4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
JACKSON
T he slap of a puck against the boards snaps me back.
“Eyes up, Hart!” Coach Barrett’s voice echoes through the rink like a gunshot.
I mutter a curse under my breath and pivot hard, narrowly avoiding a collision with Russo, our second-line winger, who shoots me a sideways look and throws his hands up like, What the hell, man?
I deserve it. This is the second time I’ve drifted mid-drill.
As first-line left winger for the Pittsburgh SteelClaws, the last thing I need to be doing is slacking off.
“Keep your head in the damn game,” Russo calls as he circles back toward the net.
Yeah. Easier said than done.
The truth is, nothing’s been clicking since yesterday. Not practice this morning, not the usual locker room banter, not even the text thread blowing up in my pocket last night with jabs about Russo’s new haircut.
All I can think about is Ava.
It’s surreal having her in my house after all this time. Part of me still sees her as Greg’s kid sister, always trailing behind us with a huge backpack and a book tucked under her arm.
She’d sit at the edge of our backyard games, reading while the rest of us shouted and roughhoused like idiots.
She acted like she couldn’t be bothered. That is until someone cracked a joke funny enough to make her laugh, and she’d glance up, biting back a smile like she didn’t want us to see it.
But that girl is long gone.
This morning, she stood barefoot in my kitchen, wrapped in one of her sweatshirts Jenna brought over, hair still damp from a shower. Her phone buzzed twice on the counter, but she avoided it like it was radioactive.
She didn’t move, just stood there staring out the window, like she was waiting for the sky to tell her how to put her life back together.
And yet, when I handed her a mug of coffee, she still managed to thank me, clutching it like it was the only solid thing she had left to hold onto.
Coach Barrett blows the whistle again, snapping me back to reality.
“Hart, you skating or sleepwalking?”
“Skating,” I mutter.
“Not well.” His eyes narrow. “You’re our first-line left winger, not a ghost. If your head’s not here, we’ve got problems.”
I nod once. Not arguing. He’s right.
He pauses, then adds, “We win these next two? We’re in the playoffs. You know that.”
“I know.”
“Then act like it.”
We’ve got two games left before the playoff spots are locked. Two wins, and we’re in. I should be fired up. Focused.
And yet, all I can think about is Ava upstairs in my guest room, trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces.
I tug at the chin strap of my helmet, clench my jaw, and force a breath through my nose.
Focus, Hart.
You can’t drop the puck on both fronts.
After practice, I hit the road with the radio low, the thrum of the engine and the faint hiss of tires on asphalt filling the silence.
My stick bag shifts in the backseat with every turn, a quiet reminder of the hours I just burned at the rink without getting anywhere.
Every mile closer to home, my focus drifts further from hockey and back to her.
By the time I pull into the driveway, it’s just past six. My legs are lead, my brain foggy from the kind of practice where nothing clicks and everyone notices.
Not great.
I kill the engine. From the outside, the house looks quiet. No twin stampedes, no squeals. It seems peaceful, but I’ve learned that doesn’t mean nothing’s going on, especially on a Sunday like this.
When I step inside, my stomach growls as I’m greeted with the smell of roasted vegetables and lemon chicken.
Miss Taylor’s cooking is always something to look forward to.
I round the corner and pause.
Ava’s sitting on the living room rug, legs crossed, a deck of UNO cards spread out between her and the boys. Liam is mid-eye-roll while Noah leans dramatically across the pile to discard four cards.
“That is not how the rules work,” Liam groans.
“You’re just mad I’m winning,” Noah retorts with a grin.
Ava smirks but doesn’t intervene. Her sleeves are pushed up, and her dark hair is in one of those messy buns that makes her look good without even trying. There’s a smudge of something green on her cheek. Paint? Marker? And her phone rests beside her on the floor, face down.
Like she’s deliberately not looking at it.
She glances up and spots me, and something flickers in her eyes. Surprise, maybe, or hesitation. She starts to stand, but I shake my head.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say.
“You didn’t,” she replies, then to the boys: “Okay, last round.”
They groan in sync, but they don’t argue.
I’m impressed.
I step closer and crouch beside her. “Thanks for hanging out with them.”
She shrugs one shoulder, eyes on the boys. “They’re good company.”
“Even when Noah cheats?”
“He’s an entertaining little tyrant,” she whispers with a faint smile.
Her phone buzzes. She deliberately ignores it.
“Still getting bombarded?” I ask gently.
“Brad. My mom. A few others,” she says, voice strained. “I haven’t… I’m not ready.”
I want to pull her into a bear hug and hold her, but I’m not sure if it’s appropriate.
Luckily, I’m saved by Miss Taylor.
“Dinner’s in ten!” Miss Taylor calls from the kitchen.
Dinner is simple and warm. Roast chicken, quinoa, roasted carrots with a honey glaze. Miss Taylor hums under her breath while she plates dessert.
“Did you know the SteelClaws are two wins away from the Playoffs?” she asks casually as she refills Ava’s glass with water.
Ava looks up, surprised. “You follow the team?”
I glance at Miss Taylor, smiling. “She keeps track of my stats better than I do.”
Miss Taylor shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s a hint of pride in her smile. She came into our lives after Claire passed two years ago and has been an unshakeable presence ever since.
After Claire died, everything felt like a landslide I couldn’t stop. My mom came up from Tennessee for a few months, doing her best to hold the boys and me together.
She’d moved down after my dad passed. He died of a heart attack my senior year, right after I got drafted into the NHL.
He was so damn proud; he told anyone who would listen. I’ll always be grateful he saw that before we lost him.
With me leaving home and Dad gone, Mom said she needed a fresh start. Her sister down in Tennessee had been dealing with long-term health issues, and she needed help. So, Mom sold the house, packed up, and went. I didn’t blame her. The house was too quiet without him.
She did her best when she came back up after Claire passed, but I think those months broke something in her too. She eventually went back to Tennessee, and that’s when I hired Miss Taylor. Without her, I don’t know if we’d have made it through that first year.
A small hand tugs at my sleeve, pulling me out of it.
“Are you okay, Daddy?” Liam asks, his big eyes searching mine.
I force a smile, ruffling his hair. “Yeah, buddy. I’m good.”
The conversation drifts to dinosaurs, favorite snack foods, and the fruit snack color rankings. Liam wants to debate every detail, and Noah tries to trade his carrots for extra dessert.
Across the table, Ava plays along. Her smile comes a beat too late, her laugh a little fragile. But she’s trying.
And I can tell it’s not easy for her.
Still, she stays at the table, listening and answering their questions.
That alone feels like more than most people could manage after what she’s been through.
Eventually, the dinner dishes are cleared. The boys yawn between bites of pudding until Miss Taylor gives them the look . They groan but don’t protest, shuffling off to brush their teeth.
After the twins are tucked in and Miss Taylor retreats to the guest house in the backyard for the night, I find Ava standing in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand.
“I know I can’t crash here forever,” she says quietly.
I lean against the counter, arms folded. “You’ve only been here one night. And you’re not crashing.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“You’re recovering,” I say, softer this time. “You can take all the time you need.”
She tilts her head, and a strand of dark hair slips from her bun, falling against her cheek. I catch myself wanting to brush it back and force the thought away.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, then add with a half-smile, “Well, just until your vacation ends. Once you stop helping out with the kids, I’m definitely going to have to kick you out.”
That gets a faint smile out of her.
“But seriously, you’re welcome here. There’s plenty of room.”
Too much room, most days. The house feels less empty with her in it.
But I don’t say that out loud.
Her shoulders ease just a little. “Okay. Thank you.”
I clear my throat and rub the back of my neck. “Do you want to get out for a bit tomorrow? I’ve got practice in the morning. You could come. Meet the team. Get some air.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “To the rink?”
“No pressure,” I add quickly. “Just thought maybe it’d be good. Change of scenery.”
She shifts her mug between her hands. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
I lean in a little. “You already survived Uno with Noah. The rink can’t be any worse.”
That earns a real smile. The kind I haven’t seen from her yet.
The kind that makes something settle, then twist, right in my chest.
We say goodnight, and she disappears upstairs, still holding her phone face down like she’s not ready to deal with what’s waiting there.
Later, lying in bed, I should be thinking about our upcoming matchups or whether we can pull off the two-win stretch we need.
But all I can think about is whether she’ll be there tomorrow.
And how damn much I want her to be.