgusting, honestly. The things people try to use against her. A stumble here, an injury there—like those moments erase everything else. Like her grit, her accomplishments, the way she drags herself up every damn time don't count. Little do they know, every scar, every setback just makes her more impressive. And she is. She's the most impressive person I know.
At least the girls from her track team came out for her. Posted, defended her. That mattered. I could see it in her eyes when she read those messages. It reminded her she's not alone.
But meeting her dad... that's a whole different beast. I tried to play it cool when she told me, because she was already a bundle of nerves, and I didn't want to add gasoline to the fire. But damn it—if this isn't new territory for me. I don't usually meet dads. I don't usually stick around long enough to. I get the deal done, sneak out, keep it simple.
At least, that's how it used to be.
Not with Ryan. Never with Ryan.
With her, I want it all. I want the dads and the brothers and the messy family dinners and the whole package. Even if her dad is Tyler freaking McKenna. Even if he looks at me like I'm not worthy—which, let's be real, he probably will.
But I'll take it. I'll take every glare, every question, every icy stare he throws, because she's worth it. Protecting her, standing by her—loving her—that's the only deal I want to make.
And this time, I'm not sneaking out.
Still, I'd be an idiot not to prepare. I can practically hear the questions already. What are your intentions with my daughter? Where do you see yourself in five years? How exactly do you plan to provide stability?
Okay. Intentions? Easy. I'm with Ryan because she's it for me. Period. No game, no fling, no backup plan. She's the one. That's the truth, even if saying it out loud makes me feel like my ribs are too tight.
Five years? Hopefully I'm still skating in the NHL. Bruins jersey, steady career, playing the game I've worked my ass off for. But also still here—with her. Because I'm not letting hockey be the only thing that defines me.
Stability? I've got that mapped out. Drafted already, degree in Business Management. I know money, I know discipline, I know how to build something long-term. It's not Wall Street, not courtroom prestige like her dad—but it's solid.
And if he asks me the big one—why Ryan?—I'll tell him. Because she's the strongest person I've ever met. Because she makes me want to be better. Because with her, I don't feel like a guy running plays on borrowed time. I feel like I have a future.
Yeah. That's what I'll tell him.
Now, whether or not he buys it? That's out of my control. But at least I'll walk in there ready. Not for a game, not for a fight—for her. Always for her.

〰️〰️〰️

Ryan looks breathtaking tonight. Midnight blue dress, soft gold catching in her hair, eyes lit up like she's holding entire constellations inside them. And still—she's fumbling with her fingers as she climbs into my car, nerves practically rolling off her in waves.
I try to look calm, hands steady on the wheel, shoulders loose. If she sees me panic, it'll only make her worse. But the truth? Nothing in my life—no final, no championship game—has ever made me feel as unprepared as meeting Tyler McKenna.
"Okay... I need to tell you a few things, okay? You have to promise to listen, and then we can discuss them." Her voice is sharp but shaky, like she's bracing herself.
I glance over, catch those bright eyes on me. "'Kay," I murmur.
"Sean. Pinky promise me." She holds out her little finger like this is life or death.
"Fuck, okay." I shift one hand off the wheel and hook mine with hers. "Pinky promise."
She exhales, nodding like that's the only insurance policy worth anything. "Okay, first: my dad is mean. Not just to me—to everyone. And that's fine, I guess—we're all used to it. So don't feed into his theatrics. Second: he might have a date. But do not kid yourself. If he's accompanied, she's probably his accomplice, and she will be judging everything we do and say to report back. That's just how it goes with him."
I bite back a grin at her dead-serious tone, nodding like I'm memorizing plays.
She presses on. "Third: I love my brothers more than anything. They try to protect me from Dad—they always have. It's just... really hard to stand up to him if he's mad. Which brings me to point four: his mood is unpredictable. And if he's dealing with a tricky case, it can flip on a dime."
I raise my brows. "Noted. Mean dad. Protective brothers. Don't get sucked into the theatrics. Be nice, but not too nice?"
She stares at me, lips twitching. "Exactly."
I give her a sideways smile, leaning back in my seat. "Piece of cake."
That finally gets her to smile—small, but real. "You got this."
God, I hope she's right. Because I'll take on a hundred screaming fans or a locker room brawl without blinking. But Tyler McKenna? That's a whole different arena.
The rest of the drive toward Back Bay is less tense, thank God for that. Ryan leans back against the seat, fingers finally still, the city lights slipping over her like they're on her side. For a few minutes it feels almost normal—just us, dressed up, driving through Boston. Not like we're heading straight into a firing squad.
Her dad picked the spot. The Berkeley. Fancy, understated, the kind of place you don't even glance at unless you've got money or a last name that opens doors. Apparently it's their go-to when he flies in from Minneapolis. There's a bistro inside Ryan swears is "worth the pain," which... doesn't inspire confidence.
For a second there, I'm actually grateful. Grateful that I suited up, that we had enough time to get ready and make the trip feel like more than just marching into enemy territory. She's stunning, and if I'm going to face down Tyler McKenna, at least I get to walk in with her on my arm.
But the second we roll up to the valet, I can feel it—her mood shifts. She goes stiff, her smile slipping, her eyes scanning the building like she's about to step onto a battlefield.
And my oh my, here it goes.
I hand the keys to the valet, slip out, and circle around to her side. When I open her door, she exhales slowly, like she's trying to leave her nerves behind in the car. She takes my hand, and I squeeze once, firm and steady, hoping she feels it in her bones.
Inside, it's all warm lights, crisp suits, and the faint hum of expensive conversations. It's not the rink. It's not our house. This is his turf. And every step we take toward that bistro feels heavier than the last.
Because I know the second we walk in, the game changes.
And it surely does.
The bistro is buzzing, all polished wood and low laughter, the kind of place where deals get made over a glass of red and a too-small plate of steak tartare. My eyes sweep the room automatically, the way I would on the ice—scouting, assessing, bracing.
We spot them near the back. Flynn's got a phone pressed to his ear—of course. He's pacing slightly even while seated, jotting something in the margin of a notebook. The man could probably argue a case while running a marathon. Theo, on the other hand, is hunched over his own phone, typing like his thumbs might catch fire if he slows down.
But the second he looks up and sees Ryan, his whole face lights up. "Troublemaker, there you are!" he says, grinning wide.
Flynn doesn't even glance up from his call, but his voice carries anyway. "I think the title was 'Former BU Track Queen,' wasn't it?" He keeps talking into his phone without missing a beat. Multitasking at genius level. The guy never stops, never sits still. And maybe that explains something about Ryan—how she looks like she's going to crawl out of her own skin when she's forced to slow down.
Ryan groans, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my God. Please tell me you didn't read those."
Guilt twists in my stomach. Because I read them. Every word.
Flynn chuckles, still half on his call. "When your little sister becomes Insta-famous overnight, it kind of becomes the only thing my junior associates want to talk about. Made the office twice as unbearable this week, thanks for that."
Theo leans back in his chair, smirking. "Yeah, Ry. Solid job shutting those photos down, though. Quick reflexes. Even for you."
"It wasn't really an option." Her tone sharpens. "I'm getting help to take care of it."
And that's news to me. My stomach tightens, because if the help isn't coming from me, then who?
She catches the confusion written all over my face and immediately slips her hand into mine, tugging me closer, grounding me. Her eyes flick up, a quiet reassurance only I get. Then she turns to her brother.
"Right," Ryan says, squeezing my fingers once before she gestures toward me. "Before this turns into more public humiliation, Theo, you should meet Sean."
And just like that, the spotlight shifts. Theodore's eyes land on me, sharp and assessing in two completely different ways. I can practically feel the weight of it pressing into my skin.
So this is the McKenna welcome committee. And Tyler McKenna hasn't even shown up yet.
"Sean," Ryan says, tugging me closer like I might suddenly bolt if left to my own devices. "This is Theo. And you already know Flynn."
Theo rises halfway from his chair, offering a firm handshake that feels more like a grip test. "So this is the guy, huh? Captain Callahan." His grin is easy, but his eyes linger a beat too long, like he's measuring every inch of me. "Gotta admit, I thought you'd be taller."
Ryan groans. "Theo."
"What?" he says innocently, releasing my hand. "I was expecting, like, NHL-giraffe tall. He's... normal tall."
I huff out a laugh, keeping it light. "Sorry to disappoint."
Flynn finally ends his call, slipping the phone into his jacket pocket. His eyes land on me, sharper than Theo's teasing grin. "We've met," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Hospital."
I nod once. "Yeah. Before Ryan's last surgery." My stomach twists remembering it—her pale face, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the sound of her crutches against the tile. "Not exactly the best circumstances."
Flynn's expression doesn't soften, but there's something there—recognition, maybe. "No. But you stayed."
It's not a compliment exactly, but it's not a jab either. Just a statement. And for Flynn, that might be as close as it gets.
Theo waves a hand between us, breaking the moment. "Okay, but real talk—Sean, do you have any idea what you've signed up for here?"
Ryan's eyes narrow. "Theo."
"What?" He's grinning again, leaning back in his chair. "You're, like, the most dramatic sibling we have. Flynn works too much, I brood too much, but you? You're a walking tornado. And now Captain Callahan's volunteered to date the tornado. Bold choice."
Ryan glares at him, cheeks pink. "Theo, I swear to God—"
I squeeze her hand, cutting in before she combusts. "I know exactly what I signed up for," I say evenly. "And I'm not going anywhere."
That earns me two very different reactions: Theo's grin widens, almost impressed. Flynn just tilts his head slightly, dissecting my soul.
And I can feel Ryan relax next to me—just barely, but enough to know I said the right thing.