I was still amazed they’d forgiven me as fully as they had, a testament to what good people they were.

I’d left Hailey with Fran and Howard to fill the role of hockey mom and shuttle Heath to practice. I searched the group of kids skating around the rink, easily picking out my son. He was bigger than most his age, with a determination not usually present in children so young. So much like his father. I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen the similarities before.

Heath had dark hair and eyes. Ice skating and hockey were his jam. He looked like Easton. Hailey, on the other hand, favored me—small and petite with blonde curls. She was all girl, loving pink and figure skating.

Heath glanced up as he streaked by, intent on his skating. His face was the picture of ultimate concentration as he focused on the puck.

After taking out my ever-present day planner, I opened it and wrote a few notes of things to do later this evening once I’d put the children to bed. The first thing I wrote was Call Easton. I’d called the number he’d had that summer several times, and each time, I’d ended the call before the first ring.

Heath fought for the puck with another kid, and the two of them went down still battling it out. The coaches separated them, and Heath sprang to his feet, looking triumphant. I frowned. As the mother of a child who’d just gotten in a fight, I wasn’t thrilled, but my baby boy was ecstatic. He skated toward me with a broad smile on his face. When he saw me smiling back, he frowned and looked away.

Since his father, Mark, had died, the only place Heath seemed happy was on the ice. Sometimes I swore he personally blamed me for Mark’s death. I guess it was easier to hoist your frustration and grief on the one who loved you most, knowing they’d be there no matter what.

He skated past me and along the boards. The kid he’d scuffled with caught up to him, and they talked and laughed as they skated, their differences already forgotten. Kids were like that. I wish adults were better at forgetting the bad things.

I wish I was.

He came around again and waved his stick at the coach, grinning with that one dimple, a dimple so much like someone else’s my heart thudded longingly in my chest.

Longingly?

This had to stop. Easton might be the father of my children, but we weren’t anything to each other. He’d broken my heart all those years ago, and I’d made a promise to myself that I’d never allow a man like him the ability to hurt me again. He’d not just hurt me, he’d destroyed me with his callous words the last night we were together.

Shaking off the memories, I concentrated on my son, even as the similarities made it increasingly difficult to banish Easton from my thoughts.