7. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Killian
My feet drag as I follow Jackson down the grand staircase, my muscles sore. The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls wafts up from below, mixing with the pine scent of the massive fourteen-foot Christmas tree in the living room.
“Stop walking like you got hit by a truck,” Jackson whispers, pinching my ass. “Unless you want everyone to know exactly what we did last night.”
“Pretty sure the whole neighborhood knows what we did last night, fucktard.”
The morning sun streams into the living room windows, casting rainbow patterns through crystal ornaments onto piles of expertly wrapped presents. The fire crackles in the marble fireplace; stockings are hung with precision along the mantle. Both our families are already gathered, lounging on plush sofas and armchairs.
Mom looks up as we enter. “There's my sleepyhead. I was wondering when you'd join us.”
“Why didn't you wake me? I would've helped bring in the presents.”
“Oh, your sisters took care of everything.” She waves dismissively. “Emily and Lilly were up at dawn.”
Jackson tugs me toward a sideboard laden with breakfast pastries. “Speaking of presents…” His grin turns wicked. “Wait till you see what I got you.”
“If it's a sex toy, I'm shoving it down your throat.”
“Kinky.”
I grab a blueberry muffin and pour some orange juice while Jackson snags a water bottle. The bastard's practically vibrating with barely contained mischief.
Mr. Reed's voice carries across the room. “Look who finally decided to grace us with their presence.”
Emily and Lilly dissolve into giggles. I glance between them, confused by the looks being exchanged.
Before I can ask what's happening, Mrs. Reed sweeps into the room carrying a shopping bag. She pulls something out and starts passing it around—first to my mom, then my sisters, then Mr. Reed.
What the actual fuck?
My confusion turns to horror as everyone pulls out bright green ice pops. The same kind Jackson used last night during our Die Hard “roleplay.”
“Oh god.” I sink into the nearest chair, face burning.
“While this might be the biggest house I've ever been in,” Mom says, waving her ice pop like a conductor's baton, “apparently, it’s not quite large enough to drown out certain . . . activities.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Seriously,” Emily pipes up. “Did either of you get me noise-canceling headphones for Christmas? Because I deserve them.”
Jackson, the traitorous fuck, just laughs. “Guess we got a little carried away with the Christmas spirit.”
Mrs. Reed snorts. “That's one way to put it.”
Jackson looks at his mother, brow quirked. “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to creative activities.”
“That's my boy.” Mr. Reed raises his coffee mug in a mock toast. “Though, maybe next time, keep the creativity down a few decibels?”
I groan, sliding further down in my chair. “Can we please open presents now? Before I die of embarrassment?”
“Drama queen.” Jackson drops onto the arm of my chair, pressing a kiss to my temple. “But yeah, presents. I want Killian to open mine first.”
He practically bounces over to the tree, retrieving a large box wrapped in paper covered in tiny hockey sticks. “Here you go, golden boy.”
I tear into the paper, my breath catching when I lift out what looks like a handmade leather album. The cover is etched with intricate designs, including intertwined hockey sticks and serpents.
“Open it,” Jackson urges, an uncharacteristic nervousness in his voice.
The first page shows a newspaper clipping of our infamous fight at hockey camp when we were ten. Jackson's scrawl beneath it reads:
The day I knew you'd be important to me. Didn't realize how important until much later.
Each page that follows tells the story of our rivalry—excerpts from articles and photos, along with his crude humor and signature snark, pepper the margins.
There's the article about my draft to the Rangers, complete with Jackson's note:
Knew you'd make it, asshole. Never doubted it.
My throat tightens, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “You jerk, you really want to make me cry in front of everyone.”
He grins so wide, then kisses my cheek. “Didn’t we have a conversation about that shit already? Because if I need to threaten to stop doing nice things again, I will.”
After placing the scrapbook to the side, I stand, walk over to the presents, and grab the small box wrapped in blue with snowflakes. I hand it to him, suddenly nervous. “Your turn.”
As I sit, Jackson opens the small box, lifting the platinum chain with the St. Sebastian medallion. His fingers trace the engraved surface.
“It’s the patron saint of athletes. I got it weeks ago before knowing what you told me yesterday.” I swallow hard and lean in, keeping my voice low. “Whether you're on the ice in the NHL or pursuing something else entirely, he'll watch over you when I can't be there.”
Jackson pulls back a little, his eyes meeting mine. “You mean that? About supporting whatever I choose?”
“Of course I do. Your path is yours to choose. I'm just ensuring you've got backup, whatever you decide.”
He slips the chain over his head, the medallions resting against his chest. “Guess we're both sappy fucks now, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“Thank fuck for that.” He pulls me into a kiss that probably isn't appropriate for a family Christmas.
“Get a room!” Emily calls out. “Wait, don't. We've all heard enough of that.”
Jackson flips her off without breaking the kiss. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise. “I need to start getting ready for Miami in a bit.”
I sigh, hating that we can’t spend more time together, especially when games resume in a few days. “Just don’t get into too much trouble.”
Jackson laughs. “Says the man who helped dump a body in the ocean.”
“That was different, and you know it.”
“You know, I think we need to sneak in another round of role-playing before I pack.” He leans in and bites my earlobe. “You can frisk me for contraband.”
I snort, shoving him away. “You're insatiable.”
He has a point because since I got here, he’s been the one fucking me. And I need to return the favor, especially with how fucking hot Jackson looks when riding my cock.
Clearing my throat, I return to the room and watch my sisters open their gifts. I smile, looking at our families, at everyone laughing and getting along.
Then I wrap my arm around my boyfriend, pulling him into my lap. We'll face whatever comes next—distance, careers, challenges—together.
Jackson leans back against my chest. “Merry Christmas, jackass.”
“Merry Christmas, fucktard.”