Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARPER
The last day of the summer league wraps with a medal ceremony, a chaotic team photo, and at least twelve kids crying because they don’t want hockey to be over. Connor isn’t one of them. He’s too pumped. He’s vibrating.
I am…less vibrating. More surviving.
Because Harrison is here looking stupidly good in a team tee and mesh shorts, hair still damp from the end-of-session scrimmage. Every time I accidentally look at him, something low in my stomach pulls tight.
He’s giving medals out one by one, kneeling to be eye-level with the kids, laughing when they hug him, signing sticks and hats and arms.
He looks like he was carved for this.
Which somehow makes everything harder.
Connor sprints across the rink toward me, medal bouncing against his chest. “Mom! Mom! Did you see? Coach Harrison said I have great hands! He said I’m fast!”
“You are fast,” I say, smoothing his hair back. “You’re practically a blur.”
The rink is finally emptying out with congratulatory high-fives, parents gathering water bottles, kids buzzing from sugar and end-of-season adrenaline. Connor bounces beside me, clutching his autographed cap like it’s pure treasure.
He elbows me, subtle as a brick. “Mom. Can we go?”
“We are going.”
“No, like, go talk to them.”
Harrison stands a few yards away with Griffin Ollenberg and Bodhi Roche, all three looking unfairly tall and handsome and in the way.
And when I say in the way, I mean squarely in the way of my ability to act like a normal human.
Before I can redirect him, Connor’s jogging toward the trio.
So, I mutter a quick apology to the universe and follow.
Fucking Jesus take the wheel.
“Hey, guys,” I say as we approach, trying to be as professional as possible. “Thanks again for everything this season. What you’ve all done for Connor, it’s—”
“Mrs. Richardson, I presume!” Bodhi grins. “Connor crushed it today. MVP for sure.”
“It’s Miss Richardson,” I correct him, my eyes quickly flashing to Harrison before glancing back at Bodhi with a warm smile. “Mrs. Richardson is my mother. I’m not uh…” I shake my head. “I’m not married.”
“My apologies.” Bodhi nods. “Miss Richardson. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally,” he says, offering me a handshake. “We’ve heard a lot about you.” Griffin elbows him in the ribs, urging him to add, “Uh, from Connor…of course.” He chuckles. “He talks about you a lot.”
“Oh well,” I laugh nervously, feeling my cheeks heat in front of Harrison. “He’s ten so maybe don’t believe everything you hear.”
Connor beams, and then—because apparently he thinks he’s just one of the guys—he clears his throat dramatically.
“So…” he says, rocking on his heels. “Um. Do any of you guys wanna come over for dinner tonight?”
What the fuck?
Griffin’s eyes widen and Harrison’s shoulders tense, not in a bad way, just in a careful way. Like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.
I blink. “Connor—”
He turns to me with the sweetest little-kid logic face. “What? Coach said to always invite teammates to celebrate wins. And you always say dinner tastes better when other people are eating it. And you also always say spaghetti is like, the one meal you don’t fuck up so—”
“Whoa! Hey! Language buddy,” I tell him sternly, my face heating even more under the watchful gaze of the three men in front of me.
Connor covers his mouth when he realizes what he’s said. “Oops. Sorry.”
“Great,” I say with a relenting shrug, a shake of my head, and a sour tone. “I’ve been betrayed with my own life lessons.”
Bodhi and Griffin have a good chuckle at Connor’s audacity, and I swear I notice a slight lift of Harrison’s mouth as he tries to keep from laughing.
“Aw, buddy, thank you so much for the invite,” Bodhi tells him, “but I gotta head to my sister’s birthday dinner tonight.”
“Yeah,” Griffin jumps in immediately. “And I promised my wife I’d…uh…do…a thing.” He winces. “Wow, that sounded fake. It’s real, I swear.”
“Totally real,” Bodhi adds. “Super real thing.”
I look at them suspiciously, and they both do the world’s worst job of pretending to check their nonexistent watches.
“Well,” Connor says, undeterred, “that’s okay. There’s still—”
His head swivels toward Harrison.
Harrison swallows, his gaze flicking between me and Connor and then over to the guys before settling back on us.
Connor gives him a hopeful grin. “You can come, right? Mom makes the best spaghetti. And garlic bread. It’s even the real garlic bread. Not the frozen kind.”
I feel my face flame. “Connor…”
Harrison scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking younger…
and also very much not younger at all in that fitted team shirt.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
The moment is casual, but the stakes feel ridiculously high.
Connor just dropped an invitation bombshell and now I’m left standing in front of Harrison, debating the implications of him accepting it.
“Uh, I—” he starts, surely caught off guard.
“I mean, I don’t want to intrude.” My mind races.
Part of me wants him to jump at the chance.
To have Harrison sitting around a table with Connor and me as part of our little family dynamic feels exciting.
But another part of me is extremely hesitant and cautious.
This is all new territory and while I want to celebrate my son, our son, I can’t help but think about how Harrison is feeling.
We haven’t spoken much over the past two weeks except for a hello here or there.
We’re still trying to figure things out and throwing dinner invitations into the mix feels… complicated.
“Uh…” He glances at me, probably trying to gauge my reaction.
I don’t know if he can tell that butterflies are fluttering through my chest right now or that I couldn’t tell you what day it is if I tried.
He would undoubtedly find that amusing considering how I always had my life meticulously organized.
That is, until Connor came along.
That’s when motherhood started and all hell broke loose in terms of organization.
Just ask the unpaired sock bin in my bedroom right now because who even has time for that shit?
“I would love to,” Harrison finally answers, “but I’m not sure if I can—”
Connor insists, wide-eyed and earnest. “Mom says you can’t say no to family.” God, he’s so damn charming it makes my heart clench.
If you only knew, kid.
Watching my son light up at the idea of his hero eating dinner with him makes everything in me soften.
Before I can stop myself I add in, “He’s right.
I do say that. And you guys have been like family to us since Connor started watching hockey.
” My eyes meet Harrison’s deep blue stare and I force myself to smile, steady and polite even though my pulse is sprinting.
“If you’re free, we would love to have you.
It’s not much but…consider it our way of saying thanks for all you do. For Connor, of course.”
I’m still trying to process this entire conversation when Connor tugs at my sleeve, his face a perfect mix of hope and mischief.
My son.
God, I’ve kept him from his father for ten years, and now here he is, confidently inviting Harrison to dinner like it’s the most casual thing in the world. “Family,” he said. If only he knew how loaded that word is right now.
Bodhi and Griffin exchange a look that is way too knowing as Harrison finally answers, “Uh…yeah, I’m actually uh…
I’m free. I’d love to join you.” A flicker of something crosses his face—excitement, maybe—as his eyes find mine, searching for permission or reassurance.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but my heart is hammering against my ribs.
Oh my God, he’s coming to dinner!
I watch Connor vibrate with joy, bouncing on his toes. “Really?” he asks Harrison, his voice rising to that pitch that only appears when he’s truly thrilled. “You’ll come?”
“Yeah, I’ll come.” Harrison’s smile is gentle, genuine in a way that makes my stomach flip. “I’m looking forward to it, actually.”
“Awesome!” Connor fist-pumps the air, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “Cool! Maybe we’ll even have brownies. Mom makes those too when she’s in a mood.”
“I am not ‘in a mood,’” I hiss, embarrassed.
Connor shrugs. “You kind of are.”
Griffin coughs to hide a laugh but Bodhi doesn’t bother hiding at all.
With a defeated sigh because my son has managed to tell all my darkest secrets to three professional hockey players, I cock my head and lift my brows. “Dinner at six?”
“Six,” Harrison repeats with a nod, his voice low and warm enough to melt the spine right out of me.
“Spaghetti it is then.” I place a firm hand on Connor’s shoulder and tell the guys, “Thanks again to all of you. Connor loved his time in the league.” I make eye contact one more time with Harrison and say, “We’ll see you tonight.”
He nods one more time. “Tonight.”
As we turn and walk away, Connor leans over and says overzealously, “See, Mom? I told you he would say yes!”
The clock is ticking down to six o’clock, and I’m a whirlwind of nerves, half-finished dishes, and a kitchen that looks like a tornado hit it.
Connor’s excitement is palpable, bouncing around the living room like and pretending to skate like it’s his own private ice rink, and I’m in the kitchen trying not to slice my finger off while chopping garlic.
Please don’t let me bleed out on the floor before Harrison arrives.
“Mom!” Connor yells. “Are you almost done?”
“Almost!” I call back, trying to keep my voice light while my thoughts spiral.
I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous it is to be this worked up about dinner.
I mean, it’s just spaghetti, right? But it’s not just spaghetti.
It’s spaghetti with Harrison, the guy I loved but walked away from ten years ago.
The father of the ten-year-old fake-skating around my living room.
God, what are we even doing here?
And why am I so nervous?
It’s just dinner.