Chapter 5 #2
“Have at it,” I tell him. “The whole entire rink is yours, Bud.”
He looks at me in excited disbelief. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yep. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
He pumps his fist with a hearty, “Yes!” and then he’s off, sailing across the ice on two thin skate blades and making the frozen surface his bitch at eight-o-clock in the morning.
It’s just me and Connor now…the kid who might be mine.
The kid I might’ve missed a decade with.
I watch as Connor skates, his confidence blooming with every stride.
It’s a damn beautiful sight, and each laugh that bursts from him sends a gentle thrum through my chest. I’m supposed to be here to help these kids, to teach them the ins and outs of hockey, but honestly?
Right now, I’m just trying to keep my shit together while I figure out what on earth I’m supposed to say to this kid if he turns out to be mine.
My heart races as I imagine him, my son, doing what I love, living and breathing hockey just like I used to. The more I watch him, the more I feel that strange pull, that connection I’ve been craving for years.
“Hey Connor!”
“Yeah?” he shouts from down the ice.
“When’s your birthday?”
“January fourteenth,” he says. “And yours is November thirtieth.”
Wow. The kid knows his stats, I guess.
“That’s right.” I nod. “You’re looking good out there. Keep it up.”
Anything to distract him while I do the quick math.
Harper left in May right before the end of finals week ten years ago.
June, July, August, September, October, November, December…January…
That’s only eight months.
Eight months after she left me, she had Connor?
That means…
I stumble back a step, my hand clutching my chest as if it can dull the sharp ache shooting deep inside.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
There’s no denying it.
He has my eyes.
Hell, even his laugh is mine.
The way he effortlessly maneuvers around the rink, the little quirks in his skating style that remind me so much of…well, me. My heart swells with a mix of pride and fear, a confusing cocktail of emotions I can’t quite untangle.
“He’s my son,” I murmur to myself as Connor sprints down the ice dribbling a puck with his stick.
Connor…
Connor…
Fuck me.
How did it not cross my mind yesterday?
She named him after me.
Harrison Connor Meers.
God, I don’t even need her confirmation.
I feel it in my bones.
I feel it in my fucking soul.
He really is mine.
“Look at me, Coach Harrison!” he shouts, spinning with a wide grin.
“Impressive!” I call back, feeling a smile tug at the corners of my lips. “You’re a natural, kid!”
“Just like my dad!”
Fuck.
He skates toward me, cheeks flushed and breathing hard. “Can you show me some of your moves? The ones you did during the scrimmage?”
Every nerve in my body tingles at the request. “You want me to show you?”
“Yeah! You can teach me.” Connor’s voice rings out through the rink, buoyant and full of anticipation. It hits me right in the chest, and for a fleeting moment, I forget how twisted my emotions are.
“Alright, I’ll show you a move,” I say, feeling a surge of adrenaline at the thought of sharing this moment with him. “But you’ve got to promise to watch closely.”
“I promise!” he replies eagerly, practically bouncing on his skates. There’s so much of me in this kid it’s almost overwhelming.
I step onto the ice, my skates gliding easily over the surface, muscles warming up like I’ve just stepped back into my element. It feels good. Almost too good. I’m reminded of the countless hours I spent on these same rinks, dreaming of moments like this. But this one? Sharing it with my son?
This hits different.
This is new.
This is…everything.
“First, you need to get the puck under control,” I say, picking one up and demonstrating how to handle it, flicking it back and forth between my stick and my feet.
“Once you have control, you can get creative with it. You have to keep your body low, stay balanced, and then when you’re ready…
” I spin and fire the puck across the ice, it glides smoothly, landing perfectly in the net. “There! Now you try.”
His excitement is contagious as he races toward the puck, determination radiating off him.
I can’t help but laugh as he stumbles a little, his skates wobbling but never fully giving in.
There’s something about watching him out here that feels right, like a light that finally comes on after years of darkness.
“Like this?” he asks, crouching down to grab the puck, and I nod, pride swelling in my chest.
“Exactly! You got it! Now show me what you can do!”
He grins, and I watch as he pushes himself off the ice, gaining speed, his movements awkward at first. Seeing him out there, fumbling just a little even with the amount of talent he has, reminds me of my younger self, the kid who’d skate circles around the rink dreaming of the NHL.
“Like this, right?” he shouts, his voice ringing with excitement as he starts to gain some speed. I can’t help but chuckle as he attempts to maintain control, his little legs wobbling and arms flailing like he’s trying to balance on a tightrope.
“Exactly like that!” I call back, my heart swelling more with every stride he takes. “Now remember to keep your stick low! You’re doing great!”
He nods vigorously, and I can see the gears turning in his head, absorbing everything I’m telling him. It’s what we call “the magic moment”, that first taste of independence on the ice, that feeling of being free and limitless. Like you can literally do anything.
And for him, it’s just beginning.
He looks back at me, eyes wide with excitement as he glides—mostly—but then he stumbles, catching himself just in time.
“Was that a slip?” I tease, raising my brow. “You’ve got to work on that balance if you want to keep up with me.”
“I’m fine! Just testing the ice!” he retorts, bouncing back to his feet as if the minor fall was part of the plan.
I can’t stop smiling at his energy. He’s so full of life, just like I was at his age, and I wish I could bottle this moment up forever.
But then reality hits me like a freight train, crashing into my gut with a sickening twist. I’m not just a random coach out here with a talented kid; I’m standing with my son.
My ten-year-old son, who looks like he jumped straight from my past and into my present.
I can’t shake the thought that if this is all true, then I’ve missed some of the best years of his life, and that’s a weight I’ll carry for a long time.
The ice is louder than usual after Pucks & Blades, skates scraping, sticks clattering, parents chatting along the boards, but all of it is just static humming in my ears. Because Harper is here.
Again.
And now that I know—now that I’ve let myself look—I can’t unsee it. The tilt of Connor’s grin. The stubborn set of his jaw. The way he talks with his hands when he’s excited. The dark hair, the eyes that match mine almost exactly.
He has my middle name.
He’s mine.
I’ve known it since yesterday, but I’ve been pretending I didn’t. Pretending I could give myself twenty-four hours to breathe, to think, to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do.
But seeing him on the ice today—seeing how hard he listens, how hard he tries—cracked something open in me.
And now Harper’s here, standing near the benches, arms crossed like armor, trying really hard not to look at me but also absolutely aware of where I am.
She looks good.
That’s the other problem.
She looks like the version of her I used to imagine in the quiet moments. Older, more confident, a little tougher around the edges but still somehow soft in all the places I’ve missed.
And I can’t wait anymore.
Connor is bent over, wrestling with a knot in his skate laces, laughing with one of the younger kids who’s pretending the hockey stick is a sword. He’s occupied and out of earshot.
This is my window.
I walk toward her.
She steps back—instinct or nerves, I can’t tell—but she straightens almost instantly, chin lifting. She’s always been stubborn. I used to love that about her.
I still do, apparently, because I find her fucking adorable.
“Harper.” My voice comes out lower, rougher than I planned.
She swallows once. “Harrison.”
Her eyes flick to the kids, then back to me. She tries to look cool, but I can see the pulse jumping in her throat. She knows why I’m here. She’s known since yesterday.
“We need to talk,” I say, quiet, controlled.
Her breath catches, just for a second. “H—this isn’t— Connor is right th—”
“He’s busy,” I cut in gently. “He’s fine. And I’m not doing this in front of him.” My chest tightens. “You know that.”
She looks away, jaw clenching. God, she’s bracing for impact, and I hate that.
I hate that she thinks I’m going to explode or accuse or make a scene.
I’m not eighteen anymore. I’m not twenty-two either.
I’m not hurt and confused and afraid of losing everything.
I’m a grown damn man who just found out he has a kid.
A kid he missed the first ten years with.
I exhale slowly. “He’s mine, isn’t he?”
Her eyes close, and it’s the answer even before she whispers, “Yes.”
I swear to God the world fucking tilts.
Even when I expected it. Even when it was obvious. Hearing her say it still knocks the air out of my lungs.
I drag a hand over my mouth. “Jesus.”
“I didn’t—” Her voice breaks for a second before she forces it steady. “I didn’t know how to tell you. You had the draft. You had your whole life about to start.”
“And you didn’t think I’d want my own fucking kid?” My voice comes out quieter than I intend. Not angry. Just gutted.
Her eyes shine, and she shakes her head desperately. “I didn’t know what you would want, Harrison. You were under so much pressure. Your career was about to take off. You had your whole life in front of you.”
“My career isn’t more important than family!” I snap a little louder than I expected and a few heads turn. Clearing my throat, I bow my head and take a deep breath trying to rein myself in. “It was never supposed to be.”
“I know that now,” she whispers. “I just…we were babies then. I was scared. I was…I didn’t think you’d want the baggage.”
I flinch. Not because she’s wrong about the pressure I was under, but because she was wrong about me.
She knew it then and she knows it now.
Her voice softens to something raw. “You weren’t the one I didn’t trust, Harrison. It was everyone else. The media. Your team. The agents. The expectations. I didn’t want them deciding if my kid got to exist.”
My anger dissolves, replaced by something sharper and deeper.
Straight up pain.
And a strange, aching respect for everything she carried alone.
I step closer. “We need to talk. Really talk.”
Harper nods once, wiping a hand under her eye like she’s furious she almost cried. “Okay.”
“Tonight?” I ask. “I’ll come to you. Or anywhere you want.”
She hesitates, nervous, calculating, and then she glances at Connor. He’s grinning at a kid who just dumped an entire bucket of pucks on the floor.
My throat closes.
“Yeah,” she says. “Tonight is fine.”
“Harper…” I lower my voice, not even knowing what I want to say next. Her eyes soften in a way that hits me dead center. “We’ll figure this out,” I promise. “For him.”
She nods again, shaking this time. “For him.”
Connor calls out, “Mom! I can’t get this skate off!”
Harper turns toward him.
I stay where I am, watching my kid—my son—laugh as he tries to yank his foot free.
And I feel the shift inside me.
Permanent.
Determined.
Terrified.
Hopeful.
Tonight, everything changes.