Chapter 21 Harrison
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HARRISON
My condo is too quiet.
That’s the problem.
I’ve already wiped down the counters twice. Chicken is in the oven though Harper and Connor won’t be here for another twenty minutes. I keep checking the clock like it’s lying to me, like time might suddenly decide to sprint.
Fuck, I’m all over the place today. On one hand, I’ve been anxiously awaiting this day for weeks, wanting Connor to know the truth.
Hoping he’ll be just as excited to find out that I’m his father as I am to tell him, so we can finally be a forever family.
But on the other hand, I’m nervous as fuck for the truth to come out.
We’ve been in this comfortable little bubble of happiness since I kissed Harper all those weeks ago.
Connor has been amazing letting me see his mom even though that means I’m taking time with her away from him.
The guilt is real, and so are the nerves, because if he doesn’t take the news well, I honestly don’t know what I’ll do.
What if he hates me?
I mean, I know he loves me as a player, but what if he hates the idea of my being his dad?
What if he refuses me?
What if he doesn’t want me to love him?
I drag a hand through my hair and exhale hard. “Okay, okay, get over yourself, Meers. He’s a kid. Kids are resilient. And he’s going to love this.”
Maybe just…practice again.
I lean my hands on the kitchen island and stare down at the wood grain like it might have answers.
“Connor, I’m your dad.”
Nope.
Too blunt.
Too big.
Sounds like ripping a Band-Aid off a kid’s entire childhood.
I straighten and try again, quietly, like Connor’s already here. “Hey, bud…there’s something important I need to tell you.”
I wince.
Nope.
Too ominous.
I pace to the living room and back, my socked feet silent against the floor. One of my old photo albums sits on the coffee table where I left it earlier after leafing through it, the spine cracked open just a bit. My mom’s handwriting peeks out on a caption—First tournament—and my chest tightens.
I was twelve for my first tournament.
Connor is eleven.
Eleven years old and brilliant and funny and already better on skates than I was at his age, but there’s over ten years of scraped knees and birthday cakes and first goals and bad dreams and mornings I wasn’t there for.
And I hate that more than I could ever explain.
I scrub my hand over my face.
“Connor,” I try again, softer. “I didn’t know about you. But if I had—”
My voice cracks and I have to stop talking because the thought hits so fast it steals my breath.
Fuck.
What if he looks at me like I’m the guy who didn’t show up? Like my bio-dad did to me? What if I’m just a promise that didn’t stick for him? I picture his face crumpling, his voice asking why I didn’t come, and my stomach twists violently.
“I would’ve been there,” I whisper to the empty room. “Every fucking time.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I wasn’t there.
Ten years of Connor’s life happened without me in it, and no amount of explanation will change that. I can forgive Harper for her decisions, understand that she thought she was making the best move. But that doesn’t mean I have to agree with her.
I walk to the window and stare down at the street, palms braced on the edge. Cars pass as people live whole lives down there totally oblivious to my growing anxiety up here.
What if he thinks I didn’t want him?
The thought is unbearable.
I turn back toward the kitchen and lean against the counter, closing my eyes.
“Okay, new approach,” I murmur to myself. “Maybe I don’t say it first. Maybe I let Harper give him the news and I just…answer his questions as honestly as possible.”
Yes.
That sounds much more comfortable.
I’m sure she’ll have the right words to say.
My phone buzzes on the counter and I flinch like I’ve been caught doing something illegal. Harper’s name lights up the screen.
Harper
We’re on our way.
My chest tightens, excitement and fear tangling together until I can’t tell them apart.
Me
Okay. Drive safe.
I hesitate for just a moment and then add,
Me
I’m really glad you’re both coming over.
Three dots appear and then her response.
Harper
Me too. He’s very excited that he gets to see where THE Harrison Meers lives. I think this will go pretty well.
Me
Good. Excited to see you both!
I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and inhale slowly.
I’m ready.
Nope. That’s a lie.
I’m fucking terrified.
I’m about to practically turn a child’s life upside down, challenging all he knows, how he sees me, how he sees himself, and how he sees his whole life. I glance at the photo album again and whisper, “Please, for the love of fucking Christ, let me do this right.”
The knock comes sooner than I’m ready for.
Alright, let’s do this.
I can do hard things.
I open the door and there they are, Harper with her hair pulled back loosely like she didn’t want to try too hard though still gorgeous as ever, and Connor bouncing on the balls of his feet, hockey hoodie zipped halfway, eyes darting past me like he’s casing the place.
He doesn’t wait for permission. He slips right in, sneakers squeaking on the floor as he takes in the condo like it’s some sort of museum exhibit.
“Hey you,” Harper says softly, reaching up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek.
“Hey,” I reply, stepping back to let her in. “You could’ve used the code.”
She shrugs and gives me a wink. “Formalities…for his sake,” she says gesturing to Connor.
“Whoa,” Connor gasps. “This is where you live?”
“Hi bud. Yeah, yep, this is where I live…when I’m home anyway,” I say, shutting the door behind them. “Sometimes the arena feels more like home since I’m there so much, though I don’t sleep there.”
He nods like that makes perfect sense and immediately drifts toward the living room, his fingers brushing the back of the couch.
“Wow! You can see the whole city,” he says, heading to the windows and pressing his forehead to the glass. “That’s so cool.”
Harper smiles at him, then at me. There’s something in her eyes—gratitude, nerves, affection—all stacked together so tightly it makes my chest ache.
“Shoes okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, of course,” I say quickly. “You’re good.”
Connor turns back toward me. “Do you really have a hockey stick rack?”
I blink. “I—yeah. In the spare room.”
His gasp is theatrical.
“Can I see it?”
“After dinner,” Harper says automatically.
Connor opens his mouth to protest but stops as if he’s visibly recalibrating. “Okay,” he says, pointing to me. “But I’m holding you to that.”
“Totally fair,” I tell him. “Come on, you want to help me make dinner?”
He shrugs. “Sure.” Then he spots my photo album sitting on the coffee table. Already reaching for it, he asks, “Is this yours?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It was a gift from my mom.”
“Cool. It’s hockey stuff. Can I look at it?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “Why don’t you bring it into the kitchen. You can look all you want while your mom and I do the cooking. I glance over at Harper, who is smiling warmly, and wink at her.
He’s already making himself at home and with that knowledge, my nerves start to settle.
We move to the kitchen, the smell of onions and garlic filling the space. Harper sets a tote bag on the counter, immediately slipping into motion like she’s been here a hundred times before, washing her hands and scanning the stove.
“This smells amazing,” she says.
“Give it ten minutes,” I reply. “I haven’t burned anything yet, which feels promising.”
Connor is seated at the island his legs tucked under him, my old photo album spread open like it’s a treasure map.
He’s been quiet in the way kids get when they’re really paying attention, flipping the pages carefully, like the memories might spill out if he’s not gentle.
The album is thick. It’s my mom’s pride and joy.
Team photos, tournament shots, grainy rink pictures with bad lighting and worse haircuts.
The album was a gift for me when I signed with the Anaheim Stars.
She wanted to give me a way to look back on my entire hockey life.
I bring his attention to one particular picture. “So, that was the first year I ever skated,” I tell him, leaning against the counter while I dry my hands on a towel. “I didn’t get my first pair of skates until I was ten.”
Connor looks up fast. “Oh yeah, that’s right. I started playing before you did.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “That’s right you lucky duck. I was late to the sport. I borrowed gear for a while. I could barely stand up without falling on my ass.”
Harper snorts softly beside me as she washes the veggies and I start chopping an onion. “You still fall on your ass.”
“Lies,” I say. “All lies.”
Connor grins and flips the page.
I toss some of the chopped onion into the skillet when Connor says, “That’s weird.”
“What’s that bud?” I ask, continuing to cook while waiting for him to explain.
“Hey, Mom?” he says slowly. “Why am I in this picture? I don’t remember this day.”
“Oh,” she says, chuckling softly. “That’s not you, sweetheart. That’s your dad.”
My chest tightens and the knife I was just using slips right out of my hand, landing on the counter with a thunk.
Oh…fuck.
I want to run. I want to stay. I want to shout at Harper for letting this slip so carelessly, but I also want to thank her for finally ending this charade and setting the truth free.
Did she mean to do it like that?
Jesus Christ, help me.
My throat closes up, caught between relief and panic. Connor blinks, looks down at the picture again, then back at me, his brows showing his uncertainty.
“My…dad?” he asks.
Shit.
I open my mouth to answer him and then close it immediately.
My hands twitch at my sides, wanting to reach for him but afraid to move at the same time.
This isn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Not in my kitchen with a half-chopped onion and a photo album.
Not with Harper’s face draining of color as she realizes what she’s done.