Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LUKAS
The sound of skates carving into fresh ice usually clears my head. Today, it barely cuts through the noise.
Coach has us running transition drills at full speed, with line changes sharp and relentless as we cycle through breakouts. My lungs burn from the effort, sweat soaking through the back of my training shirt beneath my pads, but none of it eases the pressure that sits heavy in my chest.
“Move your feet, Devereaux!” Coach barks from the boards.
I push harder automatically, cutting across centre ice before firing the puck towards the far corner. It ricochets off the boards, hard enough to rattle the glass. Usually, that sound satisfies me, but not today; it just echoes.
The rink smells familiar and safe. For years, this place has been the one thing in my life that always made sense. Hockey is simple when everything else isn’t. You work harder than anyone else. You bleed for the team. You keep moving.
But my mind keeps drifting to Félix and his small hand wrapped around mine, and the way he looked up at me, my own eyes staring back at me.
Papa. The word still hits me every time I think about it.
“Jesus Christ,” Ryan mutters as I nearly miss a pass. “Who died?”
I glare at him, collecting the puck again. “Shut up.”
“Sensitive today,” he replies, skating past me with a grin.
Callum watches me from the other side of the drill, though. Observing my every move.
Coach blows the whistle sharply. “Again.”
Groans echo around the rink as we reset positions.
Someone bangs a stick against the boards in protest, while the speakers above the stands pump out AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, which vibrates through the empty arena.
Normally, the mood before an away weekend is light, competitive and loud.
Today I feel like I’m skating through water.
The whistle goes again, and we launch forward. I force myself into it properly this time, muscles taking over where my brain cannot. Crossovers. Turn. Receive the puck. Pass. Sprint. Shoot. Again.
By the end of the drill, my thighs are on fire. Which is good because at least physical pain makes sense.
We finally break for water, and I lean against the boards, dragging air into my lungs as sweat drips down the back of my neck.
“Okay,” Ryan says beside me, pulling off one glove with his teeth. “I can’t listen to this miserable silence anymore. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“That is bullshit,” Mike calls from nearby.
“Maybe he finally got dumped,” someone else offers as a few laughs bounce around the rink. Normally, I would fire something back instantly. Today I just drink water and stare at the ice. That silence gets everyone’s attention more than any answer would.
Ryan points at me with his bottle. “See? That is concerning.”
“Leave him alone,” Callum says quietly from across the bench area.
Ryan blinks. “Oh, now I’m definitely interested.”
Coach skates back onto the ice before the conversation can go further. “Enough gossiping. Special teams.”
The next hour is brutal.
By the end of practice, every muscle in my body aches, but mentally I feel even worse. Exhaustion usually quiets my head. Instead, every pause lets another thought creep in.
Kate’s face when she looked at me outside the rink, and the fear in her eyes. Then Hudson stood beside her, looking tense and confused.
And underneath all of that, there’s Félix laughing yesterday when I lifted him onto my shoulders.
I feel split clean down the middle.
By the time we drag ourselves back into the locker room, the atmosphere shifts into its usual post-training chaos. Gear hits the floor. Someone throws a towel across the room. The showers roar to life behind the wall while half the team argues over music choices.
Callum drops onto the bench beside me without saying anything at first. I carry on untying my skates. “You look terrible,” he says eventually.
I let out a humourless laugh. “Merci.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
Around us, the room buzzes with noise, but it feels strangely distant. Callum leans forward, with his forearms braced on his knees. “You gonna tell me what’s happening?”
I stare down at my hands because I haven’t said it out loud yet, not properly. Even with Camille, it still felt too surreal. But Callum is my closest friend here. And carrying this alone suddenly feels impossible.
I exhale slowly. “I found out I have a son.”
Everything around us keeps moving, loud and chaotic, but the words land between us like silence.
Callum turns sharply toward me. “What?”
“My ex-girlfriend from back home showed up after the game.” Saying it aloud makes my chest tighten. “She has a little boy. And he’s mine.”
His expression shifts from confusion to complete shock in about half a second. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t know?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. Jamais.” My voice roughens slightly. “I swear to God, Cal, I didn’t. It came right out of the blue.”
He studies me carefully for a second, probably deciding whether he believes that. Then his face softens. “Okay.”
Okay. Not an accusation or suspicion. Just trust.
I scrub both hands down my face slowly. “He’s two years old.”
Callum actually swears under his breath this time.
“I missed everything,” I admit quietly. The words feel worse every time I say them.
Across the room, someone yells that Mike has stolen his hoodie, but it barely registers.
Callum lowers his voice further. “What are you gonna do?”
I snort, exhausted. “I have no idea.” And that’s the truth that scares me most. On the ice, I always know what comes next. In life? I suddenly feel completely unprepared.
“He called me Papa yesterday,” I say, staring at the floor now. “Like it was natural.”
Callum’s expression changes again. “Christ.” I nod once. “And Kate?” he asks carefully.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Everything was becoming serious between us and now…” I shake my head slowly. “How do I ask her to trust me when my whole life just exploded?”
Callum is quiet for a moment before nudging my shoulder lightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It still hurts her.”
“Yeah,” he says honestly. “Probably.”
I lean back against the locker behind me, staring at the ceiling for a second. “I care about her,” I admit quietly. “And Hudson.”
Saying Hudson’s name aloud surprises even me a little. That kid matters to me already in a way I never expected.
Callum studies me carefully, something understanding settling into his expression. “This isn’t a bit of fun for you anymore, is it?”
The question lands directly in the centre of everything I’ve been trying not to say aloud, because no, it is not temporary.
Kate stopped being temporary the moment I started imagining her in parts of my life I usually keep separate from everyone else.
And when leaving her house started feeling harder than staying.
I exhale slowly. “No,” I admit. “It isn’t.”
Callum nods once like he already knew that answer.
The room empties gradually around us as guys head for the showers or the physio room, but I stay where I am for another minute, trying to breathe through the weight of it all.
Eventually, I force myself upright, shower quickly, dress mechanically, barely paying attention to the conversations around me.
My body moves on autopilot while my brain stays somewhere else entirely.
By the time I leave the rink, most of the team has already gone.
The arena is quieter, almost echoing as I walk past the stands toward the car park.
And that’s when I see one of the younger coaches standing near the boards with his little girl balanced on his hip.
She can’t be older than four. Tiny pink hat. Sleepy eyes.
He kisses the top of her head absentmindedly while talking to another staff member, holding her like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it a thousand times.
My chest tightens. I don’t know how to do any of this.
I don’t know if he sleeps with a nightlight, which cartoons make him laugh, or whether he cries when he wakes up from bad dreams. I don’t even know his middle name or if he even has one. Christ, am I even on his birth certificate?
The grief hits suddenly and viciously. Standing alone in the cold corridor outside the rink, surrounded by the only life I’ve ever really known, I realise something terrifying.
Hockey taught me how to be a player. But I have absolutely no idea how to be somebody’s father.