Is he going to come running out here?
Fuck!
I’m not ready.
“Mom! Did you see me? Did you see me hanging out with Harrison Meers?” Connor’s oversized duffel bag hangs over his shoulder, the crooked little smile on his face is the spitting image of his father’s.
I swallow the lump in my throat and hastily nod, leading Connor down the hallway away from the ice.
“I sure did, Bud! You looked great out there. Did you have fun?” We stop at a bench around the corner and then I crouch down to help him remove his skates. I’m pretty damn sure I’ve never unlaced a skate faster.
“Yeah! I even told Barrett Cunningham he was old and he chased me around the ice and Mom, I was faster than him!”
“Oh wow! I bet you were. You’re like a little pistol out there on that ice. I bet you’re the fastest one out there.”
“Yep. I am. And Harrison taught me a new trick to angle my stick better so I can stay in control. He said if I can do that, I can own the ice!”
“That’s amazing,” I tell him, tossing his skates into his bag and lifting it onto my shoulder along with my laptop bag. “You hungry? I thought we could go get a burger. I’m in the parking garage about two blocks down.”
“Starving!”
Connor bounces ahead of me down the corridor, humming under his breath, his stick clacking lightly against the tile floor with every few steps. He’s still glowing from practice, all the sweat and energy vibrating off him like static.
I, on the other hand, am doing everything in my power not to unravel right here between the snack bar and the trophy case. I should be calm. I should be focused on burgers and fries and whatever story Connor’s about to ramble through with ketchup on his face. But all I can think about is the way Harrison’s eyes caught mine.
That split second.
That recognition.
Thatpull.
It’s been over a decade, and yet one look and I’m back there. The late-night college practices, the sound of his laugh echoing off the rink walls. His hands on my hips, the smell of ice and sweat and mint on his breath. The way he’d kiss me between every apology for being late.
God. I thought I’d buried that girl years ago.
“Mom?” Connor’s voice snaps me out of my spiral. “Can I text my friends and tell him I mettheHarrison Meers? They’re gonna freak out!”
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just wait until we’re in the car.”
He grins and races toward the exit. I follow slower, my pulse still thundering. When I pass the window that overlooks the rink, I make the mistake of glancing through it one more time. Harrison’s still there. Standing on the ice with his stick tucked under his arm, his helmet off, talking to one of the players. Number nineteen.
August Blackstone.
He looks older. Broader through the shoulders. More grounded somehow, but the same fire lives in his movements. The easy way he shifts his weight, the effortless control he’s always had on the ice.
My heart trips over itself in my chest.
Dammit!
For years I’ve told myself what I did was right. That letting him go was the best thing for him. I gave Harrison the freedom to chase his dreams without the weight of what I knew he wasn’t ready for.
But seeing him now?
That confidence, that quiet joy with the kids…maybe he’s not the same man who once swore he’d devote his entire life to hockey.
And maybe…maybe I’ve underestimated him.
The thought burns as fast as it comes, so I shove it down. I don’t have the luxury of nostalgia. Not when I know what’s coming. Not when I know our truth is going to blow both our worlds apart.
