Chapter 65 - Jayden
JAYDEN
Another cheesy fry lands in my mouth as Eli excavates for the plain ones like a surgeon, digging past bacon and molten cheddar. His thumb pauses on the iPad, scrubbing back through the clip until the ice reappears in slow motion.
“Watch it carefully,” he tells me, patting the space next to him.
He shifts to the middle cushion, and the iPad ends up balanced across both our thighs.
“Bruce lost his footing when you passed him the puck, and Barkley was right there to snatch it up. He dekes, Rio falls for it, Weismann is taken out, and—”
“I missed it.”
“No,” Eli shoves a fry in my mouth when I’m about to argue. Salt, grease, his knuckles brushing my lip. “You were marking two fucking guys at once. It’s what Philly do best, they split the defense and create traffic. You and Weismann are still finding your sweet spot and—”
“He’s not you. I can’t read him like I…”
The sentence unravels when I glance over and find his eyes on my mouth. Everything inside me jolts. He licks the corner of his lip, slow, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and that hooded look drags over me like a hand.
Contact turns loud. The press of his thigh to mine, the heat of him underneath the iPad, the light brush of his pinky aligning with mine like a secret. My bare foot bumps his, and he doesn’t move away. The room narrows to where we touch.
Fuck. My heart hammers up into my throat. Air gets thin, thoughts scatter, and the only word left is his name.
Eli.
Don’t leave me hanging. Please. I can’t take it. I—
The trill of our phones drills through the moment, vicious, yanking everything back into shape.
“Umm…” Eli clears his throat. “Probably Finley.”
I brace for him to pull away, the way I always do, steel for the retreat that hurts worse than the waiting. But he doesn’t. He leans back into the couch and thumbs open his screen, thigh still pressed to mine as I swipe the notification.
Our girl fills the glass—bright smile, eyes lit up—and my chest reassembles itself around that one image.
“She looks beautiful,” I murmur, zooming in until her grin eats my phone.
“When doesn’t she?”
I cut a look at him. The way he’s thumbing the side of his screen is almost reverent, like he’s stroking her cheek through the pixels.
“Never. She’s incredible, you know? Like, no one should be so fucking perfect ever.”
Not just her. Him. That crooked quirk of his mouth when he glances at me. The soft dent at the center of his chin deepening with his pout, the light spray of freckles you only see this close, the pale gold strands falling forward when he tilts his head to really look.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, voice roughened to something that sounds like my ribs feel.
He knows… He says.
I say… Not a chance.
If he knew the first thing about how good he is, he’d hear it in the way I breathe.
We’ve been here for hours, looping the same clip, and he keeps finding new angles to convince me I didn’t screw up.
No impatience. No snap. Just Eli, quiet and relentless, shouldering my blame like he can carry it for me.
Now we’re both staring at the photo of our girl, like we weren’t a breath away from giving in to this thing between us, this drag that never lets up. The flush along his cheekbones bleeds down his throat, and I feel the echo of it under my skin.
He’s all in or he’s gone. He always has been. And lately everything is blurred except the wanting. The wanting is razor-sharp and constant. It’s choking me.
“JJ…”
I swallow. “Yeah, Eli.”
His eyes flick between our screens, between her and me. “We… I…”
Don’t stop, please.
He frowns at the phone, concentration pinching his brows as he stills. The temperature in the room drops a degree. Something in his posture tightens.
“I have to go. I should… I… I have…” He jerks up so fast, the bowl of fries pitches to the carpet, cheese smearing across the rug. “Fuck…fuck, I’m sorry…”
He’s on his knees immediately, hands shaking as he scoops slippery fries back into the bowl. Every time he bolts, it slices. I crouch too, take the bowl gently from his fingers and set it on the table.
“I’m so sorry,” he blusters, eyes skittering away from mine.
“It’s okay. Just fries, right?”
It’s not. It’s my heart on the floor and him trying to scrape it up before it stains.
“I’m sorry.” He finally looks up. There’s fear in him. Not of me, not exactly. Of something between us he doesn’t have words for. “S-sor—”
“Stop apologizing, Eli.”
He nods and stands when I do. He’s halfway to the door before I can find something to lasso the moment back.
His hand lands on the knob, then he pauses. “It’s not you. Tonight. Tonight wasn’t you. You’re great, Jayden. Great. You’re always great.”
The door shuts, and the suite echoes. I stand there, hands empty, replaying his words like there’s a code I can crack if I just go slow enough.
But all I get is the ache.
The mood snaps tight the second Shayne, head of media relations, steps onto the bus with Cecilia. They never ride back with us unless something’s about to hit. Benches creak as guys shift, a ripple of side-eye and muttered guesses.
In the static hum, one absence roars. No Eli. Coach pulled him after practice, and he hasn’t reappeared. My thumb is already on our chat.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
I force myself to stop there. If he’s spiraling, my texts won’t fix it. My screen goes black. The team chat detonates.
Ansel
Who fucked up?
Erik
It wasn’t me
Matheo
My dick is in my pants…
Dylan
No one cares about your Weiner
Matheo
I beg to differ
Erik
Shut. Up.
Matheo
I care about my dick.
Ansel
And your sister cares about mine.
Dylan
No.
Matheo
She couldn’t find your micro peanut even when she looked for it close up.
Erik
Seriously? Why?
Auguste
But who actually fucked up?
Erik
Which of you losers is getting traded?
Matheo
Your mom…
Dylan
Shut up, dickhead.
Ansel
For real… it IS trade season…
Auguste
Where’s Preacher?
Matheo
Where’s Coach?
Ansel
Jayden?
Erik
Morrow???
Matheo
JJ?!?!?!?
Ansel
Do we need to add Weismann to the chat?
Matheo
Stand-in stays out until we know more.
I bounce back to Eli’s thread. No read receipts. Nausea rolls through me at the list of possibilities: transfer, loan, conditioning stint. The idea of him in another jersey tightens something cruel around my throat.
Dylan’s name flashes.
He’s going nowhere
I look across the aisle. He tips his chin, quick, sure.
The bus hushes as Coach appears with Eli at his shoulder, Dr. Armstrong behind them.
One look at Eli’s face and every cell in me braces.
He passes my row without a glance and takes the back corner.
Dr. Armstrong drops into the seat beside me like a period at the end of a sentence.
The engine growls and we lurch forward. Panic gnaws holes in logic. Last night loops in my head—how close we were, how I didn’t push, how he almost…
I check our chat again. Two ticks turn blue.
I wait.
And wait.
Through the gap in seats, I can see him scrolling. His thumb flicks. My messages disappear from his screen. He powers down like it costs him nothing. Like I’m not sitting here with my chest ripped open.
We were fine on the flight. Mostly. He drifted in and out, tired, which is normal. Practice felt… okay. We skated together. We talked. I think.
The buzz in my hand hits like a defibrillator. I don’t even register the app before the headline slams into me.
Sex, Secrets the sordid love life of hockey’s most mysterious heartthrob. Guys, gals, secret rendezvous, and stolen touches. They say it’s always the quiet ones…
My thumb scrolls before I can stop it.
All I can do is stare at the first photo; Eli and Fin on the beach, her straddling his lap, his arms wrapped around her like the ocean might take her if he loosens his grip.
My stomach punches inward. I love him like that—whole-body, whole-heart, clutching the one thing that keeps the tide from dragging him under.
I force myself to scroll down. And I regret it instantly.
The next image guts me.
Same jolt as the day he walked into lunch with Finley’s hand in his, except meaner. Suffocating. The guy from the old photos—the one he showed me with a shrug like the past was harmless—has Eli caged in his lap, tongue on Eli’s jaw, fists in his shirt.
Make it make sense.
He’s nobody. He was nobody.
I slap the phone to my chest like pressure can stop the sound that wants out. Swallow hard. It burns going down.
I thought he didn’t know what he wanted. I told myself he wasn’t ready. So, I handed him my heart anyway, steady and open, and let him take what he could, when he could.
He ruined me for anyone else, and I thanked him for it.
Now this.
He’s killing me, and even with my ribs split and my insides spilling, my traitor heart keeps beating his name.