I should find some way to get in touch with him before tomorrow. I know I should, but every time I think about how I need to say the words out loud, my fear and anxiety get the best of me.
I’ve delayed the words for over ten years.
Surely twenty-four more hours won’t hurt us…too much.
Connor pushes through the glass doors, squinting against the sun spilling across the pavement. I step out behind him, the California air warm and bright and completely at odds with the storm in my chest.
“Burgers?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Double cheese!” he declares.
“Of course,” I say, tugging his cap lower over his eyes as we walk toward the parking garage. He starts rambling again about drills and goals and how Barrett Cunningham pretended to fall when he scored. I nod along, laughing when I’m supposed to, but my mind drifts back to the man on the ice.
To the way his eyes widened.
To the ghost of a smile that might’ve meant recognition.
Tomorrow, he’ll see us again.
Up close.
And there’ll be nowhere left to hide.
I glance down at my son—his wild hair, the curve of his grin—and my chest tightens with equal parts pride and dread. Because ready or not, Harrison Meers is about to find out the truth.
And I have no idea what happens after that.
CHAPTER THREE
HARRISON
There’s nothing worse than being off your game before the puck even drops. It’s not like I haven’t played through distractions before—injuries, fights, breakups, hangovers. Hell, even a minor concussion once (not my best idea). But this? This is different.
This is the kind of distraction that doesn’t go away with tape and adrenaline.
Because all night last night, I kept replaying that half-second after practice yesterday. The flash of honey-brown hair at the end of the tunnel, the familiar tilt of her chin, the way my chest did that stupid, traitorouslurchlike it recognized something before my brain could catch up.
Harper Richardson.
Jesus, even thinking her name feels like opening an old wound.
It’s been over a decade, but some ghosts refuse to stay buried.
I drag my stick across the bench, running my thumb along the grip just to keep my hands busy. The locker room hums around me—guys laughing, music thumping, the usual pre-scrimmage chaos—but I’m not hearing any of it. I’m still stuck on that split second, trying to convince myself it was her when I know realistically it couldn’t be.
She’s not here. She wasn’t at the arena yesterday. Hell, she’s not even on this side of the Mississippi. She has her own life. Her own career. Probably some husband somewhere whose teeth are all real and who doesn’t make a living getting slammed into the boards for fun.
And yet…
“Yo, Meers,” Barrett calls from across the room, snapping me out of it. “You alive over there or meditating on your shot angles again?”
“Just visualizing the win,” I lie easily, grabbing my water bottle.
He grins. “Visualize faster. You know the birds will be coming in hot today and Dex Foster will try to chew you up and spit you out.”
I smirk, but it feels hollow. I can handle the Chicago Red Tails. Those guys are like family to me anyhow. Playing with them is fun. I can handle Dex Foster and his strong defense and aggressive forecheck. I can even handle the fact that this scrimmage is being broadcast live for some pre-season promo thing. What Ican’tseem to handle is a pair of familiar brown eyes that don’t even exist in this city but are constantly staring back at me in my mind.
The equipment manager, Isaac, smacks my shoulder pads as he walks by. “You good, Meers?”
