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After several stops to use the bathroom, eat, and pump gas, I arrive at NHL headquarters. There’s a code to the parking garage in the letter, so I push in the numbers and blow out a breath as the yellow metal arm rises, allowing me access.
“Act like you don’t care what he has to say. Listen to what he has to say. That’s why you came,” I mutter under my breath.
The reception area is sleek and modern with the stars of NHL behind slim glass frames. The colors are vibrant and when you move, they appear to be three dimensional.
A woman with curly black hair pulled off her face asks, “May I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Eldrick Cross.” I hand her my driver’s license.
She checks the computer, taps a few buttons, and responds, “Sixth floor. Stop at reception there.” Then she points to the bank of elevators.
Stepping out, I don’t need to talk to the receptionist because my piece of shit real dad is talking to Roman Beatty, the five-time MVP of the Stanley Cup.
They shake hands, and Beatty smiles as he brushes past me. But I’m looking at the man behind him. He’s broad shouldered and as I stare, it’s like looking in a mirror. Why did I never notice this before? I’ve seen him on draft days, countless games, and at least ten times awarding the Stanley Cup.
A tentative smile pulls at the corners of his mouth as he says, “Jenna, don’t disturb me. For any reason. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Is he still trying to hide me like he has for the past twenty-two years? Does his administrative assistant know I’m his son?
He signals for me to accompany him into his office. As we enter, he shuts the door behind us and draws the blinds, concealing the open glass wall that overlooks the bustling executive floor. It becomes evident that he doesn't want prying eyes witnessing any potential confrontation or outburst from me.
I walk to the windows overlooking the city, where there are no blinds but sheers on each end.
“Great view.” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my white sweatpants.
He keeps his distance from me. “It is. I’m happy you came.”
Excitement and nervousness intertwine as I process the magnitude of this meeting. Finally, after all these years, I’m eye to eye with my biological father. The anticipation builds within me, fueled by a mix of curiosity and hope that this connection could fill the void that has lingered within me for so long.
A part of me also hates him. Maybe none of the bad things would have happened to me if he were in my life. He has the money and means to travel to see me. This side of me wins out as I let out an unintentional scoff.
“Just say whatever it is to make yourself feel better for abandoning me.” I almost surprise myself with the calmness in my voice. I’ve gone over and over this. Each time I’ve imagined this moment, I’m yelling, grabbing him by the neck, and pushing him against the wall. Harper’s right—I’m growing up.
Slowly, I angle myself where I can see his face. “Your mom and I, well, we didn’t date. We…”
“Hooked up. I’ve heard.”
He sighs and walks around, leaning his shoulder on the window. “I’m sure you love your mother, and I don’t want to disparage her.” He pauses. “But she had her eyes on a bigger prize than me. My teammate had a better outlook for the NHL.”
My stepdad called her a puck bunny. No way. My mom was sweet and attentive.
“Are you calling my mom a puck bunny?” My blood pumps faster and harder. Damn, why am I still defending her?
He waits a few moments before he speaks. “We, as you put it, hooked up several times. I started to develop feelings, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested in a relationship with me.”
Excitement cautiously moves through my veins, but there’s also a nagging sense of confusion. Why didn't he claim me as his son before? What could have been the reasons behind his absence? These questions flicker in the back of my mind, adding an extra layer of complexity to this reunion.
“Can we get to the part where you somehow got the court to let me play hockey? How you never contacted me, even though you knew. I mean my coach knew, so you had to know.”
He presses a button on the desk phone. “Jenna, I’ll be out of the office for a few days.” His square jaw relaxes as he peers into my eyes and inches closer to me. “I don’t want to talk to you in my office like you’re a client. You’re my son, and I want to show you my favorite place. Do you have something warmer?”
In that moment, as our eyes lock, he addresses me with a word that stirs up a complex blend of emotions within me—son. A surge of conflicting feelings washes over me, caught between anger and a glimmer of hope that perhaps we can forge a relationship.
“In the car.”
“Can I take you there?”
