Chapter 27
~
Carissa
I pushed off from the railing, stomach twisting as I realized Henry wasn’t anywhere near his seat.
Panic flared, sharp and immediate. One second he’d been bouncing in place, hands clinging to the rail, eyes wide with excitement, and the next…
gone. The Game Seven crowd surged around me, a river of bodies in jerseys and hats, and I had to fight to shove my way forward without getting trampled.
“Henry!” I yelled, voice lost in the roar, the puck slapping against the boards somewhere below.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, and I caught the tail end of it: goal review, a near miss. But I barely registered the words. My eyes darted in every direction. The jumbotron above flickered an image of Dawson skating hard, stick snapping, the tension written across his face.
Shit. And here I was, having lost his kid.
I bolted down an aisle, hopping over spilled popcorn and dodging soda cups as someone tried to pass me with a tray in hand.
The scent of pretzels and butter mixed with the cold bite of the arena air, but it didn’t quite register.
My chest heaved, lungs screaming. I spun into the concession area, glancing behind counters and between patrons, hoping to see that familiar green hoodie, that small frame, anywhere. Anywhere.
A cluster of people erupted in cheers at a screen nearby.
I didn’t stop to look. I passed the mini screens mounted above the snack bars: a slapshot, a blocked attempt, a scramble in front of the net.
Dawson’s face appeared for a fraction of a second but it was peripheral. Only to taunt me some more.
I didn’t have the luxury to watch. I had to find Henry.
I twisted through the hallways leading toward the bathrooms, peering around corners, scanning every stall, every nook where a small child could hide or be hidden by accident.
A janitor wheeled a cart past me, muttering something about spilled beer.
I muttered an apology as I raced past him, fingers gripping the railing on the short staircase I had to navigate.
My legs burned, but the thought of Henry alone, scared, maybe panicking, made the effort irrelevant.
Somewhere in the distance, someone scored.
The arena erupted in noise, a wall of sound that pushed against me.
I ducked into a narrower corridor, pressing myself against the wall to let a family pass.
A screen overhead caught my eye: Dawson zigzagging through the defensive line, the puck clattering against the boards.
His body moved like clockwork, but the edge in his eyes mirrored the edge in my own panic.
I shook my head, forcing myself to keep moving.
I ran through another concession area, weaving between people buying hot dogs and soda, almost knocking over a tray.
“Sorry, sorry!” I gasped, not really processing the murmured exclamations.
My stomach pulled tighter with every second I couldn’t find him. I had been so distracted by the tension between Dawson and me all day, thinking about his distance, thinking about whether he even wanted me here at all… and now it had come crashing down.
A loud cheer erupted behind me, another goal attempt, maybe a save. The screens in this section caught a flash of Boone skating past the net, laughing at something Gage muttered. It would have been cute, had I had the headspace. I didn’t. My head was a single thread: find Henry.
I sprinted down a concourse toward the upper seating sections, scanning every row, every opening.
My hands clutched at railings, at the backs of chairs, at anything I could use to steady myself as the crowd pressed in and out.
The loudspeaker relayed a line of play, but the words dissolved into static in my brain.
Another hallway came up near the suite entrances.
The air was warmer here, tinged with cleaning chemicals, popcorn grease, and the faint smell of cold metal from the arena structure.
I paused for just a heartbeat, trying to catch my breath, scanning faces as they passed in both directions.
And then I saw Dawson’s shoulder moving past the doorway to a service corridor.
End of the first. Oh, thank God.
Relief and panic collided in my chest. I had to catch up.
“Dawson!” I called, voice shaking. He stopped mid-step, turning toward me, eyes narrowing in concern but also recognition. “It’s Henry. He’s gone. I can’t find him.”
He took off at a jog, and I followed, weaving past staff, security, and a pair of maintenance doors. Boone and Gage fell in step behind him, silent but alert, matching our pace.
My hands shook, and as if he sensed it, Dawson grabbed one without breaking his stride, and gave it a squeeze. “We’ll find him. He has to be here somewhere.”
We reached another stairwell leading back toward the lower bowl. I clutched the railing, chest heaving. My whole world was reduced to searching, moving, scanning, fighting the crowd, hoping that Henry was safe, that I hadn’t failed him entirely.
Dawson was a steady presence, controlled, but I could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the railing.
He understood the stakes without me having to spell them out.
Boone and Gage fanned out, eyes moving over every aisle, every seat, ready to intercept anyone who might be blocking our search.
We moved in tandem, our trio slicing through the maze of concourses, hallways, and stairwells. They only had a few more minutes before they had to be back on the ice.
I pushed on, heart hammering, voice hoarse from calling his name. Dawson’s hand brushed mine again, just enough to anchor me, and I realized, painfully, that this was the first time in days I had felt the smallest fraction of connection to him.
I spotted him finally, wedged between two tall fans near the railing, squinting down at the ice as if the whole arena existed only there. Relief slammed into me, hot and heavy, and I bolted forward, weaving through the crowd, ignoring the blur of jerseys and yelling fans.
“Henry!” I shouted, skidding to a stop just as he turned.
His face lit up the second he recognized me, and I didn’t wait.
I scooped him into my arms. He wriggled a little at first, laughing nervously, but I held him tight, burying my face in the back of his hoodie.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I hissed, my heart still racing.
“You said I could see better from up here,” he squeaked, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the fear. “I didn’t mean to get lost.”
“You’re lucky I found you,” I said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “And you’re never wandering off again. Okay?”
He nodded solemnly, gripping me like I was his lifeline, and I couldn’t help but laugh, though it was tight and breathless.
Boone and Gage appeared almost instantly.
Gage carried Henry like he weighed nothing, arms firm around him, while Boone stepped slightly ahead, his body angled to shield us from the press and anyone else trying to snap photos.
The chaos of the arena seemed to fold around us in that moment.
Dawson came up beside me, eyes scanning Henry first, then me.
Relief softened the tension in his face for a fraction of a second before it was replaced by the sharp edge of concern.
He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the weight of everything he carried in the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched.
I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly along his forearm.
Our eyes met, and for just a beat, there was understanding without words.
Then the arena announcer’s voice cut through the speakers.
Time to get back on the ice. The Knights had little room for error, and every second counted.
Boone’s grin was quick and mischievous, but the urgency in his eyes matched mine.
Gage, still holding Henry, moved with surprising calm, scanning the surrounding crowd for obstacles.
We didn’t waste another second. The boys hustled down the concourse, Dawson following us like a shadow, and Henry nestled securely in Gage’s arms, pointing at the ice every few steps.
Gage handed the boy to me, then leaned in to kiss him on the forehead. “No more running off, little guy. Stay with Carissa. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said, sounding glum—or guilty.
Gage winked at me, then hurried to the ice.
We made it just in time to catch the first faceoff of the next period.
The crowd erupted around us, and I could feel the tension ripple through Henry as he pressed close, eyes wide, clutching my arm.
The jumbotron flashed, showing the puck being dropped, players colliding, Dawson hustling past the blue line.
My stomach tightened. He looked tired and too tense but he was moving with precision, command, authority.
He was doing everything he could. I had to believe that would be enough.
The period started better. Dawson passed the puck with clarity, his vision sharp, his body moving with that controlled aggression that always reminded me he was in charge.
Boone was skating wide, keeping the other team on their toes, and Gage floated between offense and defense like a silent anchor.
I watched Henry mimic every move he could see, arms pumping, yelling encouragement, even jumping in his seat when Boone cut past a defender.
His laughter and shouts gave me a thread of normalcy amid my gnawing worry.