Page 37 of One Pucking Secret
Mark’s gaze softens. “You’re not your father, Wyatt. You’re your own man. And if you andChloe decide to co-parent, you’ll be a great dad, I know it.”
His reassurance is definitely welcome, but doubt is a persistent weed, tough to root out completely. My thoughts churn like water at the edge of a waterfall, teetering on the brink of decision.
“Thanks, Mark,” I say, grateful for this man who has stood by me through every high stick and body check life has thrown my way. “I’ll… I’ll talk to Chloe once I’ve calmed down.” I’m sure as hell not ready. Not yet.
“Good,” he says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, the impact a solid reminder of his unwavering support. “Nothing worth having comes easy, kid. Remember that. Again, I’m sorry.”
I nod, absorbing the truth of his words. Fear and resolve collide within me, a chaotic dance of potential futures.
Mark rises from the couch, his movements slow, like he’s carrying the weight of my world on his shoulders. “No matter what happens, remember, don’t let it throw you off your game, okay? We’ll keep this under wraps until it all gets sorted out.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. A secret son. Exactly the kind ofinformation Sonia and the media would love to get their hands on.
I nod, the motion stiff. Mark’s always been a fortress of confidentiality, his integrity as solid as ice beneath my skates.
“For now, let’s just work on getting your mind clear. I’ll fix you up some breakfast.”
“Okay,” I agree, grateful that he’s willing to ride this rollercoaster with me today. I watch as he crosses into the kitchen, the morning light from my windows framing him in a stark silhouette.
I rub my face, trying to scrub away the disbelief, the anger. Then I pivot, heading into the kitchen to join Mark. My stomach growls—a primal reminder that life goes on, even when your world’s upended.
Mark’s already grabbing some eggs and bacon from the fridge that promises a sizzle of comfort. The bread he’s already placed into the toaster pops up, crisp and golden. Every clink and clatter, every whisk of a fork against a bowl is a soundtrack to the chaos of my thoughts.
The rich aroma of coffee fills the space, promising clarity, or at least a momentary shield against exhaustion. I retrieve two mugs and pour—black as a puck—and take a scalding gulp.
The sharp tang of the coffee cuts through the lingering taste of betrayal. I set the mug down, my hand steady despite the tumult inside. This is just another challenge, another shot on goal. I can handle this—I have to. For Jasper.
Chapter 13
Chloe
Nerves coil tight inmy chest, refusing to loosen no matter how many deep breaths I take. Wyatt knows. Jasper is his. And today, we’re meeting to finally talk about it.
The cafe hums with the mid-morning rush—clinking cups, quiet conversations—but it all feels distant, like white noise beneath the storm of thoughts racing through my mind. I’m already seated, absently stirring my coffee, watching the swirls as if they could somehow offer clarity. My heart pounds, heavy and erratic, a reminder of the conversation that’s about to change everything.
Wyatt strides in, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, a force field of tension wrapped around him. His familiar build stands out in the sea of strangers, moving with a confidence that doesn’t reach his eyes as he removes his sunglasses in search of me. It’s been five dayssince we last spoke, but I didn’t realize how much I’d longed to see him until now.
When he spots me, there’s a moment—a flicker of something crosses his face before it’s gone, like a shadow chased away by the sun.
“Chloe,” he greets, voice steady but cool as he takes the seat across from me.
“Thanks for coming, Wyatt.” My words feel brittle, threatening to shatter. “I know this isn’t easy.”
“How’s Jasper doing?” His jaw tightens, the muscles working there betraying the calm exterior.
“Jasper’s doing well.”
“Good.” Wyatt shifts in his seat. “Let’s get this over with.”
“When you and I slept together, I told you I was on the pill. I wasn’t lying about that. I just want to make that clear.”
“Sure.” He nods. “Go on.”
I peer down at my hands on the table. I’ve thought about this day for so long, imagined how it would go probably dozens of times. But all that visualizing has done little to make the real thing easier.
Clearing my throat, I sit upright. “I was on antibiotics that week, so my birth control was ineffective.”
Hecrosses his arms over his chest. “You could have told me that when you realized.”
