I walked down the familiar hallway to his office. The door was open, and Dr. Reyes looked up from his desk as I entered. His expression shifted from welcoming to concerned in the space of a heartbeat.
"Easton. Come in, sit down." He stood, gesturing to the chair I always took. "What happened?"
I sat. Stared at my hands. Tried to figure out where to start.
"I have a daughter," I said finally. "Six years old. I found out last night."
Dr. Reyes was quiet for a long moment. Then, carefully: "Casey?"
My head snapped up. "How did you—"
"You talk about her constantly." A small smile touched his lips. "The way you light up when you mention her. The way you analyze her hockey form with such pride. I wondered, but…" He trailed off. "How are you feeling?"
How was I feeling?
"Furious," I said. "Betrayed, grief-stricken. Like someone reached into my chest and tore out six years of memories I should have."
"Tell me what happened."
So, I did. All of it. The realization came when I looked at Casey's photos. Confronting Holly. The fight with Sadie. The birth certificate, with "Unknown" where my name should be. The photo I now carry in my wallet.
Dr. Reyes listened without interrupting, his expression understanding, taking in everything I said and everything I didn't say.
When I finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"You're angry at Sadie," he said finally.
"Furious," I repeated. "She kept Casey from me."
"Did she?" Dr. Reyes leaned forward slightly. "Or did circumstances keep you apart?"
I bristled. "She should have tried harder."
"Should she?" He held my gaze. "Walk me through what actually happened. Not what you wished happened. What actually did."
I gritted my teeth. "She called. She texted. I didn't answer because my phone had broken, and I got a new number."
"Which she didn't know."
"No."
"So, from her perspective, she reached out to tell you she was pregnant, and you ignored her."
"I didn't know."
"I understand that." Dr. Reyes's voice was gentle but firm. "But she didn't. She was twenty-four years old, pregnant, and the father wasn't responding. What would you have done in that situation?"
I wanted to argue, but the question hung in the air.
What would I have done?
"You'd have fucked it up, just like everything else."
My father's voice was always there in the back of my mind, waiting for moments like this.
I could still see him in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, tie loosened, glass of scotch dangling from his fingers. I'd been sixteen, maybe seventeen. I'd missed the winning shot in a crucial game.
"You think you're good enough for the NHL? You can't even handle pressure."
