Hate Should Be A Hockey Term

SLOANE

I was halfway through a very important scroll when my bedroom door swung open without so much as a courtesy knock.

“Oh my god, Dad—what the hell?” I yanked the sheet up to my chin, though my silk camisole and tiny sleep shorts had already betrayed me by riding up in all the wrong places. Dad never barged in. Ever. He was the king of polite knocks and awkward small talk.

“Sorry,” he said, averting his eyes like I’d caught him stealing. “Thought you were asleep. I have news. Big news.”

I sat up, smoothing my hair like that would restore dignity. “If this is about another one of your ‘conferences,’ spare me.”

He grinned—actually grinned—and held up his left hand. A new ring glinted on his finger. “Victoria Hartley. We’re engaged.”

The word hit like a slap. Engaged.

I blinked. “You’ve known her for… what, six months?”

“Long enough to know she’s it.” He sat on the edge of my bed, looking happier than I’d seen him in years. “She’s kind, smart, beautiful. She’s going to be good for us.”

Us. Right.

“Congrats,” I said flatly. “So when’s the wedding? Tomorrow?”

“End of August.”

Three months. My brain did the math and hated the answer. “You’re rushing this like you’re on a timer. Is she pregnant? Terminal? Blackmail?”

He laughed. “None of the above. We just… don’t want to wait.”

“Of course you don’t.” I crossed my arms. “You’ve spent the last six years sampling every twenty-something in a ten-mile radius. I thought the drought was divine intervention. Turns out it was just… strategy.”

“Sloane—”

“I heard everything, Dad. Every ‘oh god yes’ through the walls when I was thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. You weren’t exactly subtle. Then poof—six months of silence. I figured you’d finally discovered therapy or celibacy. Nope. Just upgraded to fiancée.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I honored your mom for a while after she passed.”

“A year. You lasted a year. Then the parade started again.” I shrugged. “Whatever. She’s amazing, she’s perfect, she’s a mother figure. Got it.”

“There’s more,” he said carefully. “Victoria wants us to spend the summer at her place in Eastlake. All of us. Bonding.”

I stared. “You want me to ditch my internship at Cornwell, my friends, and my entire life to play happy family in some stranger’s mansion?”

“It’s not a stranger. It’s my fiancée. And her son.”

Son.

My stomach twisted. “Let me guess. He’s twenty, plays college hockey at Dalton, scouts drooling over him for the NHL. Cocky, abs for days, the whole arrogant-jock package.”

Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I Googled him the second you said ‘engaged.’” I grabbed my phone from under the pillow, pulled up Chase Hartley’s Instagram, and tilted the screen toward Dad. Shirtless gym selfies. Lake days with girls draped over him. Comments screaming heart-eyes and thirst. “He’s literally a walking red flag with a stick.”

“He’s a good kid, Sloane. Driven. Respectful.”

“Sure. Until he’s not.” I tossed the phone aside. “I hate hockey players. They’re all the same—arrogant, entitled, built like Greek statues because apparently god hates me personally.”

Dad stood. “You’re coming. End of discussion. This house is mine, and if you keep fighting me, I’ll start charging rent.”

“Wow. Low blow.”

“You’re eighteen. Act like it.”

“Fine.” I flopped back against the pillows. “I’ll go. But only because you’ve suffered enough bad decisions in your life. And maybe because watching your perfect new family implode up close will be excellent writing material.”

He paused at the door. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” I stared at the ceiling after he left, the Instagram feed still burned into my brain. Chase Hartley’s smirk. Those stupid perfect abs. The way girls threw themselves at him like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

I muttered to the empty room, “This summer is going to be a disaster.”

And deep down, a tiny, traitorous part of me was already curious how big of a disaster it might be.