Chapter 2 #2
And now with Connor in the mix, I’m in over my head.
I have no idea how to navigate these waters, and I don’t know what Harrison might say if and when he puts two and two together.
Promising my kid this hockey camp experience was what got him to agree to making the cross-country move with me.
He loves the Anaheim Stars. They’re his favorite team.
They always have been because I’m nothing if not a forever fan of one of their star players.
If there’s one thing I’ve done right by my son, it’s fostering his love of hockey from an early age.
He lives and breathes it just like I did all those years ago.
Just like I still do.
“Now don’t forget,” Harrison pipes up, his voice booming around the ice as the kids gather closer to him.
“After tomorrow’s scrimmage the whole Anaheim Stars team will be here.
You and your families will get to meet everyone, and you’ll have the opportunity to get your picture taken with your favorite player.
” He clears his throat. “Which means Barrett here will be all alone and I’ll be ridiculously busy. ”
There’s a collective chuckle from the parents around me that thankfully swallows the sound of my rapidly beating heart and cacophony of nerves banging around inside me.
Tomorrow?
Pictures?
Shit.
It’s too soon!
I’m not ready.
Most of the kids begin to exit the ice where they reunite with their parents and head out for the day. But not my kid.
When I get down to the tunnel where I’m supposed to meet him, I peek out at the ice and spot him with Harrison.
Of course, my kid is the one who stays back to help clean up the pucks, helping Harrison get them all into the bucket.
Harrison rubs the top of his head and says something to him I can’t hear from where I’m standing and then by some divine grace, as he watches Connor skate toward me, his eyes find mine.
Fuck!
It’s a split second. A sheer moment in time faster than a breath before I gasp and lower my head turning my body back down the tunnel and sprinting to the hallway where I throw myself up against the opposite wall and try to breathe while I wait for Connor.
I can’t believe he saw me!
Shit!
I didn’t want it to be like this!
Did he recognize me?
Is he going to come running out here?
Fuck!
I’m not ready.
“Mom! Did you see me? Did you see me hanging out with Harrison Meers?” Connor’s oversized duffel bag hangs over his shoulder, the crooked little smile on his face is the spitting image of his father’s.
I swallow the lump in my throat and hastily nod, leading Connor down the hallway away from the ice.
“I sure did, Bud! You looked great out there. Did you have fun?” We stop at a bench around the corner and then I crouch down to help him remove his skates. I’m pretty damn sure I’ve never unlaced a skate faster.
“Yeah! I even told Barrett Cunningham he was old and he chased me around the ice and Mom, I was faster than him!”
“Oh wow! I bet you were. You’re like a little pistol out there on that ice. I bet you’re the fastest one out there.”
“Yep. I am. And Harrison taught me a new trick to angle my stick better so I can stay in control. He said if I can do that, I can own the ice!”
“That’s amazing,” I tell him, tossing his skates into his bag and lifting it onto my shoulder along with my laptop bag. “You hungry? I thought we could go get a burger. I’m in the parking garage about two blocks down.”
“Starving!”
Connor bounces ahead of me down the corridor, humming under his breath, his stick clacking lightly against the tile floor with every few steps. He’s still glowing from practice, all the sweat and energy vibrating off him like static.
I, on the other hand, am doing everything in my power not to unravel right here between the snack bar and the trophy case.
I should be calm. I should be focused on burgers and fries and whatever story Connor’s about to ramble through with ketchup on his face.
But all I can think about is the way Harrison’s eyes caught mine.
That split second.
That recognition.
That pull.
It’s been over a decade, and yet one look and I’m back there. The late-night college practices, the sound of his laugh echoing off the rink walls. His hands on my hips, the smell of ice and sweat and mint on his breath. The way he’d kiss me between every apology for being late.
God. I thought I’d buried that girl years ago.
“Mom?” Connor’s voice snaps me out of my spiral. “Can I text my friends and tell him I met the Harrison Meers? They’re gonna freak out!”
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile. “Just wait until we’re in the car.”
He grins and races toward the exit. I follow slower, my pulse still thundering.
When I pass the window that overlooks the rink, I make the mistake of glancing through it one more time.
Harrison’s still there. Standing on the ice with his stick tucked under his arm, his helmet off, talking to one of the players. Number nineteen.
August Blackstone.
He looks older. Broader through the shoulders. More grounded somehow, but the same fire lives in his movements. The easy way he shifts his weight, the effortless control he’s always had on the ice.
My heart trips over itself in my chest.
Dammit!
For years I’ve told myself what I did was right. That letting him go was the best thing for him. I gave Harrison the freedom to chase his dreams without the weight of what I knew he wasn’t ready for.
But seeing him now?
That confidence, that quiet joy with the kids…maybe he’s not the same man who once swore he’d devote his entire life to hockey.
And maybe…maybe I’ve underestimated him.
The thought burns as fast as it comes, so I shove it down. I don’t have the luxury of nostalgia. Not when I know what’s coming. Not when I know our truth is going to blow both our worlds apart.
I should find some way to get in touch with him before tomorrow. I know I should, but every time I think about how I need to say the words out loud, my fear and anxiety get the best of me.
I’ve delayed the words for over ten years.
Surely twenty-four more hours won’t hurt us…too much.
Connor pushes through the glass doors, squinting against the sun spilling across the pavement. I step out behind him, the California air warm and bright and completely at odds with the storm in my chest.
“Burgers?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Double cheese!” he declares.
“Of course,” I say, tugging his cap lower over his eyes as we walk toward the parking garage. He starts rambling again about drills and goals and how Barrett Cunningham pretended to fall when he scored. I nod along, laughing when I’m supposed to, but my mind drifts back to the man on the ice.
To the way his eyes widened.
To the ghost of a smile that might’ve meant recognition.
Tomorrow, he’ll see us again.
Up close.
And there’ll be nowhere left to hide.
I glance down at my son—his wild hair, the curve of his grin—and my chest tightens with equal parts pride and dread. Because ready or not, Harrison Meers is about to find out the truth.
And I have no idea what happens after that.