Chapter 22
In the Stands
JONAH
The cold rink air stings the nostrils as I grab my bag, half asleep, and throw myself into autopilot: tape my stick, snap on pads, yank my skates tight. My left hip throbs from our last scrimmage, but whatever. Pain’s part of it.
Zoe’s fucking leaving for Seattle. I’m happy for her but not for me. Except I have to get happy about it because this is her dream, and she deserves that every single thing she’s wants in this world and more. Eli’s going to miss her like hell. And me, well… I can’t even think about it.
But all I am is her employer, and Eli’s part of her job. She’s got to live a life for herself, and not us. Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, I’ll start to believe it.
But besides that, I’m feeling good. I got a letter from Gwen’s lawyer, probably some ambulance chaser, demanding his client get full custody of Eli, $25,000 monthly child support, and $2.25 million in back child support commensurate with my income.
It sounded bad, but when I called my family lawyer, she said it was actually a good thing. The courts will smell her scam from a thousand miles away. My case is strong: I’m Eli’s biological father with ample resources to care for him, and Rosie stated I take custody of him in her will.
Coach is “motivational” today, which means barking orders. The main objective: prove we’re not hot garbage before next week’s game.
Once I’m skating on the ice: heaven. Glide, dig, turn. Let the emptiness swallow the noise of the upcoming hearing. Heart rate climbs, muscles burn, everything sharp and simple. I zero in on puck management, block out the rest.
Except when I round the bend, there’s movement in the stands.
I blink—once, twice, thinking it’s a mirage.
But no. There’s Eli. Bundled up: puffed-out coat, blue jeans, mittens, that ridiculous Trout team cap barely hanging onto his ears.
Beside him: Zoe, grinning. The two of them smack in the front row, and my heart flat-out skips.
Eli has the day off school for a teacher’s workday, and Zoe brought him here.
And he’s watching me. Pinning me down with those ice-blue eyes, head cocked, curiosity simmering. He points, says something to Zoe. Even from here, I see her wide smile as she answers, her hand nudging his shoulder. He leans forward.
God. I could stand here and get mowed down by a freight train, and it wouldn’t hit harder than that kid’s stare.
Carter says, “Is that your family?”
I blink, the answer not immediately obvious to me.
And holy fuck, it is. I have a family.
I smile. “Yeah. That’s my son. That’s my girl.”
I give a little wave—small, but Eli catches it, eyes widening as he waves back. I nearly choke on air. A hot and tight lump crawls up my throat.
Coach roars. “Holt! Head in the game!”
That snaps me back. I nearly drop my stick, then shoot a death glare back at Brooks, who’s grinning because he caught the whole thing.
Every cut, every check, every desperate chase for the puck is for Eli.
For that look he gave me. For the chance to not be the deadbeat scumbag Gwen and some of the gossip rags made me out to be.
I block shots that should’ve been goals.
Knock passes off course that would’ve flown past me a week ago.
There’s a play—breakaway, blue line to go—where I outrun Brooks, the first time all season.
The bench erupts, guys slamming sticks, Coach actually grins.
I peek at the stands whenever I can. Eli is practically off his seat. Zoe’s clapping, shouting something I can’t hear. They’re both—fuck, they’re both proud.
That’s it. That’s the only win I need.
Practice ends with Coach in a good mood, hallelujah, which means he swears at us half as much in the locker room. He taps my helmet as I skate off. “Nice hustle, Holt. Keep skating with that motivation, you might actually do something out there.”
The adrenaline’s still surging, drowning out even the old aches. I don’t know if I’m more exhausted or high from it, but it doesn’t matter.
I de-gear and jog out to the side entrance where the families usually wait post-practice. There they are—my accidental family. Eli with a Lego catalogue in hand, Zoe balancing two giant hot chocolates. She sees me first, nudges Eli, and the kid straightens.
I go for nonchalance, leaning against the plexiglass. “You catch that last drill?”
His smile is tiny, but real. “Yeah. You didn’t suck as much today.”
Zoe snorts. “High praise. Take it.”
I do.
Eli hands over the catalog. “They have the Millennium Falcon, too. But we have to finish the Death Star first.”
My heart squeezes. “We do, buddy.”
He nods, serious, and I get that look—like maybe I’m not the villain in his story anymore.
We drive home in our separate cars, and the second Zoe parks, Eli’s out the door, backpack slapping against his side as he barrels for the house. “Bathroom!” he yells, which is the only warning I get before he disappears through the garage door.
It would be funny, except my stomach drops when I glance across the street and brown Buick in the neighbors’ driveway.
Gwen’s car.
A red filter drops over my vision. My first instinct is to march over and demand what the hell she thinks she’s doing—spying on us? Gathering intel for her next court filing? Poisoning the well with gossip?
My fingers curl tight enough around the duffel handle to leave imprints. I start for the curb, already rehearsing lines in my head—some combination of “stay away from my kid” and “if you pull any more shit, I’ll bury you in paperwork.” Maybe I’ll even keep my voice down.
But Zoe’s faster. She grabs my elbow, her grip soft but unmovable. “Whoa,” she says, “don’t.”
I try to shake her off with a jerk, but she holds steady and plants herself in my path. “Jonah, seriously. This is exactly what she wants.”
“Which is what, exactly?” My voice comes out a growl.
“To get you to do or say something she can use against you.” Zoe’s eyes narrow. “Go inside with your son.”
“Zoe—”
She leans in, lowering her voice to shield the words from any nosy window-watchers. “If you go over there, you’re the hothead with anger issues. You’re feeding her narrative, Jonah.”
The sick part is, she’s right. I know it, even as I stare past Zoe’s shoulder at the car. If I don’t get my shit together, she wins.
I feel something sour bubble up in my throat. “So what am I supposed to do?”
Zoe shrugs. “Talk to the neighbor politely after she’s gone.”
My jaw ticks, but the fight drains out of me. I glance past Zoe at the car one more time. I want to hurl something through the windshield, but I just lift my chin and stare her down for a long, silent second.
“Jonah.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go inside.”
I breathe out, then turn toward the house and start walking. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.” Then she reaches over and threads her fingers through mine, and we go inside holding hands, not talking about it.