The kid I might’ve missed a decade with.
I watch as Connor skates, his confidence blooming with every stride. It’s a damn beautiful sight, and each laugh that bursts from him sends a gentle thrum through my chest. I’m supposed to be here to help these kids, to teach them the ins and outs of hockey, but honestly? Right now, I’m just trying to keep my shit together while I figure out what on earth I’m supposed to say to this kid if he turns out to be mine.
My heart races as I imagine him, my son, doing what I love, living and breathing hockey just like I used to. The more I watch him, the more I feel that strange pull, that connection I’ve been craving for years.
“Hey Connor!”
“Yeah?” he shouts from down the ice.
“When’s your birthday?”
“January fourteenth,” he says. “And yours is November thirtieth.”
Wow. The kid knows his stats, I guess.
“That’s right.” I nod. “You’re looking good out there. Keep it up.”
Anything to distract him while I do the quick math.
Harper left in May right before the end of finals week ten years ago.
June, July, August, September, October, November, December…January…
That’s only eight months.
Eight months after she left me, she had Connor?
That means…
I stumble back a step, my hand clutching my chest as if it can dull the sharp ache shooting deep inside.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
There’s no denying it.
He has my eyes.
Hell, even his laugh is mine.
The way he effortlessly maneuvers around the rink, the little quirks in his skating style that remind me so much of…well, me. My heart swells with a mix of pride and fear, a confusing cocktail of emotions I can’t quite untangle.
“He’s my son,” I murmur to myself as Connor sprints down the ice dribbling a puck with his stick.
Connor…
Connor…
Fuck me.
How did it not cross my mind yesterday?
She named him after me.
Harrison Connor Meers.
God, I don’t even need her confirmation.
I feel it in my bones.
