The Game Plan (Game On 3)

While I talk, the waitress sets down a steaming basket of fresh soup dumplings. Dad picks up a delicate, pale little rose of a dumpling. The fragrance of chicken broth and ginger fills the air as he bites and sucks down the soup hidden within.

“So,” he says, “lesson learned. Don’t trust sudden friends who are after the same position as you.”

I have a mouthful of dumpling, so it takes me a moment to swallow and gape up at him. “You’re not going to give me shit?”

“Why would I do that?” His brow scrunches up, making the wrinkles in his face deeper.

“Uhm, because you always give me shit about my…” I hold up my fingers to air quote. “‘Flighty nature’.”

He frowns as if he can’t make out what I’ve just said.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” I say, impatient now. “You’ve called me Flighty Fi since I was a kid.”

“Hey, now. It was a nickname. A term of endearment.”

“Your terms of endearment suck, Dad.”

His frown grows to a scowl. “Okay, fine. I’m sorry you don’t like the term. but…” He shrugs. “You are kind of flighty.”

Shit. That shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Enough that I have to blink to clear my vision.

I push back my plate. “Do you have any clue what it’s done to me to know you think that?”

Dad pauses, dumpling halfway to his mouth. Slowly he lets it settle on his plate. “Honey…” He pauses, his mouth twisting as if he’s groping for some platitude to placate me.

I want to get out of here, but I can’t run away from this.

“It hurts, Dad. You and Mom, you’re both so proud of Ivy. But me? I’m the sad case that keeps letting you down.”

For a sick moment, I really do empathize with fuck-face Elena. Which makes my feelings sting that much more. I sure as shit do not want to find common ground with her.

Dad tosses his chopsticks onto the table where they rattle around. “You do not let us down. You’re just… You have so much potential. We want to see it come to fruition.” He leans forward, the old leather booth creaking beneath him. “Fiona, you’re my kid. Every father wants to see his kid settled. Or he ought to, anyway.”

A shaking breath gurgles in my throat. “Wanting to see me settled and being dubious of my ability to lead my life are two separate things. I know I’m not like Ivy—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You’re like me.”

“You?”

“Don’t look so horrified,” he says dryly.

“It’s just… You’re successful, Dad. People aspire to be like you.”

I swear he flushes. He doesn’t meet my eye as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m a lucky bastard who happened to be tall and coordinated enough to play the game. The agent gig, well…” He shrugs again, grabbing his chopsticks to poke at a dumpling. “I knew the business by then so I took an opportunity.”

I can’t believe he’s downplaying what he is.

“You are, though,” he goes on quietly. “Like me. I too was always searching for something to inspire me, something to get excited about.”

I gape. I know I do. Because how the fuck did he know that about me? How, when I thought he never paid any attention. My dad keeps talking.

“My problem is, I did that by screwing around on your mom. By drinking and partying too much. You?” He meets my eyes, though I can tell it’s hard for him by the way he winces. “You’re more constructive. You’re looking for meaning in life. I’m proud of you for that, Fi. Always have been.”

“Dad…” A watery laugh escapes me. “Shit, you’re going to make me choke up over dumplings.”

“Never waste good dumplings, Fiona.”

I laugh again, and he gives me a tight smile. Being easy and joking with my dad is a new thing. It occurs to me that maybe he’s shy too. I reach over and nudge his bony wrist with my fist. “I’m proud of you too, Dad.”

“Remember the dumpling,” he says, though he’s flushed again. “And never forget this. As much as I want your respect, you never, ever live your life to make someone else happy. You got me?”

He stares me down, he expression as earnest as I’ve seen it. Lump in my throat, I nod. He nods too.

We eat in silence for a while, ordering a plate of steamed pork buns. Around us, Chinese New Yorkers chatter and slurp up dumplings with a deftness that makes me and Dad look like bumbling amateurs. At the front-window counter, an old guy makes stunning little bundles of food art, occasionally yelling in Mandarin to the hostess by the register.

I soak it in, relish my meal. Four years I spent in the South, playing the part of college party girl. It was fun, but here in New York? I feel at home. I love this city. It hums through my veins and makes my heart beat. And I’m going to leave it. Because I want something more.

I’m about to tell my dad this when he speaks again.

“I’m…ah…seeing someone.” Okay, he’s definitely pink now. “Genevieve. She does PR for the Hawks.”

Just like that, I’m grinning. “It must be serious.”

Dad tilts his head in acknowledgement before slurping down a soup dumpling. “She moved into the house,” he says after a moment.

“Good. I don’t like the idea of you rattling around in that big place alone. Just, please tell me she isn’t my age.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Nice, Fi. And you accuse me of giving you shit.”