Chapter 6
Not on Air
JONAH
My palms sweat as I stare at the script Zoe prepared for me in ten minutes.
I’ve faced down enforcers twice my size without flinching, but the thought of speaking to the camera about my personal life has my heart racing like I’m in overtime of Game Seven.
Thank God Zoe’s here. She moves around my living room with the efficiency of someone who’s done this hundreds of times, adjusting lights and checking angles with a confidence that’s hypnotic to watch.
“Hold this for a sec.” She thrusts a light reflector at me, and I take it, grateful to have something to do with my hands besides fidget.
“Higher, please. And tilt it toward you a bit.” Her glasses slide down her nose as she squints at me, assessing the light. “Perfect. Don’t move.”
I freeze in position, feeling ridiculous but willing to do whatever she says. Maybe it’s because Zoe Lane commands compliance, even from stubborn assholes like me. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t hesitate, just expects things to go her way.
“This is silly,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. “I should just issue a press statement.”
“The people need to see your face and hear in your voice how much this has affected you. No way.” She fiddles with her camera settings, not even looking at me.
“Believe me, I don’t want to show my face, either, which is why I do an audio-only podcast. But for this, we need a visual, so I’m stepping way out of my comfort zone here. ”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Trust me, it’s necessary. People will connect with you as a human being, not just a hockey player who knocked someone up.”
I wince. “That’s not what happened.”
“I know that, you know that, but the Donny Dexters of the world will spin it however it gets the highest ratings.” She looks up from her camera, her expression softening. “This way, you get to tell your truth—what’s in your heart—first.”
She steps closer, her eyes narrowed on my head. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she’s licking her thumb and reaching for my hair. “You have a cowlick.” She smooths over a section.
The touch zaps my spine. It’s ridiculous. It’s her spit and my hair, for fuck’s sake. But it’s the casual way she touches me, like we’re comfortable with each other, that makes my chest tighten. Zoe Lane is touching me, and that’s apparently all it takes to short-circuit my brain.
“There.” She steps back to assess her work. “Much better.”
I clear my throat, regaining my composure. “Thanks.”
She’s magnetic fire, and if I don’t run fast and furiously away from her, I’ll get sucked in and cremated.
That’s why I kept myself from hooking up with her after Maisie’s Christmas party, when we both had too many spiked eggnogs.
I’ve never wanted someone like that, but I also knew my life was about to blow up with me moving teams and towns.
That’s why I ghosted her after she texted to see if I wanted to grab coffee.
Because I’m a walking train wreck, she’s my sister’s best friend, and—most importantly—she’s way too good for me.
Now, I need to focus on my son one hundred percent. I can’t put that boy through any more drama, so relationships are completely off-limits.
“We’ll do a quick run-through of the questions,” Zoe says, oblivious to my internal crisis.
She’s all business, clipboard in hand, pencil tucked behind her ear in a way that should be nerdy.
Except with her, it’s not—it’s fucking hot.
“Remember, short answers, stick to the facts, and keep the emotional stuff minimal but authentic.”
I nod, trying to focus on her words and not on the way her hair catches the light or how her glasses make her eyes look bigger, more intense.
My attraction to her makes zero sense. She’s not my usual type—not a model, influencer, athlete, or a puck bunny.
She’s this impossible mix between a librarian and a pit bull, and that does things to me that defies all logic.
“Earth to Jonah?” She waves a hand in front of my face. “Listen up.”
“I’m listening,” I lie. “Short answers. Facts. Authentic emotion. Got it.”
She looks skeptical but continues with, “When I ask about Rosie, keep it simple too. College relationship, amicable split when you signed with the NHL. You knew nothing of Eli. No need to go into the messy details.”
The “messy details” being that Rosie broke my heart and hid my own child from me. But Zoe’s right—keep Rosie out of it as much as possible.
“And when we talk about Eli, focus on the future, not the past. You’re his father, you’re committed to being in his life, you’re putting his needs first.”
“That part’s easy,” I say quietly. “It’s true.”
Approval flickers across her face. “Good. That’s good.”
We run through a few more practice questions, Zoe nodding after each of my responses.
Despite the absurdity of the situation—my son sleeping at some foster family’s house, my career potentially imploding, my sister’s best friend prepping me for a podcast confession—I feel strangely calm.
Zoe has that effect, somehow. She makes the chaos seem manageable.
“Ready?” Her finger hovers over the button that’ll broadcast my personal business to the entire internet.
“Fuck no,” I reply honestly. “But let’s do it.”
“You got this.” Her face is all business. “Really.”
We settle into our positions—Zoe in the interviewer’s chair, me on my own couch looking like I’m about to face a firing squad.
Zoe counts down with her fingers silently, then she transforms before my eyes.
Her posture straightens, her voice takes on a professional cadence, and suddenly, she’s not just Sydney’s quirky friend but a legitimate journalist.
“Good morning, everyone. I’m Zoe Lane, and this is a special edition of Zoe Knows. Today I’m joined by NHL star Jonah Holt, who has an important personal announcement to share. Jonah, thank you for speaking with us today.”
She nods at me, and I take a deep breath. This is it. No turning back.
“Thank you for having me, Zoe.” My voice is steadier than I expected.
She jumps right in with, “I understand the Dickens police paid you a visit yesterday.”
“Yes. They had surprising news for me.” I take a breath. “I learned I have a nine-year-old son.”
The words feel strange coming out of my mouth, but also right. Like I’m acknowledging a truth that’s been waiting for me to discover it.
“His mother, Rosie Anders, and I were together years ago in college.”
“And how did that end?”
“She left without explanation, and I had no idea she was pregnant.”
Zoe interlaces her fingers. “That must’ve been painful.”
“It was, and it gets worse. Two months ago, she passed away in a car accident, and only yesterday did I discover I had a son. I’m doing everything in my power for custody, and we’re both adjusting to this new reality.”
Zoe’s eyes never leave mine. “Can you tell us a bit about how you’re handling this so far?”
I look down, gathering my thoughts. “It’s challenging. My boy lost his mother, and now he’s meeting a father he never knew he had. We’re going to take it day by day.”
“And what about your hockey career?”
“Hockey is important to me, but my son comes first now,” I say, no hesitation, surprised by how easily the truth comes. “I’m working with the Boise Trout organization to figure out how to balance my responsibilities as a player and as a father. But I want to be clear—my son is my priority.”
“What would you like people to understand about your situation?” Zoe gives me the perfect opening to deliver the message I most want people to hear.
“I’d ask for some privacy as we figure this out. My son’s been through enough, and media attention will only make this harder on him. I’m not hiding anything—I’m proud to be his father—but he’s a child who’s experienced a tremendous loss. I hope people can respect that.”
Zoe smiles, a genuine heartfelt smile. “Thank you for sharing your story, Jonah. We wish you and your son all the best as you navigate this new chapter together.”
She ends the recording and immediately lets out a breath, her professional demeanor melting away. “That was perfect, Jonah. Seriously. Short, honest, dignified.”
“Thanks. You were great—that helped.” I slump back into the couch, feeling like I’ve just played three consecutive overtime periods. “Now what?”
“Now I’ll invite you as a collaborator to the post, and you accept it.” She’s already clicking away on her phone. “With any luck, it’ll be picked up by the major sports outlets before Donny can break his version.”
I watch as her fingers fly over the phone screen with impressive speed. Watching someone who’s damn good at their job is mesmerizing. Or maybe it’s just her.
“Thank you for this.” The words just come out. “For warning me. For... all of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, I’ll pick you up this afternoon? Around one?”
She looks at me like I just spoke Klingon, so I add, “To go shopping for Eli.”
“That’s right.” She points at me. “Shopping at one. Sounds good.”
I see her out the door, and within minutes of it going live, my phone buzzes. Texts, calls, notifications—the digital press mob storming. I ignore most of them, scrolling through just enough to see that the video is already spreading like wildfire.
Brooks: Just saw the video. Did well. Call me ASAP.
Coach: My office, 9am tomorrow. No exceptions.
Mom: Oh, honey. You did great. Love you.
Agent: Damage control in progress. Several endorsement possibilities. Kid-friendly brands love a good redemption story.
I silence my phone except for a few key contacts, but when it buzzes again with Lily Hernandez’s number, I answer.
“Ms. Hernandez.” I try to sound more put-together than I feel.
“Mr. Holt. I just saw your announcement. I understand the pressure you must’ve been under to make it so quickly.”
“Yeah, well, the media machine waits for no one.” I fight to keep the bitterness out of my tone.
“Indeed.” She pauses, and my stomach drops. “Mr. Holt, I wanted to discuss your case before our scheduled meeting on Friday.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, but something’s wrong in her tone.
“I’ve been reviewing your situation, and I have some concerns about your ability to provide consistent care for Eli given your professional commitments.”
The bluntness of her statement hits. “I’m his father.” The words come out unsteady.
“Yes, and that’s important. But being a parent, especially to a child who’s experienced trauma, requires consistent presence. Your hockey schedule involves significant travel, late nights, and unpredictable hours.”
“My mother’s offered to help.”
“That’s excellent, and family support will certainly strengthen your case,” she acknowledges. “However, given the temporary nature of family visits, it would significantly improve your position if you had full-time, live-in childcare to ensure Eli has round-the-clock, guaranteed supervision.”
“You mean a nanny?” The word feels strange in my mouth.
“Yes, or a similar arrangement. Someone who could provide stability when your career obligations take you away from home.”
“I’ll get a plan together,” I tell her. “I’ll call you back.”
After hanging up, I drop my phone on the couch like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.
The implications of Ms. Hernandez’s words are clear: get help—in three days—or risk losing Eli.