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I smile. “Yeah. That’s my son. That’s my girl.”
I give a little wave—small, but Eli catches it, eyes widening as he waves back. I nearly choke on air. A hot and tight lump crawls up my throat.
Coach roars. “Holt! Head in the game!”
That snaps me back. I nearly drop my stick, then shoot a death glare back at Brooks, who’s grinning because he caught the whole thing.
Every cut, every check, every desperate chase for the puck is for Eli. For that look he gave me. For the chance to not be the deadbeat scumbag Gwen and some of the gossip rags made me out to be. I block shots that should’ve been goals. Knock passes off course that would’ve flown past me a week ago. There’s a play—breakaway, blue line to go—where I outrun Brooks, the first time all season. The bench erupts, guys slamming sticks, Coach actually grins.
I peek at the stands whenever I can. Eli is practically off his seat. Zoe’s clapping, shouting something I can’t hear. They’re both—fuck, they’re both proud.
That’s it. That’s the only win I need.
Practice ends with Coach in a good mood, hallelujah, which means he swears at us half as much in the locker room. He taps my helmet as I skate off. “Nice hustle, Holt. Keep skating with that motivation, you might actually do something out there.”
The adrenaline’s still surging, drowning out even the old aches. I don’t know if I’m more exhausted or high from it, but it doesn’t matter.
I de-gear and jog out to the side entrance where the families usually wait post-practice. There they are—my accidental family. Eli with a Lego catalogue in hand, Zoe balancing two giant hot chocolates. She sees me first, nudges Eli, and the kid straightens.
I go for nonchalance, leaning against the plexiglass. “You catch that last drill?”
His smile is tiny, but real. “Yeah. You didn’t suck as much today.”
Zoe snorts. “High praise. Take it.”
I do.
Eli hands over the catalog. “They have the Millennium Falcon, too. But we have to finish the Death Star first.”
My heart squeezes. “We do, buddy.”
He nods, serious, and I get that look—like maybe I’m not the villain in his story anymore.
We drive home in our separate cars, and the second Zoe parks, Eli’s out the door, backpack slapping against his side as he barrels for the house. “Bathroom!” he yells, which is the only warning I get before he disappears through the garage door.
It would be funny, except my stomach drops when I glance across the street and brown Buick in the neighbors’ driveway.
Gwen’s car.
A red filter drops over my vision. My first instinct is to march over and demand what the hell she thinks she’s doing—spying on us? Gathering intel for her next court filing? Poisoning the well with gossip?
My fingers curl tight enough around the duffel handle to leave imprints. I start for the curb, already rehearsing lines in my head—some combination of “stay away from my kid” and “if you pull any more shit, I’ll bury you in paperwork.” Maybe I’ll even keep my voice down.
But Zoe’s faster. She grabs my elbow, her grip soft but unmovable. “Whoa,” she says, “don’t.”
I try to shake her off with a jerk, but she holds steady and plants herself in my path. “Jonah, seriously. This is exactly what she wants.”
“Which is what, exactly?” My voice comes out a growl.
“To get you to do or say something she can use against you.” Zoe’s eyes narrow. “Go inside with your son.”
“Zoe—”
She leans in, lowering her voice to shield the words from any nosy window-watchers. “If you go over there, you’re the hothead with anger issues. You’re feeding her narrative, Jonah.”
The sick part is, she’s right. I know it, even as I stare past Zoe’s shoulder at the car. If I don’t get my shit together, she wins.
I feel something sour bubble up in my throat. “So what am I supposed to do?”
