Chapter 14
14
JONAS
She’s gone. The kind of gone you can’t argue with—an empty office, no more toiletries hogging my bathroom sink, no more shoes by the door. Not to mention, a goodbye text that is more of an apology than a farewell.
At dinner, Jace pushes her spaghetti around the plate, her fork making a slow, sad scrape against the dish. Lukas doesn’t even pretend to eat.
I sit there, staring at my own untouched plate. Spaghetti night used to be a tradition. Now it’s just another thing Alexa took with her when she left.
By the time the kids are in bed—Jace curled up with her stuffed bear, Lukas clutching his hockey stick like it’s a lifeline—I’m sitting in the dark, phone in hand, rereading her last message:
I’m so sorry.
Sorry. Like that fixes anything. Like it explains the empty chair at the table or the way my son has ditched his hockey practice chart, like it wasn’t once something that made him shake with excitement
The kids leave their dinner untouched that first night. Not even garlic bread, which usually starts a small war at the table, gets touched. I wrap up the leftovers out of habit, though I know they'll just sit in the fridge until they grow mold.
Frenchie arrives early the next morning, taking in the situation with practiced efficiency. She's seen this before—the aftermath of Genny. She knows what to do.
"We will start with breakfast," she announces, already pulling out pans. "Then school, then practice, oui ? Normal schedule."
Normal. Like anything about this is normal.
I head to morning practice, leaving Frenchie to handle school drop-off. The locker room is quieter than usual—everyone's seen the news, read the stories, heard the rumors. No one mentions it directly. Hockey players know when to keep their distance.
Pre-game warm-ups feel off. Actually, everything feels off. Coach pulls me aside after I miss an easy pass for the third time.
"Whatever's going on, Knight, you need to get it together. Team's counting on you."
He's right. I know he's right. But knowing doesn't translate to doing, and by the first period, it's clear this isn't going to be my night.
Vince finds me between periods, his ubiquitous tablet in hand. "We need to address the media speculation. Give me something to work with here."
"No comment."
"Jonas—"
"I said no comment," I snap, staring down at him in a way that causes him to take a step back. And then another.
The second period goes worse than the first. I'm too slow, too distracted, too busy noticing the empty seats where Alexa should be sitting. Coach benches me for the third. Can’t say I blame him.
"Get your head straight," he says with uncharacteristic patience. "Take tomorrow off if you need it."
I don't need time off. I don’t want time off. I just need to get my shit together. I can handle the juggling act of being a single dad and a professional athlete. I managed before Alexa came on the scene. I can manage now.
At home, Frenchie's note details the day—Lukas struggled with homework, Jace refused her usual snack, both in bed by eight. Standard information, practical updates. No color coding. No stickers. No personal touches.
My phone lights up with messages—Coach wanting to discuss tomorrow's practice, Vince with more PR concerns, the team owner checking in. I ignore them all.
The house feels wrong. Not just quiet—we've done quiet before—but off-balance. Like someone rearranged all the furniture two inches to the left. Everything's where it should be, but at the same time, it’s not.
Frenchie institutes new routines. Different from Alexa's, different from Genny's, different from before. Maybe that's better. Clean slate and all that.
"The children need consistency," she explains. "Structure."
She's right. I know she's right. But knowing doesn't make it easier to watch Jace bravely try to dress herself in the morning, or see Lukas pretend he has no trouble tying his own shoes.
Watching them pretend to be okay is the hardest part.
My phone buzzes with another message from Coach:
Take the weekend. Sort it out. Be ready Monday.
I should argue. Should insist I'm fine. Should prove I can handle this.
Instead, I just reply:
Understood.
Because sometimes that's all you can do.
The next week, Lukas quits hockey. No drama, no tears—he just hands me his practice gear and says he's done. Coming from a four-year-old who's been skating since he could walk, it hits hard.
"Are you sure, buddy?" I ask. "Coach Mike says you're getting really good at?—"
"I don't want to anymore." He doesn’t look at me. "Can I do art class instead?"
Art. Like Alexa did with them many times.
In spite of myself, there’s really no hiding my distraction. I'm missing passes I should be able to make in my sleep, showing up late to meetings, going through the motions without focus. Coach pulls me aside after I blow an easy drill.
"Take a few more days," he suggests. Not an offer—more like an order.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. And that's okay. But I need you back. The real Jonas Knight."
At home, Frenchie reports that Jace is having a rough night. Third time this week. We thought she'd outgrown nightmares, but apparently not.
I find her curled up in my bed again that night, clutching her old baby blanket. "I had a ‘mare, Daddy," she whispers.
"Want to tell me about it?"
She shakes her head. "Can I sleep here?"
On my way to get her water, I pass Genny's photo in the hallway. From one of her last days, smiling like she knew something I didn't.
That's when it hits me—the anger. Not at Alexa, exactly, though that's there too. But at Genny. For dying. For leaving me to handle moments like this alone.
"You said it would be worth it," I tell her photo. "You said letting them love again was worth the risk."
The photo just smiles back.
Vince is waiting at the practice facility the next morning. "The team's concerned."
"The team's always concerned."
"Your performance is suffering."
"It's pre-season."
"It's more than that." He hands me a tablet showing my stats. "These numbers aren't you."
“Since when is PR concerned about my stats?” I snap.
Regardless, he’s right. Nothing about this is me—the distraction, the way I'm letting personal issues affect professional performance. That's not how I operate.
Lukas is in the backyard when I get home, methodically destroying his practice charts. Not in anger—just systematically ripping them up like he's erasing evidence.
"I can make new ones," he says when he catches me watching. "Different ones. For art class."
The PR team wants to discuss "image management." The coaches want to talk about "focus and commitment." The team owner mentions "contract considerations."
I get it. I do. A professional athlete can't let personal drama affect their game. Can't let family issues spill onto the ice. Can't let heartbreak translate to missed goals.
But watching my kids pretend they're fine and then proving they aren’t—that's the real performance issue. Lukas quitting the thing he loves most. Jace's nightmares returning. Both of them trying so hard to be okay that it's almost worse than if they weren't.
Coach benches me for the next practice game.
"You're one of our best players," he says frankly. "But right now? You're a liability."
He's not wrong.
The team psychologist offers to meet with the kids. The PR team suggests a "family healing" narrative. Everyone has solutions for problems they don't understand.
That night, after another nightmare, another day of pretending we're all fine, I find myself in the kitchen staring at Genny's photo again.
"This is your fault," I tell her. Not because it is, but because sometimes you need someone to blame. "You left and now look what’s happening."
The photo doesn't answer.
But maybe that's the point. Maybe sometimes there are no answers. No solutions.
Maybe that's what rock bottom really is—not the dramatic crash, but the quiet recognition that some things just fucking suck.
And all you can do is keep showing up. For practice. For your kids. For whatever.
Including when showing up means admitting you're not okay.