Cut Off (Beaver County #3)

Chapter 1

Invisible Ties

JONAH

Every push, every stride, every goddamn breath on the ice is a struggle.

Five months into the hockey season and almost three months with the Boise Trout, and I’m not just drowning—I’m six feet under.

An NHL star going supernova: that’s the Jonah Holt story playing out in real time, and nothing I’m doing to stop it is working.

Coach Barrymore’s whistle pierces the air, and my ears are still ringing when his voice booms across the arena. “Holt! What the hell was that?”

I don’t answer because I have none. I just missed another defensive assignment—my third today. I was a star center for Colorado, but as a defenseman for Boise, I’m failing so spectacularly they should sell tickets to watch the train wreck. And actually, they have.

“You call that defense?” Coach’s veins pop on his forehead like he might stroke out. “My niece moves faster than you, and she’s crawling.”

A few of the younger guys snicker. I keep my eyes on the ice and my mouth shut. No point arguing when he’s right.

Brooks Kingston, my childhood best friend, sister’s fiancé, and one reason I’m even on this team, skates by with a what-the-fuck look on his face. That cuts deeper than Coach’s shouting. “Get it together, man.” His voice is low. “Denver’s gonna chew you up.”

“No kidding.” In two days, my old team’ll be itching to take me down and watch me fail. The guys I won a championship with two years ago will see what I’ve become: a has-been at thirty.

“Again!” Coach blows his whistle, and we reset the drill.

I push harder this time, legs burning, lungs screaming. But my timing’s off. I’m a step behind, then two, then I’m sprawled on the ice after colliding with Carter, another defenseman.

“Jesus Christ!” Coach throws his clipboard across the bench. It cracks against the wall and falls in pieces. “That’s it. Everyone hit the showers. Not you, Holt.”

Fanfuckingtastic.

The guys avoid eye contact as they skate off… all except Brooks, who gives me a small head shake before disappearing down the tunnel.

I stand in front of Coach, still breathing hard, sweat slicking my face.

He waits until we’re alone before he tears in.

“What the hell is going on with you?” His voice is quiet now, which is worse than the yelling.

“You know what I had to promise to get you on this team mid-season? The strings I pulled?”

“I know, Coach.”

“Then why are you playing like you’ve never seen a hockey stick before? You’re a goddamn liability out there.”

The truth stings, but what can I say? That I haven’t slept over three hours a night since I moved to Boise? That burning resentment is eating my guts? That hockey—the only thing I’ve ever been good at—doesn’t feel right anymore?

The Colorado Blizzards drafted a new hot shot, and I was informed he was taking my position as center, and I’d be moving to defense.

I put my foot down, telling the Blizzards I’d renegotiate my contract.

Their response? “Go ahead.” On the losing end of my ultimatum, I took what I could get when Brooks and Coach Barrymore got me onto the Boise Trout.

At least it was on my terms, but guess what position?

Yeah, defenseman.

Too bad I suck ass as one.

I swore up and down I’d nail the position, that they wouldn’t be sorry, and they believed me. I even believed me. At this moment, I’m nailing shit-all nothing, and I’m pretty sure they have buyer’s remorse.

“I’ll be better tomorrow,” I mutter, the same bullshit promise I’ve been making for weeks.

Coach steps closer, jabbing a finger into my chest. “One more performance like that, Holt, and you’re benched. I don’t care what your contract says or who your friends are. This is my team, and I won’t watch you drag it down because you can’t get your head out of your ass.”

I nod, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might shatter.

“Go home. Take tomorrow off. Figure your shit out.” He turns away, effectively dismissing me. “And Holt? You’re running out of chances. I mean it.”

The locker room’s empty by the time I get there—a small mercy. I shower fast, the hot water doing nothing to ease the knot between my shoulder blades. My NHL dream is slipping away—too young to retire, too old for a fresh start. Washed up after five years at the top. What a joke.

I need to get away from the city and clear my head on my day off tomorrow, so I head a half hour away from Boise to my home in the small town of Dickens, where I grew up and my parents live.

The drive is a blur of gray slush and afternoon daylight—Idaho on the first of March is a mix of melting snow and rain.

Well, unless another snowstorm hits, which can happen anytime through April.

I pull into the driveway of my place—too big for a bachelor's house, too cold for a home.

I bought my Boise penthouse condo and this place when I signed with the Trout, thinking maybe a change of scenery and position would fix whatever’s broken in me.

Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, a pool, gym, theater room, a kitchen I never use, and a big yard for a dog I don’t have.

All it’s done is amplify how alone I really am.

The hollow echo of my footsteps follows me through the foyer, past the living room with furniture I didn’t pick out, into the kitchen where I shrug off my coat and shoes and grab a beer from the fridge.

The first sip tastes bitter. I should eat something, but the thought of food makes my stomach turn.

My phone buzzes.

Brooks: You good?

Me: I’m fine.

A lie so practiced I almost believe it myself. I’m about to crack a second beer when the doorbell rings. Maybe it’s my dad coming to deliver another pep talk? Except it can’t be because he and Mom are out of town. I check the security camera on my phone and roll my eyes.

Two police officers stand on my porch.

Fuck. Did my neighbor call the cops again? It’s always something—too many cars parked on the street. Music at the pool. My motorcycle revved too loud. Yeah, I like to party. Who doesn’t? They need to get a life already.

With a groan, I wrench the door open. “What now?”

I don’t know either officer—I hadn’t lived in Dickens for years before I moved back three months ago, but the older one, gray at the temples with tired eyes that probably have seen too much, steps forward. “Jonah Holt?”

I nod. “Yep. It can’t be a noise complaint—I haven’t even been here in weeks.”

“No, sir.”

Relief washes through me, followed immediately by confusion. “Then why are you here?” I’m pretty sure the team assistant paid my speeding ticket from last month.

Shit. I hope she did.

The officers exchange a look I can’t read. The younger one shifts on his feet while his partner checks a tablet he’s holding. “Mr. Holt, do you know a Rosie Anders?”

The name hits me like a body check to the boards. Rosie—my first love, vanished without explanation ten years ago, ripping my guts out in the process.

Hell, yeah, I know her.

“Rosie?” I manage, my voice cracking like a teenager. “I haven’t spoken to her in almost a decade.”

The younger officer’s eyes flash pity. “She was in an accident two months ago.”

My mind struggles to process his words. Two months? Accident? “What happened to her?”

“Sir, perhaps we should discuss this inside.”

“No.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “Tell me now. Is she—” I can’t even say the word.

The older officer nods once, confirming what I already knew from their faces. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Holt.”

A strange numbness spreads through my chest. Rosie. Dead. For two months. While I’ve been playing a game and feeling sorry for myself, she’s been... gone.

She walked out on me—on us—and I’ve never forgotten it. Now, I don’t even get to see her, get closure, or say goodbye?

“I don’t understand,” I say finally.

The older one clears his throat. “It took the authorities some time to connect your association to her.”

“Why are you telling me this now? What does this have to do with me?”

The officers exchange another one of those looks that freezes my blood.

“Mr. Holt,” the older one urges, “can we please come inside?”

“I guess, sure.” I open the door and usher them to the couch. On autopilot, I do what my mother taught me to do with company and ask, “Want a drink? Beer? Water?”

“No, thank you.” The officers wave toward a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Okay.” I can tell this is bad, but what can be worse than Rosie being dead?

Once I’ve sat, the senior officer says, “Did you ever hear from Ms. Anders, even once?”

“No. I tried for a while, sent texts, emails, smoke signals, but after no responses, I gave up.” I fold my arms, something twinging in my gut.

He continues, “Did you stay in contact with any of her family or friends?”

“Not really.” Where the hell are they going with this? “Why?”

“Did you know Ms. Anders had a child? A son?”

That twinge becomes a stab. I swallow hard, saying, “No. How old is he?”

“He’s nine,” the junior officer says.

Every muscle in my body goes tense. Nine!

The senior officer’s eyes meet mine. “According to a letter written by Ms. Anders, you’re the father of her son, Eli. He’s at the station here in Dickens.”

The world stops.

Everything—the patter of rain on the windows, the muffled sound of traffic on the street, my own heartbeat—suspends in time. It’s a good thing I’m seated because if I weren’t, my legs would give out. I grip the arm of the chair.

“What?” The word comes out as a whisper.

“You have a son, Mr. Holt. Eli Anders.”

A son?

“That’s impossible,” I say, but as the denial leaves my lips, I’ve already done the math. Ten years since Rosie left. Nine-year-old son. Jesus Christ.

“We’d like to collect a DNA sample to confirm,” the younger officer says.

“Right, of course.” My mind races through a fog of shock. For nine years, I’ve had a child I never knew existed. A boy with my blood—half me—who I’ve never met, who’s been without his father his entire life. I manage to say, “Where has he been for the last two months?”

“With a foster family.”

A foster family. While I’ve been living in two empty places, my son—my son—has been with strangers.

The officer continues, “But he ran away from the home and was located here in Dickens.”

I scrape my hand through my hair. “Why wouldn’t she have told me?” I mumble, numb. She left without a word. Never told me she was pregnant. Never tried to contact me. And now what? I’m supposed to just go pick him up and bring him home, like nothing?

“Sir,” the older officer interrupts. “I understand this is a shock. But right now, there’s a little boy at the police station who just lost his mother, and according to her documentation, you’re his father.”

The magnitude of this failure—worse than any on the ice—crushes me. A boy who just lost his mother is now stuck with a stranger—me. The most fucked-up person in town at the moment.

“This can’t be real,” I whisper, even as my heart knows the truth.

The officers wait silently as thoughts ricochet through my mind, one after the next. What night did it happen? Is that why she left? Did I wear a condom?

God dammit—it doesn’t matter. At that time, I was the only one Rosie was with. If this kid’s nine, he’s mine.

I jump up, heading toward the door, grabbing my keys from the foyer console table.

The officers follow me, and when I open the door, one says, “You’re going to need some shoes.”

I look down to see I’m in socks. “Right.” I blink. “And a coat.”

“And a baseball cap.” The older one adds. “It’s not unusual to see press at the station.”

“Right.” Damn—when the press gets wind of this, it’s going to be a complete shitshow. The longer this stays under wraps, the better.

I turn mechanically and walk back into the kitchen, a storm roaring in my head as I try to remember where I took off my shoes.

After I find them, my hands shake as I tie my laces. Ten years ago, Rosie Anders took my heart when she left without explanation. Now she’s gone for good, leaving behind the one piece of herself I never knew existed.

And he’s waiting for me.