And now that I know—now that I’ve let myselflook—I can’t unsee it. The tilt of Connor’s grin. The stubborn set of his jaw. The way he talks with his hands when he’s excited. The dark hair, the eyes that match mine almost exactly.
He has my middle name.
He’s mine.
I’ve known it since yesterday, but I’ve been pretending I didn’t. Pretending I could give myself twenty-four hours to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do.
But seeing him on the ice today—seeing how hard he listens, how hard he tries—cracked something open in me.
And now Harper’s here, standing near the benches, arms crossed like armor, trying really hard not to look at me but also absolutely aware of where I am.
She looks good.
That’s the other problem.
She looks like the version of her I used to imagine in the quiet moments. Older, more confident, a little tougher around the edges but still somehow soft in all the places I’ve missed.
And I can’t wait anymore.
Connor is bent over, wrestling with a knot in his skate laces, laughing with one of the younger kids who’s pretending the hockey stick is a sword. He’s occupied and out of earshot.
This is my window.
I walk toward her.
She steps back—instinct or nerves, I can’t tell—but she straightens almost instantly, chin lifting. She’s always been stubborn. I used to love that about her.
I still do, apparently, because I find her fucking adorable.
“Harper.” My voice comes out lower, rougher than I planned.
She swallows once. “Harrison.”
Her eyes flick to the kids, then back to me. She tries to look cool, but I can see the pulse jumping in her throat. She knows why I’m here. She’s known since yesterday.
“We need to talk,” I say, quiet, controlled.
Her breath catches, just for a second. “H—this isn’t— Connor is right th?—”
“He’s busy,” I cut in gently. “He’s fine. And I’m not doing this in front of him.” My chest tightens. “You know that.”
She looks away, jaw clenching. God, she’s bracing for impact, and I hate that. I hate that she thinks I’m going to explode or accuse or make a scene. I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m not twenty-two either. I’m not hurt and confused and afraid of losing everything. I’m a grown damn man who just found out he has a kid.
A kid he missed the first ten years with.
I exhale slowly. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”
Her eyes close, and it’s the answer even before she whispers, “Yes.”
I swear to God the world fucking tilts.
Even when I expected it. Even when it was obvious. Hearing her say it still knocks the air out of my lungs.
I drag a hand over my mouth. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t—” Her voice breaks for a second before she forces it steady. “I didn’t know how to tell you. You had the draft. You had your whole life about to start.”
“And you didn’t think I’d want my own fucking kid?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend. Not angry. Just gutted.
