Math could fit, but how can I not remember my own child?
They’re gone by the time I get back to the table, and my food’s gone too. That’s what I get for leaving it unattended around these assholes.
My stomach’s queasy though, and I don’t even want my half-empty float. The background noise of the restaurant is suddenly deafening. Every fork clinking against a plate, every glass being placed on the table, every time the front door opens—it’s all magnified. My head throbs.
There’s a nagging at the back of my brainthat what I saw is what I fucking saw. But I don’t know the first thing about reaching out and contacting her. If I did, what would I say? Oh, hey, is that my kid? She’d probably dump another glass of something on my head.
I have no idea what the hell to do. If he’s my kid, I want to step up, be his dad, but taking on a kid while I’m in college trying to get a break and get into the NHL… Fuck. That’s a lot.
It’s more than a lot.
There’s a chance I’m overreacting, seeing things I want to see. Maybe there’s some day-dreaming analyst who can tell me what it means to see yourself in the face of another woman’s kid.
On the other hand, there’s a chance he’s really mine, in which case, I at least need to have a conversation with his mom. And while I have no clue where I could find her, there’s at least one person on the team who could help me.
“Hey, Ares?”
Our goaltender slurps the last of his milkshake before meeting my stare.
“I need your help.”
CHAPTER 14
Raffi
She’s not at the game. Ares’s girl is in the stands, but there’s no sign of the redhead whose name I have come to learn is Tori.
Not sure if it’s short for anything, but it’s one of the questions I’ve added to the list of things I’d like to talk to her about. Didn’t Eloise give her my number?
Eloise shrugs when she catches me staring. She mouths something, but I can’t make it out. I wave it off. No biggie, right?
My gut stirs. It has been unsettled since I saw the child I’m almost entirely sure is mine. Fuck. I don’t know whether to be angry or sad. Did she try to find me? Did she just let me live my life this whole time and not bother telling me? Did she have a hard time during her pregnancy? Was his birth okay? Has she spent this whole time alone and raising our kid?
I need answers. Questions swirl in my brain, not letting up.
Jackson Gilbert comes up behind me. “You okay? You look a bit green.”
“I’m good. Too much cheese.”
His face contorts. “You’re gonna stink all fucking night.”
Probably accurate.
I’d love to say that was my best game ever, but it wasn’t. There’s a heaviness in my bones I can’t shake. Pretty sure I zoned out for chunks of the game, staring into space. Not really great when you’re trying to make an impression on the coaching staff. At least not if you want to make a positive impression.
Tonight, I’m heading to Mom’s after the game. I need to talk to her about things with Tori, how to proceed, what to say, what to do. I don’t really know if she’s going to be ecstatic or lose her shit. Might not even mention it to her at all. Depends how I feel when I get there.
Before I get in the car, I head to the hockey house to dump my gear and grab my overnight bag. The guys are all at the bar post-game, so it’s just me and the low-key odor no one can figure out that lingers in the hockey house.
My bag’s all ready to go, but I feel like a sandwich so while I’m eating slices of turkey straight out of the packet, I pull up tonight’s match report, which is already written and online by the one and only Tabitha.
I don’t always agree with what she says in these things, but it’d at least be nice to fill in some of the blanks from the night.
Tonight, the UCR Raccoons return to home ice at The Trash Can and welcome the Minnesota Snow Pirates.
Resident hot-shot goaltender Ares de la Peña made 41 saves and the Cedar Rapids Raccoons bagged another ‘W’ with a 2-0 win. This reporter had to ask how it felt to have another win under his belt. “You make your own luck,” said de la Peña. “You could have the exact same set of circumstances every night, same team, same players, same everything, but there’s an element of luck in every game. That keeps me humble.”
A snort bursts out of me. “Humble” isn’t exactly a word Iwould use to describe Ares de la Peña. In the silence, I’m convinced someone sniffs. It’s probably Bacon, our team’s pot-belly pig mascot. Usually he stays in Ares’s fancy-ass apartment across town, but every now and then he’ll bring him to a game, and drop him here before heading out.
