Chapter 8
Mind Game
JONAH
The face-off circle feels like my own personal hell.
Brooks crouches across from Zach O’Keefe—the hotshot center who replaced me in Denver.
My gloved hands grip my stick so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.
Sweat trickles down my spine, and all I can think about is how that should be me taking that face-off.
Because that’s what I do, and somewhere out there, my nine-year-old son could be watching me.
The ref drops the puck, and white ice sprays as sticks clash. Brooks wins it, knocking it back to McDavid, and we’re in motion, a blur of blue and gray jerseys streaking across the ice. I push off hard, finding my lane, trying to clear my head of everything except the game.
O’Keefe flies past me, the number 17 on his back, my old number, and it’s a personal insult. Fucking Denver. Fucking O’Keefe. Fucking everything.
I know it’s not his fault. The Blizzards made the business decision, but logic doesn’t stop the white-hot rage bubbling up inside me. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to prove they made a catastrophic mistake.
And more than anything, I want to make Eli proud.
The thought of him triggers a primal instinct in me, and I dig deeper, push harder, and track the puck with laser focus. When Mendez from the Blizzards attempts a cross-ice pass, I’m there, stick extended, to intercept it cleanly.
I knock it to Carter, who speeds up the left wing. For a split second, I feel like a real defenseman, like maybe I can actually do this. Brooks catches my eye as we reset positions, flashing me a thumbs-up, and a dangerous hope flutters in my chest.
The next shift goes even better. I clear a rebound from in front of our goal, execute a perfect hip check that sends another former teammate sprawling, and I even manage a decent shot on goal during a rare offensive push.
Our captain, McDavid, slaps my helmet as we return to the bench. “That’s what I’m talking about, Holt! Keep that shit up!”
Jenkins leans over from further down the bench. “Guess someone decided to play hockey tonight.”
I can’t help but wonder what Eli’s thinking about that sequence. Is he impressed? Or is he still convinced I’m a complete waste?
My parents can’t wait to meet him. Not being able to meet their grandson for the first time seemed to hurt them as much as it hurt me when I couldn’t bring him home.
“Holt! Line change!” Coach Barrymore’s voice yanks me back to reality. I vault over the boards, mentally kicking myself for getting distracted.
Focus.
But my mind’s a runaway train. Zoe moved in last night, and when she changed into that tank top and boy boxers before bed… Jesus. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to see that every day when my body reacted by overheating, blood rushing away from my brain to my dick.
The house isn’t ready for the social worker’s visit on Friday. The painter finished, and today, Eli’s furniture’s being assembled, leaving us tomorrow to decorate. I still need to grab groceries, and I should probably try to convince Coach not to cut me from the roster.
Not to mention, I’m waiting on DNA results that should arrive today.
I know in my bones that Eli’s mine, but the court wants proof, and each hour the results are delayed feels like another year off my life. What if there’s been a mistake? What if Rosie lied? What if Eli isn’t actually my son?
The thought makes my chest seize. Because somehow, in the span of forty-eight hours, I’ve fallen in love with this angry, brilliant, hurting child. The idea of losing him, of him not being mine...
“Holt! Wake the fuck up!”
I blink, now aware that O’Keefe is streaking past me with the puck, unchallenged. I’m standing flat-footed, completely out of position, lost in my own head while the play rushes by.
I pivot, pushing hard to catch up, but it’s too late. O’Keefe threads a perfect pass to Daniels, who one-times it past our goalie. The red light flashes, and the Blizzards’ crowd roars. And we’re down 1-0.
“What the actual fuck was that?” Brooks shouts as I skate back to position. I can’t look at him.
On the bench, Coach has his face buried in his hands, and when he finally looks up, his expression is a thundercloud about to unleash hell.
Somehow I survive until my next shift, but now I’m overthinking everything. My muscles are tight, and my movements are a half-second behind where they should be.
Then I think about Eli.
You suck as a defenseman.
His words echo in my head as I mess up a clearing attempt, sending the puck straight to a Blizzard forward instead of safely up the boards. I scramble to recover, but I’m off-balance, out of position again.
Tanner, my linemate for three seasons in Denver, sees me coming and braces for impact. He knows my tendencies, knows exactly how to use my momentum against me. Instead of absorbing the hit, he sidesteps at the last second, sending me crashing into the boards with bone-jarring force.
The impact knocks the wind from my lungs; pain explodes through my chest, my jaw, and something in my left shoulder feels definitely wrong. Not broken, but not right either.
I push myself up, refusing to stay down. My pride won’t let me, but more than that, I refuse to confirm Eli’s words. I won’t be the pansy he thinks I am.
I rejoin the play, but my body’s screaming in protest. When Mendez comes at me this time, I don’t have the strength or speed to avoid him. He sends me spinning onto my ass, where I slide into our own goal.
The arena goes quiet for a split second, then erupts in a mixture of cheers from Blizzard fans and groans from ours. I want to melt through the ice and disappear.
Coach whistles for a line change, jabbing his finger at me in a clear “get your ass off the ice” signal. I skate to the bench with my head down, cheeks burning.
“Don’t argue. Just sit,” Coach says.
So I do, watching the Trout try to claw back from a two-goal deficit. My shoulder throbs, and an equipment manager hands me an ice pack without meeting my eyes.
If Eli’s watching me, I’ve confirmed everything he already believed.
I force myself to focus on the game. It’s safer and definitely less painful than reflecting on Eli’s cold, assessing eyes.
My gaze drifts to the press box, and I wonder if Zoe’s watching this shitshow. She said she was coming to film some footage for her podcast. Just what I need—my spectacular failure broadcast to her growing subscriber base.
Zoe. Jesus. Another complication I don’t need but can’t seem to avoid.
And when she told me not to fall for her, I laughed like it was the most ridiculous idea in the world, when in reality, I’m terrified by how easily it could happen. How it’s maybe already happening.
Which is why I pushed her away. Because the last thing Eli needs is his father crushing on the woman who’s supposed to care for him. The woman who moved in yesterday. The woman who’ll see me fuck up on and off the ice, trying to figure out how to be a dad while my career circles the drain.
I’m such an ass.
When I finally get back on the ice for the third period, I’m wrecked—physically and mentally.
I manage not to actively sabotage the team, but I’m playing at maybe forty percent capacity.
Every hit sends fresh pain through my shoulder.
Every missed opportunity is another nail in my professional coffin.
By some miracle, we keep it close. With a minute left, we’re only down by one goal. Brooks wins a face-off in the offensive zone, and for a brief, shining moment, I think we might pull off a miracle.
But time expires with the puck close to the Blizzards’ goal, but not in it. Final score: 3-2. Another loss for the Boise Trout.
I brace myself for Coach’s inevitable explosion as we file into the locker room. I expect screaming, threats, maybe even getting cut from the roster on the spot. It would be no less than I deserve.
But when Coach finally approaches me, his face isn’t contorted with rage. It’s calm. Too calm. And there’s pity in his eyes.
“Keep your damn head in the game,” he says. “My office, first thing tomorrow.”
That’s it. No yelling. No cursing. Just the quiet pronouncement of my professional execution.
“Yes, sir.” My voice sounds hollow.
He walks away, and I’m left sitting in my sweaty gear, feeling like I’m drowning on dry land.
“Rough night.” Brooks drops onto the bench beside me. It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“You get the hearing scheduled?”
“Yeah. Next Monday.”
“Good. We’ll all be there.” Brooks claps my good shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. You’ve got a lot going on.”
Understatement of the century.
I shower and change in record time, wincing as I work my injured shoulder into a dress shirt. The team doctor wants me to get it checked out tomorrow, but I already know what he’ll find—nothing broken, just strained from playing like shit.
On my way down the hall, I check my phone.
It’s still blowing up about my secret child: ESPN, the local hacks, even one of those gossip accounts that specializes in pro athletes. I’d throw the damn thing in the river, but I don’t have time to deal with setting up a new phone and number right now.
Three missed calls from Zoe, and a text from Ms. Hernandez, confirming Friday’s visit.
I shove the phone in my pocket and push through the door.
Those things can wait. Tomorrow, I’ll face Coach and whatever punishment he has. I’ll figure out how to keep things strictly professional with Zoe even while she lives under my roof.
Tonight, I’m going to finish getting the house ready.
Because whatever else is broken in my life doesn’t matter if Eli and I don’t work.