Page 2 of Home Ice

“I’ve been trying to call you all night.”

“I was out. I’m here now.”

“Jensen, she said … she said …”

Mom’s breathing is all wrong, and I wait for her to get out what she’s struggling with. I’m in shock over the news, but it’s been a really long time since I last saw Carly, so I’m sad for her and her family, but it isn’t having the same impact on me as it is on my mom.

Which is doubly weird since, as far as I know, Mom only met her a handful of times. My parents are hoverers, so we spent more time at Carly’s house, where her parents were working constantly and we could spend as much time as we wanted having sex. Losing my virginity was the experience of a lifetime, and I’ve loved sex ever since.

“Just breathe, Mom⁠—”

“You have a son!”

Her sudden shout rings in my ear, and my entire body locks up. It’s not that I don’t understand the words, but the way they’re being applied, to me, doesn’t make any sense. I take a beat, then check that the phone is actually still connected and I didn’t make the last few seconds up. “What did you say?” It’s more words than I expected to be able to get out.

“When Amelia was here, she said Carly has a son. And you’re the father.”

“Bullshit.” The word is out before I take a second to process it. “I haven’t seen her in … in …”

“Fifteen years?”

My pulse gets louder. “What are you saying?”

“She brought the birth certificate, Jensen. You’re on there. And with her gone …”

Mom doesn’t finish that sentence, no matter how long I wait.

“With her gone, what?”

“Technically, we think custody goes to you.”

“Me? I can’t have a fucking child.”

“Calm down.”

“Calm down? You’re trying to tell me I have a fucking kid that I know nothing about, my ex-girlfriend is dead, and … and …” Shit, I think I need a paper bag to breathe into. I lean forward over my knees to try and make my lungs work right.

“Amelia wants custody, but she said the lawyers will be contacting you soon, and she wanted to make sure you were aware before that happened. She wants you to tell them you don’t want him.”

“Okay.”

Mom doesn’t respond at first. “Jensen, it’s your son.”

“We don’t know that.”

“He could be.”

Just the thought of having a son makes my throat close over. I’m the furthest thing from responsible it’s possible to be. Even taking Lachie in as a rookie was a big move for me, and he’s a grown-ass adult.

A fucking child? I have no business even pretending I’d know what to do with one of those things.

“Please come home,” she begs.

“We have no proof he’s mine.”

“And if we get proof? And it turns out he is?”

Even the possibility of that has panic creeping higher. “He … he can’t be.”