Chapter 28
Silas
“You’re late.”
I cut my eyes at Rooks as I toss my gear onto the bench. “I’m one minute early, thank you very much.”
His shit-eating grin earns him a shove before I check my phone. I know there won’t be a text or a call from Oakley—I left her half an hour ago—but the compulsion to check on both my girls is strong. Even if one of them isn’t mine.
The love you that slipped out earlier did so without a single thought. Like the last several years apart never happened. Like it was all just a bad dream.
If only.
“Guess who’s coming off IR soon?” Changing the subject, Rooks lifts a brow.
Both of mine shoot up. “Jake’s back? No way. He told me he’d be in Jacksonville for another month at least.”
“Passed all his evals early,” Rooks says, grinning. “Starts no-contact skates next week.”
“And you just happen to have insider knowledge?”
He shrugs, still smug. “Walked in on Coach’s video call this morning.”
Jake is my preferred right winger. He went out with a shoulder injury during our playoff run last spring and has been in Florida recovering with family.
Most of the guys on the roster now are rookies or trades. Thorn fought to keep our core together, but management wanted fresh blood.
Now it’s just me, Rooks, Jake, our goalie (Name), and (other defender) holding down what’s left of the old crew. Everyone else is still finding their rhythm.
Tonight’s preseason game should be…interesting.
Thorn shuffled the lines yesterday, trying to get the third and fourth units to gel. He even bumped Colt up to my line to spark some competition.
“Dude, your phone’s ringing.”
I don’t look up. “Who is it?”
“Just a number.”
“You can silence it. Spam call. That number doesn’t go out to anyone,” I say, glancing his way.
Rooks nods and hits the side button, tossing the phone back onto my duffel. A door slams somewhere down the tunnel, followed by Thorn’s whistle.
“Let’s move it, Voltage!” he calls.
Practice kicks into gear fast as we jump into warm-ups, line drills, passing sequences, but my head’s not in it. The scrape of blades against ice usually clears everything out, but today it’s just noise. Every turn feels half a second late.
I dig my edges harder, trying to skate the thoughts away.
Rooks flies by me with a chirp. “C’mon, old man!”
I flip him off on the next pivot and fire the puck toward the boards. It ricochets too sharp, smacking into the glass right beside Thorn’s head. The whistle shrieks again.
“Bench. Now.”
I coast to the boards, chest heaving. Thorn’s eyes narrow, but before he can start in, Rooks skates up holding my phone, the screen lit.
“Si,” he says quietly. “Same number’s calling again. Not spam this time.”
A chill crawls up my spine. “Who is it?”
Rooks shakes his head. “No caller ID. Just says it’s a Georgia number. Want me to answer?”
I snatch it out of his hand and turn my back to the ice, pressing the phone to my ear. “This is Harrison.”
The line stays quiet long enough that I think it’s a wrong number. Then a voice I haven’t heard in fifteen years slides through the receiver like oil.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You actually answered your phone, boy.”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. “Who is this?”
“You know damn well who it is,” the man drawls. “Heard through the grapevine you’ve been playing daddy. Figured I should check in on my kids.”
My knuckles whiten around the phone. The arena noise fades until all I hear is my own pulse hammering in my ears.
“You lost that right long before Aubrey was born,” I grit out. “Don’t ever call this number again.”
He laughs, the same low, taunting sound that used to precede every slammed door. “You always were mouthy. Tell your little lady I said hi.”
Click.
The call drops, leaving static echoing in my head.
“Everything okay?” Rooks asks, voice tentative.
“Yeah,” I lie, shoving the phone into my waistband. My breathing’s all wrong again, too shallow, too fast.
Thorn yells from center ice. “You skating or standing, Harrison?”
I grab my stick, push back onto the ice, and bury every thought under the rhythm of my blades.
The last thing I need is that man creeping back into our lives, especially now that Oakley and Aubrey are both under my roof.
I force my focus back to the ice. The next drill starts, and I push hard out of the zone, chasing the puck down the boards. My blades bite too deep, my stick hits the ice half a beat late. Rooks’s pass ricochets off my skate and dies at center.
“Focus, Cap!” one of the rookies yells, but the words barely register.
That voice—his voice—won’t stop playing on a loop inside my head. I can’t hear anything else. Not the play calls, not the drills, not the guys skating past me. By the time Thorn blows the whistle again, I’m already expecting it.
“Bench. Now.”
I skate off, slower this time, chest burning. Thorn meets me halfway, his eyes narrowing at whatever he sees on my face.
“Helmet off.”
I yank it loose, the strap snapping against my chin.
“Something on your mind, Harrison?” His tone isn’t angry. It’s that low, measured calm that means he’s one second away from benching me entirely.
“Just a bad call,” I mutter.
“Your head clearly isn’t in it, and you’re skating like you’ve got weights tied to your ankles. Great idea for future drills, but I need you game-ready.”
I swallow hard, looking past him toward the rink glass. The reflection staring back doesn’t look like the man that left home this morning. He looks strung out and panicked.
“Was it Oakley?”
I shake my head once. “No.”
Thorn studies me for another long second before motioning toward the tunnel. “My office, now.”
“Thorn, I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, Harrison.”
The authority in his tone cuts through whatever argument I might’ve had. I grab my stick and head down the tunnel, the sound of the team resuming drills echoing behind me. Thorn follows, closing the door to his office once we’re inside.
He doesn’t sit. Just crosses his arms and stares me down.
“You want to tell me what’s going on, or you want me to start guessing?”
I scrub both hands over my face. “Someone called. Someone who shouldn’t have my number.”
His brows knit. “Reporter?”
“No.” My voice comes out rough, low. “My father.”
Thorn goes still. We’ve talked about a lot over the years—injuries, losses, personal shit—but never this. Never him. “You said he was gone.”
“He was. Still is, as far as I’m concerned, but he found a way to remind me he exists.” I pace once then lean against the edge of his desk. “He knows I have custody of Aubrey. Knows Oakley Kate is back. That’s what’s got me twisted up. He shouldn’t know either of those things.”
Thorn exhales slowly, nodding once. “I’ll get with the security team. Make sure no one gets in without their passes. You want my two cents?”
“Always.”
“Give your lawyer a heads up. Don’t call him back. Don’t engage. Whatever he’s after, it’s not closure. It’s control. You give him an inch, he’ll take your whole damn life.”
I stare down at my still-shaking hands and force my fingers to steady. “He’s not getting near them.”
“Good.” Thorn claps me on the shoulder. “Go home. Clear your head. We’ll handle prep without you today.”
I want to argue, to insist I can push through it like everything else. But my body’s already moving before my brain catches up. “Tell Rooks to text me the schedule,” I say, reaching for the doorknob.
Thorn nods. “And, Silas?”
“Yeah?”
He gives me a look that hits dead center. “Whatever’s waiting for you at home—stop trying to handle it like a penalty kill. You’re allowed to lean on people, too. Let Oakley know what’s going on. I’ll give Hannah a ring and tell her to put that dog of hers to work guarding your girls.”
I don’t answer as I let the door shut behind me, because the second I get back home, I am going to do exactly what Thorn suggested. And God help me, but I’m going to lean on the one person I shouldn’t.
By the time I pull into the driveway, it’s after eight. The porch light is still on, casting a soft glow across the brick. Through the front window, I can see the faint flicker of the TV from Aubrey’s room and a sliver of movement in the hall.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. The call, my father’s voice, hell, even saying the word “father,” still has me on edge. I can feel the anger in my bones, sharp and electric.
I finally let out a long breath as I walk inside and take in Kate’s shoes by the door and Aubrey’s backpack slumped against the wall. My family. The only one that’s ever mattered.
Bypassing the laughter coming from Aubrey’s school room, I move straight to my bathroom.
I showered at the rink to cool down my emotions, but nothing compares to hot water beating down on my tense muscles as I try to wash away the weight pressing on my chest. I run soapy hands down my chest and stomach until my fist wraps around my dick.
It seems to help until the sound of a soft gasp cuts through the steam.
When I glance through the glass shower door, the girl of my dreams is standing in the doorway, the sweetest shade of pink tinting her cheeks.