His smile reaches his eyes. “Good.”
We finish eating in a silence that feels like a promise.
When Connor learns the truth about Harrison, everything is going to change. Our entire dynamic will be different from that moment forward. But for the first time in ten years, I won’t be carrying this weight alone. Harrison isn’t just here for Connor. He’s here for me too.
For us.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HARRISON
Connor’s practice is already underway when I slip into the rink, the air cold and familiar in a way that settles something restless in my chest. The boards hum with the echo of pucks and shouts, skates carving lines into the ice like it’s second nature, which, for these kids, it is.
For him, it definitely is.
Connor rockets past the blue line, stick handling with a confidence that makes my lips twitch before I can stop it. He’s fast. Not reckless but controlled. He keeps his head up, anticipates the pass, adjusts his stride like he’s thinking three steps ahead. I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the glass dumbfounded because holy fuck, that’s my kid out there.
My kid.
The thought feels unreal every time it surfaces. It’s exciting but heavy and downright terrifying. I’m afraid to say it out loud, afraid to even mouth it for fear that I’ll wake up and this will all have been some sort of horrible dream and Connor won’t exist.
So instead, I just let the idea of fatherhood sit there between my ribs, pulsing.
Around me, parents chatter softly, sipping coffee, scrolling phones. None of them know what this is doing to me, watching a ten-year-old boy who shares my blood skate across the ice, completely unaware that my entire world is quietly rearranging itself around him. I catch myself tracking him automatically. Where he’s positioned, how he angles his shoulders, when he hesitates—just a fraction of a second too long—before shooting.
He misses the net wide.
I wince like I feel it in my bones because been there done that, but to my surprise, Connor laughs, shakes it off, and circles back into the play like missing never mattered.
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t about hockey.
This is about being there when he misses and reminding him it’s okay.
About watching him try.
About loving him even when he falls flat on his ass.
I swallow hard and drag a hand over my face. Being a father isn’t about showing up with answers. It’s about showing up. Period.
The practice wraps up and Connor skates toward the bench, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to his forehead. That’s when he spots me, his eyes lighting up like someone flipped a switch.
“Harrison!” he yells, nearly tripping over his own skates as he scrambles off the ice.
I push off the glass and meet him halfway, crouching automatically as he barrels into me, pads and all.
“You were awesome out there, bud,” I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
He grins. “Did you see my almost-goal?”
“I did. You almost had it! But you know what made me super proud of you out there?”
“What?”
“You were patient,” I answer. “You shook off the mistake and kept going. You even smiled. A positive attitude like that is hard to teach.”
His chest puffs up like I just handed him a trophy.
