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"You've been seeing him for how long?"

I hesitate.

His eyes narrow. "How long?"

"It kind of started at the carnival."

He stares at me.

"Since the carnival?"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ, Quinn."

He turns away, drags both hands over his face, then turns straight back. "And Larkin knew exactly what he was doing."

"So did I."

"He's twenty-four years old and playing for the team I coach."

"And I'm twenty-three, Dad. I'm not sixteen."

"I know exactly how old you are."

"Then stop talking about this like Wyatt did something to me."

His jaw locks. "I didn't say he did."

"You keep talking about him like he snuck into my bedroom while I was sleeping. I chose this too."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No. It's supposed to make you stop blaming him for a decision we made together."

I'm breathing too fast, filled with a mix of righteous anger and indignation.

Dad points toward the chair. "Sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Quinn. Sit. Down."

"No."

That stops him. I don't think I've ever flat-out refused him like that before.

"I'm not one of your players," I say. "You don't get to order me into a chair because you're angry."

Something flashes across his face.

"You're right. You're not one of my players. You're my daughter. Which is exactly why you should've had enough respect for me to tell me what was happening before I had a fucking reporter asking whether one of my players is getting special treatment because he's sleeping with you."

The words hit hard.

I straighten. "He isn't."

"You think that matters?"