His Forgotten Night, Our Secret Son

Ryan POV:

"So you finally decided to show your face? You go silent for months while every headline calls you a playboy and every sports panel replays your temper on the ice, then suddenly you're back in Boston. Don't tell me you came back for Mom. I'm guessing Colorado just got too hot for you."

The message from my older sister, Hannah, glowed on the screen of my phone, its bitterness cutting through the dead silence of my new Boston apartment.

Below it was another message, this one from my agent, Nathan Bennett: "Welcome home. Don't be late for the barbecue tomorrow night. Meeting the new teammates is non-negotiable."

Three weeks earlier, Hannah had told me Mom had Parkinson's. That call had ended months of silence and made my decision for me: leave Colorado, accept the trade to the Boston Rebels, and step back into public view, no matter how little the team—or the fans—trusted me.

I read both messages twice. Then I hit Hannah's name and put the phone to my ear.

She answered on the first ring. "Ready for your lecture, superstar?" Her voice dripped with ice.

I dragged a hand down my face, my fingers catching on the raised scar above my eyebrow—a souvenir from a high stick and a reminder of everything I'd ruined. "Han, I came back because Mom needs me."

She let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Oh, really? And where were you when she needed you the most, Ryan? Out partying with models? Or getting into fistfights in Denver bars and making the TMZ homepage?"

My stomach twisted. She wasn't entirely wrong. The media painted me as a hothead, a playboy, a ticking time bomb. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "I know I messed up. I'm trying to fix it."

"Fix it?" Hannah snapped. "Mom has Parkinson's, Ryan. This isn't a bad season you can just apologize for and restart."

My lungs seized. The word "Parkinson's" always did that to me, stealing all the oxygen from the room. I ended the call without another word and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa.

The apartment was massive, expensive, and completely empty. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator. I walked into the kitchen and ripped open the first cardboard box I saw. Inside was a heavy ceramic mug with the Boston Rebels logo printed on the side. A welcome gift from Nathan.

I gripped the handle. This team was my last shot. I needed a long-term contract to pay for Mom's specialized care. I had to make this work.

I kicked open another box near the island. The shiny silver surface of an award from my time with the Colorado Avalanche caught the overhead light. Looking at it made my skin crawl. I remembered the fight with my former captain, Jonathan Prescott—his fist coming at me, my temper snapping as I hit back—and the suffocating silence that poisoned the locker room afterward. That ghost had followed me all the way to the East Coast.

I shoved the box away with my foot. I couldn't change the past.

I walked back to the sofa, picked up my phone, and typed a quick reply to Nathan: "See you tomorrow."

Then my thumb hovered over the contacts icon. I scrolled down to a number saved without a name. A number from six years ago. Claire Bennett. Golden hair, green eyes, and the way she bit her lower lip when she was nervous.

We had never dated. We'd spent one unforgettable night together in Denver, and I'd planned to call the number she left me. But the hospital called before I could, and Mom's medical crisis swallowed everything that followed. By the time I finally tried Claire's number, it was no longer in service. Six years passed with each of us believing the other had chosen silence.

My chest tightened. My thumb stayed suspended above the number. Part of me wanted to try it again, even though I knew it was probably dead. Calling her meant reopening a night I'd never completely forgotten—and facing the possibility that she had moved on long ago.

She probably had a new number, a new life, maybe a husband and kids. I was a walking disaster. I had no right to reappear after six years and drag her back into my mess.

I locked the screen and walked straight into the bathroom. I turned the shower handle all the way to cold and stepped under the spray. The freezing water hit my skin like tiny needles, shocking my system, forcing my racing thoughts to slow down.

I stared at my reflection in the fogged glass. From now on, it was just hockey and family. Nothing else.

I stepped out, wrapped a towel around my waist, and walked into the bedroom to unpack my gear. I pulled out my shoulder pads, my skates, my gloves, wiping them down one by one. The familiar smell of leather and ice brought my heart rate back to normal.

My phone buzzed again on the nightstand. An email from my other sister, Megan, inviting me to a family dinner next week. I typed back a quick "yes." Going home meant facing the firing squad of my family's judgment, but I had to take it.

I walked back to the kitchen, grabbed the Rebels mug, and filled it with tap water. I drank it down in one gulp.

I grabbed the TV remote and hit the power button. The sports channel flared to life. Two analysts were arguing over footage of me on the ice.

"Ryan Carter, the former golden boy, is now officially a liability," the man in the suit said, shaking his head. "Is this trade a gamble for the Boston Rebels, or just plain suicide?"