Epilogue
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seelionssaylions: Go Sea Lions! Always knew they could turn it around!
Jax woke up with his ass on the floor.
He groaned and pulled Tom tighter on top of him so Tom’s hip wouldn’t end up on the linoleum. The movement woke Tom as well, and he made a distressed sound.
“When I said I would take care of you,” Jax said, “I hope you know this isn’t what I meant.”
Tom huffed against him. It might have been a laugh; it might also have been Tom’s perpetual inability to deal with mornings. That had been a delightful discovery. Given a morning off and someone who actually cared enough to alternate ice and heat packs on his hip, Tom was not a morning person.
“C’mon, babe. We should get up. Morning skate, remember?”
“Ugh.”
It took some doing, but eventually, Tom managed to struggle upright, bleary-eyed and messy-haired.
Jax was definitely, definitely in love with him. Now was not the moment to tell Tom though. He would make it special, maybe after a candlelit dinner at a restaurant on the bay, maybe after Tom’s next hat trick. He’d know when he found the right moment.
Waking up on the floor of his parents’ trailer because the air mattress in the living room had deflated overnight was not the right moment.
“Jax? You awake, honey?”
Jax rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, Mom. We’re up.”
“Oh, good!” She popped her head in through the door. “You can have breakfast with the girls before school, then. I’m making waffles.”
“Not sure Tom can eat those,” Jax said, leaving out that he also didn’t eat store-bought waffles, at least not during the season.
Mom clucked her tongue. “I’ll have Dad whip up something gross and healthy for you two.”
She’d been married to a cook for twenty-five years yet couldn’t make anything not from a package, though she was handy otherwise.
He followed her to the kitchen, still in his Sea Lions sweatpants, while Tom headed for the bathroom.
When Jax had floated this visit, he didn’t expect Tom to agree for a myriad of reasons, such as the duration of their relationship or his own preference for a hotel bed as opposed to the literal floor.
But Tom had only stipulated not sleeping naked in Jax’s parents’ house.
It was a reasonable request.
This way, Jax got the pleasure of sitting at the breakfast table in his pajamas, the way he never had as a teenager, too busy with hockey games and working shifts at the diner. Maybe this was better, watching his sisters get ready for school when he didn’t have to go himself.
With the water running in the bathroom, Jax took his opportunity. “So, what do you think of him?”
Rosa peered up from slathering her waffles in butter and syrup. “Tom?”
Lila, who had a knife neck-deep in a jar of Nutella, didn’t bother looking at him. “We like him, so he’s probably too good for you.”
Jax heaved a sigh. “Should’ve taught you to fear me.”
“You wish, asshole.”
“Language,” Dad said idly. Given he said worse things during every football game, no one paid him any mind.
“He seems…” Mom trailed off with a sigh. “He seems like you make him happy, and you seem like you love to make him happy. That about right?”
“Yup.” Heat spread across Jax’s neck. Something about moms, the way they looked straight through you.
She tousled his hair. “Good. Maybe if you finally get a place in San Francisco, we can come visit you two.”
“I’m working on it.” Jax had hired a realtor to find a house somewhere in the city, maybe near the park so they could be close to Phil and Breezy, and Tom could still go on those long walks he’d started.
A place big enough for both of them and the dog Tom so clearly wanted.
Once he found the right place, he’d start talking Tom into moving his nice, soft couch and big bed out of his soulless apartment and in with Jax.
Dad made his patented egg white scrambles with spinach and mushroom. They were mostly edible because he used so much butter, but Tom didn’t say anything about it. And then, they had to leave already, first for morning skate and then for the game against the Minnesota Fury.
Everyone hugged them both at the door, which left Tom a little shell-shocked and quiet while Jax said his goodbyes.
Very seriously, Dad told them, “I hope you lose tonight. Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad. I hope we crush your team’s dreams and spirits.”
Dad tried to give him a noogie, but Jax was bigger and stronger and escaped scot-free, laughing.
They waved goodbye and got into the rental car. Jax still knew his way around St. Paul well enough they didn’t need GPS, so it was only them and the crisp, cold Midwestern air.
“So?” Jax asked eventually.
“Hmm?”
“You okay? I know they can be a lot.”
“They’re great. I can’t believe your dad roots against you.”
“Oh.” Jax rolled his eyes. “I think he’s kidding about that? Mostly? It’s hard to tell. I don’t think he actually cares how my team does.”
Tom hummed.
“What?”
“No, it’s just…I never realized how different it could be. He loves you no matter whether you succeed.”
Jax bit the inside of his cheek. He ran a policy of not commenting on all the horrifying things Tom said about his parents, letting Tom uncover the layers of misery on his own, one by one.
Like the long walks, it was good for him, therapeutic or something.
Jax could listen and maybe go a few rounds with a punching bag later.
“You ready for skating or should we stop for coffee first?” Jax asked.
“Nah, I’m ready. Remind me to stop in with the physio after though.”
“Hip?”
“Yeah, only a little, but I figure…”
“Good call.” Perhaps this was Jax’s proudest moment in his ongoing mission to let Tom have nice things: All of his own accord, midway through January, Tom had gone to the team physical therapist in San Francisco and let her examine his hip.
He’d even missed a game for the first time in three years, and by his own account, it was now much better. “Any thoughts on the other project?”
“Nope,” Tom said cheerfully. “Still no clue who I am without hockey. I’ll get there.”
“I know you will.”
“You can stop sending me links to random stuff you want to do though.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.”
“Fine, fine. There’s always the shelter.”
“Yeah, but that’s your thing.”
“You still like it there.”
Tom had been right when he said he wasn’t much of a coach, but he was still a good captain, and the kids reacted well to him during games.
When some of them, especially the quieter ones, came up to talk to him afterward, he always made time for them.
Whenever Jax scheduled himself for the same time slots as Tom, he lost long minutes watching his boyfriend interact with the teenagers, listening to them with the same seriousness he brought to game tape analysis.
After the third time Jax got distracted, Mara snapped her fingers in his face to make him pay attention.
“Anyway, you’ll be playing for years once I’m retired,” Tom said. “I need to find something you don’t want to do.”
Jax tried not to grin too hard at the thought they’d still be together years from now.
He failed. Chancing a glance over at Tom, he saw Tom smiling, too, so it was a win-win.
Still, it had been a big couple of days, and there was only so much emotional conversation either of them could take, especially on game days. Time to change the subject.
“So, what do you think we’ll get today? Trout trouble or Morris mayhem?”
Tom shook his head. “I never should have let Luca teach you about alliteration.”
“Seriously, though, what do you think’s going on? I swear Morris has missed more games than he’s coached this month.”
“It’s only the twelfth. And Morris flew out with us. He won’t just vanish. Besides, Phil came along for this one. He can usually make the best of it.”
That didn’t calm Jax’s nerves about the whole situation.
Tom placed a comforting hand on his thigh. “If it’s still this bad when we get home, I’ll try calling the GM.”
Jax smiled at him, aware the promise was a lot for someone as unwilling to rock the boat as Tom.
It needed doing though. The coaching situation had only gotten odder as the season progressed, with Phil all but taking over the reins from Morris and Trout trying his level best to enforce his draconian methods as soon as they turned their backs.
Phil remained on LTIR, so he should have been in California rehabbing his knee instead of flying halfway across the country.
At least he’d stopped needing his crutches.
He’d been allowed some light skating in a no-contact jersey at the start of February ten days ago, and now he joined them on the ice for most practices, correcting form and giving tips because the actual coaches were too busy one-upping one another to work with the team.
The season had taken a positive turn for the Sea Lions, but with practices such a drag, morale had started to flounder again after the high of a solid win streak following Tom’s hat trick against Seattle.
Today was no exception. They started off well enough, a little keep-away, a fun start, Phil shouting encouragement to Luca when he went up against Vanderbilt, who was roughly twice his size.
Then Trout started in on one of his routines, a particularly grueling down-low exercise which left Breezy wheezing and the remaining D-core barely upright.
They all needed to conserve energy this late in the season, and the arena ice was scratched to shit.
Hayes fell on his ass more than once, getting more and more angry as Trout mocked him.
Finally, Jax turned to Morris. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”
“Huh?” Morris looked up from his cell phone. “Oh. Shit. Um.” He glanced to Phil.
Phil made a gesture with his hand, a sort of circular motion with his pointer finger.
“Right. Around-the-world drill.” Morris patted down his jacket, searching for his whistle.
“Christ, Ben, seriously?” Phil muttered.
Morris snapped, “I’ve got a few other things on my mind.”
“When you’re on the ice, you’ve gotta eat, sleep, breathe—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Phil, I’m not even a real hockey coach.”
He said it just as the D-men finished a repetition of their drill.
They gasped for air on the sidelines while Edwards, off-ice to grab a few extra sticks, had the forwards working through a similar deep breathing exercise.
As soon as the words echoed around the rink, everyone came to a halt, not a single inhale to be heard.
A single puck scraped across the ice and hit the boards with a dull thunk. No one moved to follow it, everyone too busy staring at Morris.
“Well, shit,” Phil said.