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“Vic. Can this wait?” he asked, fully aware it was wasted breath.

Victor’s arms were crossed and his expression couldn’t be described as anything other than pure determination. No doubt Victor was here to address Dean’s wayward glances during the game.

He should be pleased Victor was here at all. His friend hadn’t spoken a single word to him since Dean had broken things off with Vivian.

Victor didn’t acknowledge his request. “You love her.”

Dean stared at him, unable to respond. He didn’t want to say those words to Victor until he made things right with Vivian—please, God, let him be able to make things right—and said them to her.

The silence lingered between them a beat too long.

“Really?” Victor snapped. “Silent treatment? Thought that was my role in all this bullshit.”

Dean unlocked the door to his office, crossing the room to grab his coat. Typically, he put in a couple more hours, analyzing game tape and charting a course for the next practice, but his emotional and mental bandwidth was nonexistent at the moment. Dean wondered what the chances were that he could skirt by Victor and get out of here within the next sixty seconds, because he had nothing left to give.

When Victor planted himself in the doorway, legs spread, arms crossed again, doing his best Patrick Swayze Road House pose, Dean realized he was trapped until he picked his way through this conversation.

While there were a million things he should probably start with, Dean couldn’t stop himself from asking the one thing that had cost him the most sleep lately. “Is she doing okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Pip feeling better? She’s not still sick, is she?” Dean figured Pip’s presence at the game probably answered that, but he’d been worried about the sweet little girl.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Fucking hell.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“You love both of them, you dumbass.”

Dean opened his mouth to say…what?

Fortunately, Victor saved him from trying to figure it out. “Don’t,” his friend barked. “Don’t deny it.”

Dean sighed, running his fingers through his hair wearily.

“Thanksgiving. Tomorrow. My house. Be there,” Victor demanded.

Dean shook his head. “I can’t. McKenna and Tank—” he started, even though he’d made no plans with them. To be honest, his head had been so far up his own ass the past few days, he’d forgotten all about the holiday.

“They’re coming to my house. Already RSVPed yes. Gonna try to give me another bullshit excuse, or can we save time and you just go ahead and cry uncle?”

“Uncle,” Dean sighed, too tired to put up a fight.

Victor looked strangely pleased. “Good. Be there at noon. Bring beer. A lot of it. You owe me.”

It took a second for Dean’s brain to engage enough for Victor’s joke to land. When it did, he chuckled and lobbed one of his own. “You know, I had at least six more perfectly reasonable excuses not to come tomorrow.”

“No, you didn’t,” Victor countered, calling him on his lie.

“Think I’ve got a shot at fixing this?”

Victor considered the question long enough that Dean appreciated him taking it so seriously. In the end, he lifted one shoulder. “To be honest, I’m not sure where her head is. Viv’s been pretty quiet the past few days.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that, suddenly surprised and touched by Victor’s invitation to Thanksgiving. It felt as if he’d just gotten Victor’s blessing.

“Got any advice for me?” he asked, grateful to have his friend speaking to him again.

“Fuck no,” Victor barked. “I’m a dumbass too. Still can’t believe Belle fell for me.”