Chapter 3 #2
He’s different off the ice. From a distance he seemed to laugh easily during the holiday shoots.
Hands shoved in coat pockets. He listened more than he talked.
Relaxed shoulders, casual stance, sarcasm softened by warmth and that low accent that wraps around certain words. Accents get me every time.
This version of him, the real version, not the ones for socials, is broader, louder even in silence. Dangerous in restraint instead of charm.
Same mouth. Same eyes. Same composure.
Yet heat flickers low in my stomach as my brain struggles to reconcile the man from those quiet city shoots with the one carving circles into the ice below me.
Tingles bloom sharp and electric.
I swallow back the saliva pooling in my mouth as I remind myself that I have a path, one that gets clearer every day, and it does not include an athlete, pro or otherwise. And a man doesn’t get to sidetrack me, not when I am on the homestretch of completing my educational goals.
The occasional hook up, sure it’s healthy, but I don’t go seeking it. Besides, that last one… it’s going to take a very long time to let those memories fade. Athlete be damned, the stamina the last man I was with, the one from the lecture, was poetic in a way a pro could never be.
I didn’t belong there, but Palmer had secured me a student seat for the International Symposium on Cultural Heritage and Digital Stewardship, and I wasn’t about to waste it.
The speaker was brilliant. Dry. European. Talking about private estates and the ethics of access, about families who’d inherited centuries of letters and land and expectation, and the responsibility to preserve them without hoarding them from the world.
I was scribbling notes furiously when he leaned forward from the row behind me.
“Your handwriting,” he murmured, low and accented, “is… efficient.”
I startled just enough to smear ink across the page. When I turned, I expected some older donor or professor.
Instead, I found him. Brown hair neatly trimmed and styled.
Glasses most guys wear to look smart because they aren’t.
Jaw square and strong, clean-shaven perfection.
His suit was dark and understated, tie loose.
He didn’t look like someone trying to impress the room.
He looked like he owned space like this without effort.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, almost amused. “I did not mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t,” I lied.
His lips tipped in a smirk. “You disagree with the speaker.”
I blinked. “I just think heritage without access is just another form of control.”
He studied me for a second, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Interested, not dismissive.
“Ah,” he said. “You’re dangerous.”
I laughed under my breath. “I’m a PhD student.”
“Same thing.”
We talked after. In the lobby. Then, over wine at the donor dinner, I somehow ended up seated at the far end with other students and assistants. He sat beside me like it was a coincidence, leaning close when he spoke, voice low and precise, words chosen carefully.
He told me about estates in Germany, about expectations passed like heirlooms, about preserving history that sometimes felt heavier than living it. He asked about my research like it mattered. Like I mattered.
No one ever looked at me like that back home. Not curious. Not impressed. Not like my brain was something worth wanting.
By the time we left the restaurant, the city felt softer. Quieter.
I remember thinking he was the kind of man women wrote novels about. The kind you meet once, the kind who lives in a different stratosphere entirely. A fantasy. A scholar. A benefactor. Someone polished and worldly and far, far out of reach.
Men like him didn’t choose girls like me.
Which is probably why, when he asked if I wanted one more drink somewhere quieter, I followed him.
I didn’t ask for his number, hell, I don’t think I asked for a name. I didn’t need to. Some nights aren’t meant to be anything but a fantasy.
“You good, red?” Paul Bronski asks, snapping me back to the here and now.
I smile at him, “I am.”
He chuckles, and I glance out of the corner of my eye at him and see him smirking.
“I, um… have to use the bathroom.”
The memory leaves me breathless in the worst way. Like my brain pulled something fragile out of storage without warning, and now my chest doesn’t know where to put it. I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection, cheeks warm, pulse uneven.
Fantasy, I tell myself.
Men like that don’t happen to women like me. That night was a glitch in the universe, a borrowed moment, not real life.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Hildy?” Claudia’s voice, soft but firm.
I open it halfway, already apologizing. “Sorry, I just needed a sec, I’m fi…”
She steps inside before I finish, expression tight with something I don’t recognize at first.
“I’m so sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to invade, but when I saw OCFS pop up, I answered. Habit. Our phones are identical, and they were right next to each other in the box.”
My stomach drops.
“What?” I whisper.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “But they said it was urgent. They asked for you.”
My heart is already sprinting before she presses the phone into my hand.
Claudia doesn’t leave. She just stands there, steady, grounding, one hand on my shoulder like she’s holding me upright before the words even land.
“Hello?” My voice shakes.
There’s a pause, then a woman says my name. “Hildy? It’s Erin Lampert. From Fairview. I’m a social worker now with Chemung County.”
The room tilts. Erin was one of the few girls from school who wasn’t awful to me, the white trash trailer park girl.
“There was an accident tonight,” she says gently. “Your mother was driving. Third DWI. She hit a guardrail. She’s in the hospital and will likely be taken into custody after they release her.” I close my eyes. “And your little sister was in the car.”
Lucy.
I know she exists. I’ve seen pictures on Facebook. Heard her name tossed at me like a weapon. But she was never part of my world.
“She’s three,” Erin says softly. “You were listed as the emergency contact. She broke her wrist and cannot be released without placement.”
My hand trembles around the phone.
“I’ve never even met her,” I whisper.
“I know,” Erin says. “But you’re the only one listed. She needs someone, Hildy.”
Behind me, Claudia’s hand tightens on my shoulder, solid and warm and a reminder that this is all very real.
Fantasy evaporates. Reality doesn’t knock politely. It crashes in.
Lucy. Three years old. Alone. Connected to me by blood and paperwork and nothing else… until now.
“Okay. I’ll see when the next train leaves and let you know when I’ll be there.”
“I’ll stay until you arrive.” She says sweetly, but it doesn’t land softly.
My pulse quickens; I feel anxiety beginning to brew inside of me. I have school, work, hell, I barely make ends meet as it is. How am I going to take care of her?
“Erin, I…”
“Take down my personal number and take your time.”
I look at Claudia, who nods.
“Okay. Yeah. I’ll type it in my notes.”
I’m sitting on a leather seat in a private jet owned by Fairfax Media, and Claudia Holloway-Moretti is beside me, tapping away on her phone, completely oblivious to the fact that I have never flown in my life.
My stomach is still somewhere back in Brooklyn, tangled in shock and adrenaline and the voice of a girl I hadn’t spoken to since high school telling me my mother wrecked a car and my three-year-old sister, whom I have never met, needs me.
All the girls were there tonight. The box, the laughter, Savannah waving at her reflection in the glass. That world feels impossibly far from the one we’re flying toward.
I grip the armrest when the plane shifts, heart lurching into my throat.
Claudia glances over and gives me a small smile, soft and knowing. “First time?”
I nod, embarrassed by how obvious I must look.
“You’re okay,” she says gently, like she’s talking to Savannah instead of me. “Feels weird at first.”
Weird isn’t the word. Terrifying fits better.
I swallow hard. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
She sets her phone down, then turns fully toward me, attention fully on me. Not psychologist mode exactly, more human than that. Warm. Present.
“I know,” she says quietly. “But you’re not alone in it.”
I shake my head, tears already threatening again. “I am barely taking care of myself right now. How am I supposed to take care of a child I’ve never even met?”
Claudia leans back, voice calm and even. “You don’t have to solve her whole life’s problems tonight. You just have to show up.”
I stare at my hands. Lucy. Three years old. Broken wrist. A stranger with my blood.
“My mom’s going to jail,” I whisper.
“She should,” Claudia says softly. “And Lucy will need stability. That doesn’t mean perfection. It just means someone safe.”
Safe. The word echoes in my chest like a responsibility I didn’t ask for.
“I was eight when my mom overdosed,” Claudia says after a moment, voice low. “They moved me through homes like furniture. Nobody knew me. Nobody really tried.”
I look at her, startled.
“You know what mattered most?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“That someone would’ve come for me.” Her eyes meet mine. “You’re already doing the thing I needed.”
My throat tightens painfully.
“I don’t have space,” I say. “I don’t have money.”
Claudia nods slowly. “There are kinship placements. Emergency guardianship. Temporary arrangements. We’ll talk through every option with the caseworker. Nothing gets decided without you understanding it.”
I blink at her. “You’ll stay, I—?”
She squeezes my hand gently. “I’m not letting you walk into the system alone.”
The plane hums steadily beneath us, carrying me away from the glass boxes and catered sandwiches and the life I thought I was managing toward a child who suddenly needs me more than I’ve ever needed anything.
Claudia’s phone rests on her lap now, her attention still fully on me. “I need you to hear something.”
I nod because it feels like the only control I have left.
“You do not have to take Lucy in,” she says carefully. “Showing up doesn’t mean signing your life away. It just means being the person who didn’t disappear.”
My throat tightens.
“I still have my dissertation,” I whisper. “I live with four roommates. Two bedrooms, doubled up. They’re sweet, but they’re slobs. I barely have space to breathe, let alone bring a three-year-old into that.”
Claudia nods slowly. “That’s real. And the system will look at that.”
“I don’t even have money,” I add weakly. “I’m still grinding. I can’t just become someone’s everything overnight.”
“They might hope you will,” she says gently. “But hope and obligation aren’t the same.”
I stare down at my hands, panic buzzing under my skin.
“And what if I ruin her?” My voice cracks. “I barely survived my own childhood. And the only way I made it out was by working my ass off and never looking back.”
Claudia leans forward, voice calm and warm. “Which is exactly why you’re different.”
Tears spill before I can stop them.
“You escaped,” she says softly. “You built structure where there was none. Kids don’t need perfection. They need someone who understands what unsafe feels like and shows them better.”
I shake my head. “I’m scared they’ll expect me to say yes.”
“They might hope,” she says again. “But tonight isn’t about permanence. It’s about presence.”
I swallow hard, chest aching.
“She’s been told about you,” Claudia adds. “Your mom must have talked about you like you were proof life could be better. Lucy doesn’t see a stranger coming. She sees someone she’s already been taught is real.”
The plane hums under us, steady and still in the air, thank God.
“You’re allowed to say no,” Claudia says quietly. “But your being there, even just tonight, will change her. Kids remember who shows up. Even if they can’t stay.”
Deep down, beneath the terror and logistics and noise in my head, something small and aching stirs. Because I was that kid once. And no one came.
Lucy deserves at least one person who does.
Claudia squeezes my hand gently. “Whatever happens next, your presence gives her proof she’s not invisible.”
My heart breaks open around those words.
I’m terrified. I’m unprepared. I’m still just a student with too many responsibilities and nowhere near enough room.
I knew one day, when I was able, I would try to help her, but right now, I’m not able.
Claudia’s phone starts vibrating nonstop against her leg, a sharp, relentless buzz that cuts through the quiet hum of the plane.
I try not to look. I fail.
The screen lights up again and again and again with the girls’ group chat. Names stacking. Messages pouring in faster than I can breathe. Claudia shifts the phone slightly away, polite even now, but the preview flashes just long enough for my eyes to catch words I was never meant to see.
Claudia:
She has roommates. That’s not ideal. Might not even be possible.
My stomach sinks. Of course, it isn’t possible. I live in a two-bedroom circus with four adults and a bathroom that barely functions.
Then another message slides in beneath it.
Noelle:
She can take the apartment over the shop. I’ll move everything out in a day or two.
My chest tightens painfully.
Nalani:
The Puck Pad is empty most of the month. The guys are away. Plenty of space, safe neighborhood, great schools.
Another.
Sofie:
I’ll get her a suite until placement is settled.
The offers keep rolling like a wave I don’t know how to stand against.
Noelle:
She can bring Lucy to the bookstore.
Nalani:
I’ll watch her while Hildy is in class.
Sofie:
You don’t get Lucy all the time! We’ll work out shifts.
Noelle:
She won’t be alone. Hell, the Pembrooke Books ladies will practically fall over themselves to get a few hours; they’re all empty nesters.
Tears sting my eyes as guilt floods me. I’m intruding. This is their world, their generosity, their resources. I shouldn’t even be reading this.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, voice trembling as Claudia finally lowers the phone and looks at me knowingly.
She doesn’t scold me. Of course, she doesn’t. She just smiles softly. “They care, and so do I. We have a huge house with plenty of room.”
I nod, wiping my cheeks quickly. “I shouldn’t have looked. I…”
“You’re allowed to see that people want to help,” she interrupts kindly.
I swallow hard and shake my head. “You can tell them… tell them I’m grateful. But they don’t have to do that. I can’t just take someone’s home.”
Claudia’s eyes soften. “You’re not taking anything. They’re offering because they understand what this means.”
I glance at the glowing phone in her hands, more messages pouring in.
Then it hits me.
“You should tell them I’m not even sure.”
Claudia squeezes my hand and types quickly, relaying everything back to the women who are already rearranging their lives for a child they’ve never met, simply because she’s mine.
“I think I’m going to get sick.”