Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LUKAS
Felix falls asleep on my chest before the game starts.
One minute, he’s fighting sleep stubbornly, tiny fingers tangled in the front of my hoodie while he watches warmups through the glass with heavy blinking eyes, and the next, his whole body softens against me completely. Dead weight.
I stare down at him for a second, something painful and overwhelming tightening in my chest all over again.
Two months ago, I did not know he existed. Now I cannot remember what my life looked like before him.
The arena hums around us loudly, the usual chaos of game night vibrating through the corridors beneath the stands. Skates scrape somewhere nearby. Equipment bags thud against concrete floors. Staff move quickly through the hallways carrying clipboards, coffees, and tape.
And through all of it, Félix sleeps. One small hand curled into my hoodie as if he planned on staying there forever.
“Tabarnak,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting him carefully higher against my chest as I lean back against the locker room doorway.
Callum walks past carrying two sticks before stopping abruptly when he notices me. His entire face changes instantly.
“Oh my God,” he says, staring. “You’ve become unbearable.”
I glare at him tiredly. “Shut up.”
“He’s asleep on you.” Callum looks genuinely emotional about it, which is frankly irritating.
“He has a cold.” Félix shifts against me with a tiny sleepy noise, pressing his face into my chest harder. Instinctively, my hand moves to the back of his head.
Callum watches the whole thing with an expression somewhere between amusement and complete disbelief. “You’re fully a dad now,” he says.
I exhale quietly through my nose. “Apparently.”
“Remember when you used to disappear from bars with random women whose names you never learned?”
I look at him flatly. “You are very nostalgic today.”
“I’m grieving the old you.”
“The old me slept eight hours a night,” I point out.
“That’s fair.”
A few of the other guys pass behind him toward the ice, slowing when they notice Félix asleep against me.
“Aw,” one of them says immediately.
“Do not start,” I warn.
“Lukey’s gone soft.”
“I will fight all of you.”
Callum grins. “You can try, Papa.”
Felix stirs again, blinking sleepily this time before looking up at me with glassy, tired eyes.
“Papa,” he mumbles.
“Hey, mon petit,” I murmur softly, brushing my thumb along his warm cheek. “Go back to sleep.”
His tiny hand pats my chest once lazily before he settles again almost immediately. The locker room goes strangely quiet for a second. I look up to find three teammates staring at me as though I’ve just personally ruined hockey for them.
“Oh, he’s fully domesticated,” Mike says.
Callum wipes fake tears from his face. “We lost him.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it anymore. Because the truth is, I do not care. Not about the teasing or the complete destruction of my reputation. Not when my son is here.
The coaches finally start yelling for everyone to get moving, and the room shifts back into organised chaos. I hand Félix carefully to Camille, who’s waiting near the family section entrance, bundled in one of my team hoodies with her hair tied messily on top of her head.
She looks exhausted. We both do lately.
“You sure you’re okay?” I ask quietly in French as Félix curls against her shoulder without waking properly.
She nods. “Go play hockey, Lukas.”
I hesitate because it still feels wrong sometimes to walk away from him. Even for a game. I think there’s still some embedded fear that I’ll leave the rink one day and they’ll have gone back to Québec without a word.
Camille notices, and her expression softens. “He’ll be here after.”
I nod slowly before leaning down to press a quick kiss to Félix’s forehead. His little fingers twitch against Camille’s hoodie.
Then I force myself toward the ice.
Training has been brutal for weeks now because Coach thinks exhaustion builds character or some bullshit like that. Between games, travel, Félix, and the complete lack of sleep currently destroying my central nervous system, my body feels permanently half a second behind everything.
Unfortunately, hockey does not care about emotional turmoil.
The puck drops, and the game starts fast. Hard hits. Fast transitions. Bodies slamming against glass. The familiar violent rhythm of it settles into my muscles instinctively, even while part of my brain stays somewhere beneath the stands with Félix.
That part never fully switches off anymore. Even during line changes, I catch myself glancing toward the family section, looking for him.
During the second period, I take a hard enough hit to slam me, shoulder-first, into the boards and the crowd roars. Pain explodes down my arm briefly. And my first irrational thought is: Did Félix see that?
Jesus Christ.
After the game, the arena slowly empties while the staff clean around us.
I shower quickly before pulling on a hoodie and heading back toward the family room to find Camille and Félix.
He’s awake now, sitting on the floor near the wall with a tiny hockey stick in his hands.
A miniature team-branded stick someone gave him last week.
He whacks the puck wildly across the carpet the second he sees me. “Papa!”
The grin that breaks across his face hits me so hard emotionally that it knocks the breath out of me. “There he is,” I murmur, crouching down as he runs straight into me.
His tiny body impacts my chest full force. I hold him tightly for longer than necessary before pulling back slightly. “You terrorise your mother while I was gone?”
Félix giggles despite understanding maybe half of my French.
Camille watches us quietly from the sofa nearby. Félix climbs into my lap, holding the hockey stick proudly. “Goal,” he announces.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Ah, already better than me.”
“Impossible,” Callum says, appearing beside us, carrying protein shakes. Félix reaches for him with complete betrayal.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Callum beams while taking him. “Finally. Someone in this family appreciates me.”
Félix smacks the tiny hockey stick directly into him, and he winces. “Okay, maybe not.”
The room fills slowly with noise again around us. Teammates talking. Trainers packing equipment. Felix is babbling nonsense while Callum pretends to be deeply injured by a toddler.
And for a few minutes, it almost feels easy.
Until my phone buzzes in my pocket. The second I see Kate’s name across the screen, something inside me twists painfully.
I stare at it enough that Camille notices.
Her eyes flick briefly toward the screen before returning to me quietly. She does not ask.
Eventually, I open the message.
Kate: Congratulations on the win.
That’s it, just a simple but careful message, and suddenly I miss her so violently it hurts.
God, I want to call her. I want to hear her voice. I want to drive to her house, kiss her, and pretend my life is not split apart in twelve different directions right now.
But I can’t. Not while I still don’t know how to balance any of this, or while every choice feels like I’m failing someone.
Félix wriggles out of Callum’s arms and comes running back toward me, tiny hockey stick dragging behind him. “Papa!”
My chest tightens, and I crouch automatically, catching him against me as he launches himself forward. And just like that, the decision is made for me again.
My son comes first. Even when it costs me everything else.
I stare at Kate’s message for another long moment before finally typing back.
Lukas: Thank you, that means a lot.
My thumb hovers briefly over the keyboard afterwards. I almost type more. I miss you. I think about you constantly. I am sorry.
Instead, I lock my phone and slide it back into my pocket before I can make this harder than it already is.