Dad didn’t hesitate. He gave a firm nod.
“You aren’t worried about the absolute hell the guys are going to give you?” Rick pressed, leaning against his bike. “The endless jokes?”
Dad shrugged his massive shoulders, his posture completely relaxed. “I don’t give a damn what they think, Rick.”
Rick stared at him as if he had grown a second head. “Seriously?”
Dad turned his head, his gaze catching mine on the porch. The hard lines of his face instantly softened. “Dead seriously.”
A strange, comforting warmth bloomed in the center of my chest. I knew exactly how much that club, that brotherhood, meant to his identity. But for the very first time, when the chips were down, he was choosing me over the roar of the engines.
Chapter 3: The Stage and the Spectacle
The morning of the Father’s Day performance arrived with terrifying speed. My stomach was a churning cauldron of anxiety; my hands trembled so violently I could barely secure the ribbons on my ballet slippers. Dad looked equally nauseous, though he attempted to mask it with exaggerated bravado.
Backstage, the chaotic energy of nervous children and stressed parents was suffocating. Dad was tugging uncomfortably at the neck of the ridiculous, sequined poet shirt my optimistic ballet instructor had somehow convinced him to wear.
