Casey, minutes old. Her face red and scrunched, eyes squeezed shut, one tiny fist pressed against Sadie's bare chest. Sadie's hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, her hospital gown askew, but she was smiling. Looking at Casey like she was the entire world. Like nothing else mattered except that tiny, perfect human in her arms.
I should have been in that photo.
I should have been the one she looked at like that.
I should have been there to cut the umbilical cord, to hold Casey for the first time, to watch Sadie transform into a mother right before my eyes.
Instead, I'd been… what? Playing hockey? Celebrating a win at some bar? Sleeping with someone whose name I couldn't even remember now?
My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, hot and furious and unstoppable.
I sat on my front step at seven in the morning, still wearing yesterday's clothes, and sobbed over a photo of a daughter I'd never known existed.
By the time I pulled myself together, it was nearly eight. I had my appointment with Dr. Reyes at nine, which meant I needed to shower and look less of a disaster.
I tucked the photo carefully into my wallet, right behind my driver's license, where I could see it every time I opened it. Then I gathered the rest of the documents and brought them inside.
The shower helped. The hot water beat against my shoulders, loosening muscles I hadn't realized were knotted with tension. I stood under the spray until it ran cold, then forced myself to get out and face the day.
My reflection in the mirror looked like hell. Red-rimmed eyes, jaw dark with stubble, exhaustion written in every line of my face. Someone who'd had their world turned upside down.
Which, I supposed, I had.
I threw on jeans and a Shadow Wolves hoodie without thinking, then caught sight of Casey's matching one hanging on the hook by my door. The one she'd left here last week after staying over while Sadie worked late.
My chest squeezed tight.
She had the same one. We matched. Father and daughter matching hoodies, and I hadn't even known.
My phone buzzed. I'd been ignoring multiple messages.
Beck:
You good? Missed morning skate.
Holly:
Please tell me you didn't do anything stupid.
Coach Martin:
Need to talk. Call me.
Nothing from Sadie.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and grabbed my keys. I had forty-five minutes to get to Dr. Reyes's office, and I couldn't be late. Not today.
I arrived fifteen minutes early and sat in my truck in the parking lot, gripping the steering wheel and trying to figure out what I was going to say.
Hey, Doc. Found out I have a six-year-old daughter. Also, I might have destroyed any chance of being with the woman I love. How was your weekend?
Christ.
I finally forced myself out of the truck and into the building. The receptionist's eyes widened when she saw me, her professional smile faltering for just a second.
Yeah. I looked that bad.
"Mr. Henley," she said carefully. "Dr. Reyes is ready for you. You can go right in."
