Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
HARRISON
There’s nothing worse than being off your game before the puck even drops. It’s not like I haven’t played through distractions before—injuries, fights, breakups, hangovers. Hell, even a minor concussion once (not my best idea). But this? This is different.
This is the kind of distraction that doesn’t go away with tape and adrenaline.
Because all night last night, I kept replaying that half-second after practice yesterday. The flash of honey-brown hair at the end of the tunnel, the familiar tilt of her chin, the way my chest did that stupid, traitorous lurch like it recognized something before my brain could catch up.
Harper Richardson.
Jesus, even thinking her name feels like opening an old wound.
It’s been over a decade, but some ghosts refuse to stay buried.
I drag my stick across the bench, running my thumb along the grip just to keep my hands busy.
The locker room hums around me—guys laughing, music thumping, the usual pre-scrimmage chaos—but I’m not hearing any of it.
I’m still stuck on that split second, trying to convince myself it was her when I know realistically it couldn’t be.
She’s not here. She wasn’t at the arena yesterday. Hell, she’s not even on this side of the Mississippi. She has her own life. Her own career. Probably some husband somewhere whose teeth are all real and who doesn’t make a living getting slammed into the boards for fun.
And yet…
“Yo, Meers,” Barrett calls from across the room, snapping me out of it. “You alive over there or meditating on your shot angles again?”
“Just visualizing the win,” I lie easily, grabbing my water bottle.
He grins. “Visualize faster. You know the birds will be coming in hot today and Dex Foster will try to chew you up and spit you out.”
I smirk, but it feels hollow. I can handle the Chicago Red Tails.
Those guys are like family to me anyhow.
Playing with them is fun. I can handle Dex Foster and his strong defense and aggressive forecheck.
I can even handle the fact that this scrimmage is being broadcast live for some pre-season promo thing.
What I can’t seem to handle is a pair of familiar brown eyes that don’t even exist in this city but are constantly staring back at me in my mind.
The equipment manager, Isaac, smacks my shoulder pads as he walks by. “You good, Meers?”
“Always,” I say, though my heartbeat’s telling a different story.
He nods once and moves on, but my pulse doesn’t slow. I’m wound too tight, restless in a way I haven’t been in years. I catch my reflection in the locker mirror. Same jawline, a few more lines around the eyes, a little more gray in the beard. I look like a man who’s seen some shit.
Maybe because I have.
But Harper?
Hell, I haven’t seen her in ages.
The puck drops, and I push the thoughts down hard, forcing myself to concentrate.
We’re in the zone. The energy buzzes around us as we skate in sync, gliding through drills and executing plays.
Each slap of the stick against the puck keeps me in the present.
I can feel the adrenaline surge, drumming in my ears, drowning out the noise of my internal chaos.
There’s nothing in this world like being on the ice and playing hockey.
The cold surface feels familiar under my skates, the rush of adrenaline floods my veins, and I dive headfirst into the game.
Every pass, every shot, every collision reminds me of why I love this sport.
My teammates move like a well-oiled machine, and I know for the three periods of this game, I will love every minute of my job.
Out of nowhere I’m hip-checked and nearly fall on my ass against the glass. “Oof, fuck!” I turn just in time to see Dex Foster grinning at me through his helmet.
“Nice to see you again, Meers.”
I match his grin and let out a short laugh. “Ha! Fuck you too, Foster. How are the wife and kids?”
I let loose, slapping the puck with precision, sending it darting toward August as Dex chases after it and calls out over his shoulder, “Feisty as hell. They take after me. Good thing they look like their mother.”
“Glad to hear it. Give her my love.”
August snags my pass effortlessly, and I can’t help but feel that rush of camaraderie that makes this sport something special.
God, I love this game.
“What are you doing talking to the enemy?” Oliver teases. I know he’s joking because his sister is married to one of those enemies.
“I was just distracting Foster so Blackstone could grab my pass,” I explain with a smile. I lift my chin in a quick gesture. “Head’s up!” The puck is shot back to me and I slide it to Oliver so he can set up his move and make the first goal, which he does with ease.
“That’s how it’s done, man!”
The first period rolls on, and I manage to keep my head where it needs to be.
I dish out assists, take shots, and throw some solid hits.
The adrenaline is intoxicating. I sink into the rhythm, the pulse of the game like a drumbeat in my chest. Every collision rattles my bones just enough to keep me grounded, to remind me I’m alive and where I belong.
Yet, even as I skate, Harper’s image flickers at the edge of my mind like an annoying gnat, buzzing just out of reach.
I don’t know why I can’t get her out of my mind.
We haven’t spoken in ten years. It broke my heart when she walked away from us.
I always thought she’d follow me wherever hockey took me.
I had dreams of her being my wife, my partner in crime, the mother of my children.
I used to envision her standing at the glass, our baby in her arms as she watched me warm up for my big game.
The kiss she would give me when we won. It was selfish of me to think that way, I know.
To not even think that Harper might want to go out into the world and make a name for herself was unfair to her.
Of course, she would want a career she could be proud of the way I’m proud of mine.
She deserved every bit of happiness that I would never be able to give her.
At least not in the way she wanted.
The rest of the game is a blur of sticks and skates and though the scrimmage against the Red Tails was brutal, I loved every damn second of it. We edged them out in overtime, the crowd roaring like we’d just won the Cup, even though it was just a glorified practice game.
Now the team’s scattered through the concourse for the postgame meet-and-greet with the youth league.
Kids are bouncing in line with jerseys two sizes too big, clutching markers and posters, wide-eyed like they’re about to meet superheroes.
They’ve already met most of us but it’s different when we’re all suited up in our uniforms.
It’s way more real for them this way.
And honestly? For them, maybe we really are superheroes.
Barrett’s at the end of the row signing helmets, Oliver’s got a baby balanced in one arm, because of course he does, and Griffin’s making faces at a group of giggling girls like the big kid he is.
I take my spot at the center table, still flushed from the game, jersey clinging to me.
I scrawl my signature across a few pucks and caps, shaking hands, smiling for pictures, and thanking parents for being so supportive of their kids.
Seeing all the moms and dads with their hockey loving children makes me wish I would’ve had the same support growing up from my father.
I was too young to remember why my dad left us, but I remember the nights my mom spent crying in her room…
or while she cooked dinner…or while she was hiding in the bathroom taking a shower.
She thought I couldn’t hear her, but I heard it all.
Every sob.
Every sniffle.
My mom was everything to me and when I came home from school one day and told her I wanted to try hockey she was one hundred percent supportive.
She never said no. She never told me I didn’t have what it took.
She also never told me she couldn’t afford the gear yet somehow it was always there waiting for me.
Everything I ever needed. And when my stepdad came along, he took on the role with pride and enthusiasm and to this day has never wavered.
“Coach Harrison!”
I look up just in time for a blur of motion to launch itself across the table. My favorite little superstar player is staring back at me, grinning ear to ear. He holds out his mini stick and a Sharpie like it’s Excalibur.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite troublemaker,” I say, taking the stick from Connor and signing it. “You ready to take my job yet?”
He beams. “Not yet. But maybe soon.”
That cocky confidence, that little half-smile, God help me, it feels so familiar. I’ve definitely got a soft spot for this kid.
“Can I get a picture?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, crouching beside him while his mom digs through her bag for her phone. I raise my eyes to scout out Connor’s dad but instead my gaze lands on the woman pulling her phone from her purse and fuuuck me…
My world halts.
My pulse slams in my throat as she straightens and holy shit it’s taking everything in me not to lose my balance and fall on my ass.
Honey-brown hair pulled into a loose knot.
The same chocolate brown eyes I used to lose myself in.
The faint scar above her right brow from when she fell off my longboard sophomore year.
Harper.
My heart damn near stutters to a stop.
She freezes too, that same recognition flashing across her face before she schools it behind a professional smile.
“Hey,” I manage, my voice rough as gravel.
“Hi, Harrison.” She says my name quietly, like she’s testing it on her tongue for the first time in years and fucking hell, hearing her voice makes my chest burn.
The noise of the arena fades out, replaced by the deafening echo of my heartbeat.
She looks older—stronger, sharper—but still so goddamn beautiful it hurts to breathe.
I can’t move.
Can’t speak.