Chapter 3
The Station
JONAH
“Asocial worker wants to talk to you, Mr. Holt.” The older officer—Stevens, I think he said—glances at me in the rearview mirror. The pity in his eyes makes me want to punch something.
I manage a nod, inhaling, and damn, it reeks in this cruiser.
My reflection stares back at me in the window—pale with hollow eyes and a twitching jaw. I still can’t believe it.
I have a son.
Nine years. Nine fucking years I’ve been a father without knowing it. First steps. First words. First day of school. Gone.
And Rosie. Jesus Christ, Rosie.
I close my eyes, and there she is—her wild copper hair and that smile that could light up an arena. The woman who upped and left town one afternoon, taking my heart and apparently my unborn child with her.
“Did they say—” I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “Did they say how she died?”
From the passenger seat, the younger officer turns around. “Car accident, sir. Outside of Portland. Rainy night. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Each word is a stab to the heart. Rosie died alone on some highway.
She must’ve been terrified, frantic. She was probably thinking about the boy.
Worried for him. Scared about his future.
Did she regret running off, not telling me about him?
God, I can’t believe she did this. Not just to me, but worse, to our son.
Our son. The words still feel foreign in my mind.
“What’s he like?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Stevens meets my eyes in the mirror again. “Seems quiet. Smart. Angry, which is understandable given the circumstances.”
I wonder what Rosie told him about me. Did she paint me as the bad guy? The hockey player who didn’t want a kid? Or worse—did she tell him nothing at all? Is Eli facing a total stranger tonight?
Wait.
He came to Dickens. So he’s coming for me, and that thought settles my nerves a little.
My hand finds the old penny on a chain under my shirt—the one Gramps gave to me before my first NHL game that he’d always worn for luck. I’ve kept it close for fifteen years, and right now, it’s the only thing stopping a hole from burning through my chest.
“Does he know anything about me?” I ask.
“You’ll need to speak with the social worker about that, sir,” Stevens says. Professional distance. I get it. This isn’t his mess to sort out.
So… what kid stuff do I need to buy? A furnished bedroom.
Food. Crackers and juice boxes. Oh, and Fruit Loops!
Yeah, kids like Fruit Loops. And Disney.
One hundred percent I’ll order the Disney channel.
Does he like Elmo? No, that’s way too young.
What do nine-year-old boys watch and play with?
Video games for sure, but which ones? I have tons but Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto are hardly appropriate for kids.
Before I realize it, the cruiser turns into the police station parking lot, and my stomach drops like I’m in free fall.
The place is empty, Thank God, but I pull my baseball cap down on my head as we pull in, praying no one recognizes me.
The last thing I need is “HOCKEY STAR DISCOVERS SECRET SON” splashed across tomorrow’s pages.
“We can take you in through the back,” Stevens says, though no press is here… at least not yet.
“Thanks.” It’s the first thing that’s gone right today.
We go inside through a back entrance, my legs heavy.
“This way, Mr. Holt.” Stevens leads me down an empty corridor lined with offices. I keep my head down, needing all my focus to just put one foot in front of the other.
“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask as we approach a door marked ‘Conference Room 3.’ “Before I meet him?”
Stevens hesitates. “Be patient. He’s been through hell these past few months. He just lost his mother, and foster care isn’t easy on a kid.”
Foster care. The words hit me like a sucker punch again, and I’m overwhelmed with guilt.
“I’m not good with kids,” I say, panic rising in my throat. “I have no idea how to—”
“Here we are.” Stevens cuts off my spiral. “The social worker, Ms. Hernandez, is inside with Eli. She’ll walk you through the next steps.”
Next steps. Like there’s some kind of playbook for this. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself like I would before a big game. But this isn’t hockey. This is real life—my son’s life—and I’m about to let him down before we even meet.
“I need a minute,” I say, and Stevens nods, stepping back to give me space.
I close my eyes, willing my heartbeat to slow. What would my dad say right now? Probably a speech about stepping up and taking responsibility. But Dad’s a better man than I am, and he had years to prepare for fatherhood. I’ve had twenty-five minutes.
When the door opens, a woman with tightly pinned gray hair in a muted pantsuit emerges.
“Mr. Holt? I’m Lily Hernandez from Family Services.
” When she approaches, the officers bust it down the hall.
She extends her hand, which I shake as she assesses me with her eyes.
“Eli’s inside. We found him at the bus station, alone.
He knows you’re his biological father, and he took the bus to find you. ”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. He got on a bus, alone, and came all this way for me. “Has anyone hurt him? Is he sick or anything?”
“He’s fine.” Her voice is reassuring.
But my mind won’t stop. “Does he need new shoes or clothes?”
“His clothing is fine, and you don’t have to worry about things like that today. Your only goal right now is to walk into that room and meet your son.”
I nod, but white spots appear in my vision.
She touches my shoulder. “You okay, Mr. Holt? You’re looking pale, and it’s important you hold it together as best as possible when you meet Eli. Do you need another minute?”
Time to man up. “No, I want to see him. I want to meet my son.”
“Yes, sure. Let me go in first and prepare him.” She disappears back into the room, leaving me with my heart hammering against my ribs.
When the door opens again, and I step into the room, time stops.
He’s small, hunched in a chair too big for him, auburn hair—my hair—falling across his forehead. His eyes are red, tired, and face is set in a defiant scowl I recognize from my own childhood photos. Those eyes—Rosie’s shape, but my exact shade of blue—lock onto mine.
The recognition is instant and devastating. I don’t need a DNA test to tell me that this is my son. My flesh and blood. A child who’s been orphaned by his mother’s death and abandoned by a father who never knew he existed.
I step into the room, and everything else fades away—the social worker, the officers hovering by the door, the beige walls of the conference room. All I can see is this boy, this perfect combination of Rosie and me, this living proof that part of our first love survived even after she left.
My vision blurs as emotion clogs my throat. “Hi, Eli,” I manage.
He doesn’t respond, he just stares at me with my own blue eyes.
“You…” I swallow hard. “You look like your mom.” It’s true, but he also looks like me, and the combination knocks the wind out of me.
“I know,” he says, his words precise.
“Is it okay if I sit down?”
Eli shrugs. “I don’t care. If you want.”
He studies my every move as I take a seat across from him. Hope flickers in my chest. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“Yeah, I guess. I wanted to tell you something.”
“Something about your mom?”
Eli’s eyes never leave mine. “No. And don’t talk about her.”
“Sorry.” I take a breath and note the topic of Rosie is off limits for the time being. “What did you want to tell me?”
“That nobody’s telling you the truth.”
“Telling me the truth about what?”
“You’re the worst defenseman in the whole league. If I had a grandpa, he’d be tougher out there than you.”
I have to hold back a laugh. The kid’s right, I’ve got to give him that.
But when that passes, I fixate on the mention of a grandpa he doesn’t have, the family he’s been denied.
My dad would’ve adored him, spoiled him, and celebrated every birthday and Christmas.
“You do have a grandpa, a grandma too, and they’re going to be so excited to meet you. ”
“My grandpa is dead.” Eli’s face is stone-hard.
He’s obviously referring to Rosie’s father, who died when Rosie was young. Eli probably doesn’t know Rosie’s mother because Rosie stopped speaking to that nasty woman years ago.
I can’t help myself when I whisper, “You have more grandparents, and they’re pretty great.”
Eli shakes his head, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about my family. It hurts like hell, but I get it.
“Eli,” Ms. Hernandez says gently. “Remember what we talked about? Mr. Holt didn’t know about you until today. This is difficult for everyone.”
“I’m still learning defense after being a center.” I lean into the one topic he seems to want to discuss.
“You sucked as a center too. Didn’t catch rebounds. Iffy passer.” He crosses his arms and continues to stare me down.
Damn.
“Eli.” Ms. Hernandez is more firm this time. “That’s enough.”
The social worker wrings her hands, and the officers exchange uncomfortable glances. But all I can focus on is Eli—this wounded, furious little boy.
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words inadequate but all I have. “I’m so sorry you had to come all this way to tell me. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you. If I’d known—”
“You would’ve what?” Eli turns back to me, his voice rising. “Come to find us? You were too busy being famous to care about us.”
The accusation drives the air from my lungs. Is that what Rosie thought? That I was too caught up in hockey glory to want a family? The unfairness of it burns, but I swallow the defensive words that spring to my lips. This isn’t about me or my feelings right now.
“You’re wrong about that,” I say instead, keeping my voice steady. “I want you, Eli.”
He looks away again, but not before I catch the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter now.”
But it does matter. It matters more than anything ever has.