Chapter 47: Daddy or Not
Harper’s POV
The squeak of skates echoed through the arena as I held my phone upright, framing Justin in another vertical shot.
"Perfect," I muttered to myself. "One more."
He cut across the ice, caught a pass, and fired the puck toward the net. It sailed wide. Coach’s whistle shrieked. "Hayes!" Justin didn’t even look up. He skated after the puck, shoulders tense, before trying again. Another miss.
Coach blew the whistle again, louder this time. "Hayes!"
Around me, the rest of the team continued the drill, but I noticed a few players glance toward Justin before quickly looking away. Something wasn’t right. I lowered my phone.
I didn’t know much about hockey. Before this documentary, I’d barely known the difference between a winger and a defenseman. But even I could tell Justin wasn’t playing like himself. His passes were late. His reactions were slower. He looked distracted. Coach skated over to him, saying something too quietly for me to hear. Justin nodded once. No argument. No smirk. Just a short nod before pushing himself back into the drill. That worried me more than if he’d talked back.
Five minutes later, practice paused for water. Justin skated over, pulling off one glove as he coasted to a stop beside me.
"So?" He leaned against the boards, breathing hard. "Did you get your clips?"
I smiled, lifting my phone. "I got plenty."
He reached for the bottle one of the trainers handed him. "But?" he asked, reading my expression immediately.
I tilted my head. "I don’t know much about hockey," I started. His smile grew. "Which means this is going to hurt," he said. "It might," I admitted, lowering my voice. "You don’t look like yourself."
He sighed. "You noticed."
"Coach has yelled your name at least six times," I said.
"I counted four," he replied.
"It was six."
He laughed softly. "I’ll trust your count." He took another drink before answering the question I hadn’t asked yet. "One of the scouts showed up."
"I thought you said scouting started next month," I said.
"So did everyone else." He nodded toward the upper rows. "He’s up there."
I followed his gaze. Near the back of the arena, a man in jeans and a gray quarter-zip sat alone with a notebook balanced on one knee. No team jacket. No credentials around his neck. If Justin hadn’t pointed him out, I would’ve assumed he was someone’s dad waiting for practice to end.
"He came without telling anyone," Justin said quietly. "Coach recognized him."
My stomach tightened. "So every mistake..."
"Counts," he finished. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’ve been waiting years for this. And now my brain decides today is the perfect day to stop working."
I looked at him for a second, then nudged his arm. "Hey." He looked over. "I know you’ve had the hospital. And your dad. And everything else. But none of that changes why you’re here. You’ve worked too hard to let one bad practice convince you you’ve forgotten how to play hockey."
He chuckled. "You make motivational speeches now?"
"Only on Tuesdays," I said.
"It’s Monday," he pointed out.
"Then you’re getting an exclusive preview."
He laughed again, a real laugh this time, and the tension around his shoulders eased just enough for me to notice. I pointed toward the ice. "Go. Put on a show for me."
He grinned. "That’s all?"
I folded my arms dramatically. "Come on, Daddy."
His eyes widened. "Oh, absolutely not."
"What?" I asked innocently.
"You cannot call me that in public," he said, his voice dropping.
I blinked with exaggerated innocence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Harper."
"What?"
"My teammates have ears," he said firmly.
I glanced toward the ice. "They’re busy."
"They’re never busy," he replied.
I laughed. "Fine. I’ll behave."
"You’d better." He pushed away from the boards. "But," he added, looking back over his shoulder with a slow smile, "I am absolutely going to make you regret that later."
Heat rushed to my face. "Oh, just play hockey."
"Yes, ma’am," he said, and skated away.
This time, I saw the difference immediately. His stride was sharper. His passes were cleaner. The hesitation was gone. Within minutes, he’d threaded a perfect pass through two defenders before snapping the puck into the top corner of the net.
Coach blew the whistle. "That’s more like it!" he called out.
I couldn’t stop smiling. There he was. The Justin everyone kept talking about. The one who belonged on NHL draft boards. The one who made impossible plays look effortless. Maybe all he’d needed was someone reminding him why he believed in himself.
Practice resumed at an even faster pace. For nearly ten minutes, Justin barely put a foot wrong. Then Coach’s whistle cut through the arena again.
"Hayes." Justin coasted over. "Bench," Coach said.
He frowned but didn’t argue. Coach waited until the others had skated away before speaking. I wasn’t close enough to hear every word. Only fragments drifted over to me.
"...leave..." "...personal life..." "...out of my rink."
Justin stared straight ahead. Coach continued. "...head in the game..." "...scouts don’t care..." "...they’re watching everything."
"I understand," Justin said quietly.
Coach clapped him once on the shoulder before skating away. I slowly lowered my phone.
This was worse than I’d thought. Coach wasn’t angry because Justin had made mistakes. He was worried. And worried coaches didn’t bench their best players unless they thought something bigger was going on.
I looked back toward the stands. The scout was still there. Still writing. Still watching. A chill crawled up my spine.
As practice wound down, I realized something else. My phone had stayed silent all morning. No hateful messages from Ethan. No unknown numbers. No texts from my father. No emergencies from the hospital. Everything was peaceful.
It should have made me happy. Instead, it made me uneasy. Almost afraid. Like standing outside after a storm and realizing the air had become too still.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket.
Why does it feel like I’m waiting for something? Like something is about to happen, and I’m the only one who can feel it coming?
Comments