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“Can I have one for free?”
“No.” I grab the photo from him and put it back on the pile.
He looks at the rest of my table—a few signed pucks, a signed jersey, and a signed pair of gloves—with complete disdain before he wanders away.
I drop my head and sigh.
This is so embarrassing.
“Oh great,” I mumble as another kid—about five years old—approaches my table. He’s got wild black hair, huge Coke bottle glasses, and he’s staring right at me.
We don’t break eye contact as he walks right up to my table and stares at me.
“Hello,” I say.
He tilts his head as he scrutinizes my face. “Hi.”
There’s no way this kid knows who I am. There aren’t a lot of five-year-old Harris Sutton fans in the world.
“Are you lost? Are you looking for the bathroom or something?”
He shakes his head and pushes his glasses up his nose.
“Where are your parents?” I ask as I look around. He’s too young to be on his own.
“My mom is here,” he says. “And you’re my dad.”
I snort out a laugh. “That’s a good one. Did Reggie put you up to this?”
“Who’s Reggie?”
“Seriously, kid,” I say as I look at him funny. “You shouldn’t be walking around here all by yourself. Where are your parents?”
“You’re my dad,” he says. “I’m Lucas.”
“Okay, kid,” I say, starting to get annoyed. “The joke is over. Move along.”
“You’re Harris Sutton, right?” he asks as he stares at me. “The Flamethrower. You play on the San Antonio Hyenas.”
My stomach sinks as I stare at him. Those eyes… They’re hauntingly familiar.
“How do you know my name?” I ask with my body going still.
“Because you’re my dad.”
“Kid, I?—”
And then I see her.
She bursts out of the crowd, huffing and puffing as she runs right to the little guy and drops to her knee. She grabs his arms and spins him around. “Why did you run away from me?” she asks with panic in her eyes. “You never run away from Mommy! Ever!”
She suddenly remembers where she is and her blue eyes flit over to mine. Her cheeks go bright red as she looks up at me.
It’s her. It’s really her.
Fiona.
My jaw is hanging open as I stare at her in shock.
