How To Ruin Your Ex's Wedding: Fake Date A Hockey Player Chapter 103

Harper's POV,

March in Vancouver meant two things: relentless rain and playoff hockey.

The Canucks were sitting at fifth in the Pacific Division with twelve games left in the regular season. They needed to win at least nine to guarantee a playoff spot. Which meant Crew was barely home.

Practice every morning. Games every other night. Travel days in between. Film review. Team meetings. Mandatory media appearances.

I was twenty-four weeks pregnant, increasingly uncomfortable, and essentially single-parenting myself.

"I'm sorry," Crew said for the fifteenth time that week, grabbing his bag at 6 AM for morning skate. "I know I'm never here. I know you're doing everything alone."

"I'm not doing everything alone. I'm just pregnant and working. Which is what pregnant people do."

"But you're also covering for James this week while he's sick. And dealing with the nursery furniture delivery. And handling the realtor about the parking spot issue. And—"

"And you're trying to get your team into the playoffs. We both have jobs. Mine just happens to include growing a human." I handed him his water bottle. "Go. Play hockey. Win games. Come home when you can."

He kissed me, hands on my now-prominent belly. "Hey Rose. Take care of your mom today. She's stubborn about asking for help."

"I don't need help. I need you to stop catastrophizing and go to practice."

After he left, I sat at the kitchen table with decaf coffee and my laptop, reviewing the clinic schedule. James had the flu, which meant I was covering his clients on top of my own. Sixteen appointments this week instead of my usual ten.

My back ached. My feet were swollen. Rose was using my bladder as a trampoline. I was exhausted before the day even started.

But complaining felt ridiculous when Crew was living out of hotel rooms, playing through injuries, trying to drag his team into playoff contention.

My phone buzzed. Text from Maya: *Crew mentioned you're covering for James all week. Want me to bring dinner tonight? I can pick up whatever you're craving.*

*You don't have to do that.*

*I know. But you're pregnant and exhausted and Crew's barely home. Let me help.*

*Thai food? From that place on Robson?*

*Done. I'll be there at 7.*

I got through the day on autopilot. Morning clients, lunch at my desk, afternoon clients. By 5 PM I was so tired I could barely stand, but I had two more hours of paperwork before I could leave.

James called at 5:30. "Harper, I'm so sorry. I'm still completely wiped. I don't think I can come back tomorrow either."

"It's fine. Take the time you need. Health first."

"But you're covering all my clients on top of yours. You're pregnant. This isn't sustainable."

"It's one week. I can handle one week."

"Are you sure? I can try to come in—"

"James. Stay home. Rest. Get better. I've got this."

After we hung up, I put my head on my desk for just a minute. Just to close my eyes. Just to breathe.

I woke up to my phone ringing forty minutes later. Maya.

"Where are you? It's 7:15. I'm at your apartment with food and you're not here."

"Shit. Sorry. I fell asleep at the clinic. I'm leaving now."

"Harper—"

"I know. I'm fine. Just tired. Be there in twenty minutes."

I drove home in a daze, ate Thai food while Maya lectured me about taking on too much, and was in bed by 9 PM.

Crew got home from his game around 11:30—they'd won 4-2, he'd gotten an assist—and found me already asleep. I woke up when he climbed into bed.

"Hey. How was the game?"

"Good. We won. Eight wins away from clinching." He pulled me against him. "How was your day?"

"Long. James is still sick. I covered all his appointments."

"Harper, you need to hire someone else. You can't do sixteen clients a week while pregnant."

"It's temporary. He'll be back next week."

"And what about when the baby comes? What about maternity leave? You need more coverage than just James."

"I know. I'll hire someone. After playoffs. After the baby. When things calm down."

"Things aren't going to calm down. They're going to get more chaotic."

We'd had this argument five times already. I was too tired to have it again.

"Can we not do this now? I'm exhausted. You're exhausted. Let's just sleep."

He was quiet for a moment. "Okay. But Harper, we need to talk about this. For real. Soon."

"After playoffs."

"The baby comes three weeks after playoffs end. There is no 'after.'"

"Then during playoffs. Sometime. I don't know." I turned to face him. "I'm trying, Crew. I'm trying to keep the clinic running and grow a baby and not fall apart. Some days that's all I can manage."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just—I worry about you. About Rose. About whether you're taking care of yourself."

"I'm taking care of myself. I'm just also taking care of everything else."

We fell asleep without resolving anything.

\---

The next week was worse. James came back but was working at half-capacity, still recovering. Crew's road trip to California lasted five days—three games in four nights. I was alone, pregnant, exhausted, and barely keeping the clinic functional.

On day three of the road trip, I had a client cancel last-minute. Instead of using the free hour to rest, I spent it interviewing potential new hires via Zoom. Found a promising candidate—Emily, recent PT school graduate, athletic background, available immediately.

I offered her the job on the spot. She could start in two weeks, right after her state licensing came through.

When I told Crew that night over FaceTime, he looked relieved.

"Thank god. You need help."

"I've been saying that for months."

"No, you've been saying you can handle everything alone. There's a difference."

"Well now I'm admitting I can't. Happy?"

"Not happy. Just glad you're finally being realistic about your capacity." He paused. "How's Rose?"

"Active. Kicking constantly. My ribs are bruised from the inside."

"That's my girl. Already causing trouble."

"She gets that from you."

We talked for another twenty minutes before Crew had to go—team dinner, mandatory attendance. I hung up feeling lonelier than I had in months.

Twenty-four weeks pregnant. Husband on the road constantly. Best friend busy with her own life. Parents two thousand miles away.

I was more alone than I'd been since moving to Vancouver.

My phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn't answer.

"Hello?"

"Harper Lawson?" A man's voice I didn't recognize.

"Speaking."

"This is Detective Morrison with Vancouver Police. I'm calling about your father, Richard Sinclair."

My stomach dropped. "What about him?"

"There's been an incident. We found some belongings registered to you at his last known address. We need someone to come identify and claim them. Would you be available tomorrow?"

"My father died three months ago. What belongings?"

"A storage unit. Paid through March. We're clearing it out. Found documents with your contact information."

I sat down heavily on the couch. "What kind of documents?"

"Personal effects. Photos. Some financial records. If you're not interested in claiming them, we'll dispose of everything according to protocol."

I should have said no. Should have let them dispose of whatever Richard had left behind. I didn't need more reminders of a father who'd abandoned me.

But I heard myself say: "I'll come tomorrow. What's the address?"

After hanging up, I texted Crew: *My father had a storage unit. Police want me to come identify his belongings. Going tomorrow.*

He called immediately. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know. I thought this was done. He died. I paid for cremation. I moved on. And now there's a storage unit full of his shit that I have to deal with."

"I can fly home. I'll tell Coach—"

"No. You have a game tomorrow. The team needs you. I can handle this."

"Harper—"

"I'm fine. It's just a storage unit. I'll go, see what's there, probably throw most of it away, and move on. Again."

"Call me after. Promise."

"I promise."

The next day, I drove to a storage facility in Surrey. Met Detective Morrison—middle-aged, kind eyes, apologetic for bothering me.

"Unit 47," he said, leading me through rows of identical orange doors. "We found it during an investigation into another matter. Your father's name was on the lease. You were listed as emergency contact."

He unlocked the unit. Pulled up the door.

Inside was Richard's entire life. Boxes. Furniture. Garbage bags full of clothes. A lifetime of accumulation from someone who'd died broke and alone.

"Take what you want," Morrison said. "Rest gets disposed of next week."

I stepped inside, looking around. Most of it was trash. But in the corner, a single box labeled "Harper" in my father's handwriting.

I opened it.

Photos. Hundreds of them. Me as a baby, a toddler, a kid, a teenager. School photos he shouldn't have had. Birthday party pictures. Candids I didn't remember being taken.

And at the bottom, a letter. Addressed to me. Dated two days before he died.

I sat on the concrete floor of the storage unit and read it.

*Harper,*

*If you're reading this, I'm gone. I don't know if you'll even claim these belongings. Maybe you'll tell the police to trash everything. I wouldn't blame you.*

*But if you're here, I want you to know: I never stopped watching you. I knew where you were, what you were doing, how you were surviving without me. I kept every article about your clinic. Every photo your mom posted on Facebook before you made her stop. Every achievement, every milestone, every moment I missed.*

*I was a coward. I left when I should have stayed. I gambled away everything, including my family. I chose addiction over you and your mother. There's no excuse for that.*

*But I want you to know: you were always enough. You were always more than I deserved. Leaving wasn't about you. It was about me being too weak to face what I'd become.*

*I'm proud of you. I know I don't have the right to be. But I am. You built a life despite me. You became someone strong and capable and good. You married someone who sees your value. You're going to be a mother soon (yes, I know—your mom mentioned it in a Facebook comment before she deleted it. I still check her page sometimes).*

*You're going to be a better parent than I ever was. Because you're brave enough to stay. To face hard things. To choose people over comfort.*

*I love you. I always have. I'm sorry I never found the courage to show it properly.*

*Dad*

I sat there reading it three times, crying in a storage unit surrounded by a dead man's belongings.

He'd been watching. All those years, he'd been watching from a distance. Too ashamed to reach out. Too broken to rebuild.

Detective Morrison appeared in the doorway. "You okay?"

"No. But I will be." I stood up, grabbed the box of photos. "Can I take this? Just this box?"

"Take whatever you want."

"Just this. The rest can be disposed of."

I drove home with the box on my passenger seat, called Crew from the car.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"He kept photos of me. Hundreds of them. And he wrote me a letter. Said he was proud of me. That leaving wasn't my fault."

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know. He was watching me for sixteen years and never reached out. Never tried to reconnect until he was dying. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Whatever you need to. There's no right answer."

When I got home, I put the box in the back of our closet next to his ashes. Someday, maybe, I'd look through them properly. Tell Rose about the grandfather she'd never meet. Explain how complicated family could be.

But not today.

Today I just needed to accept that grief was never really over. It just changed shape.

And sometimes closure came with more questions than answers.

That was okay too.

Everything didn't have to be resolved to be survived.

Sometimes survival was enough.