8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
JACKSON
I ’m up before the sun.
Game day mornings always start like this. Quiet, methodical. I like the stillness. No distractions, no noise. Just me, the hum of the coffee maker, and the steady rhythm of routine I’ve built over years of chasing the puck.
But today, it’s not just the game on my mind.
As I move through the kitchen, I catch the signs: small, ordinary things that shouldn’t mean anything. Ava’s sweatshirt draped over the back of a chair. A coffee mug in the sink that’s not mine. Subtle shifts. Little threads weaving her into this place.
Into my space.
The twins aren’t up yet, so I move quietly, pulling protein powder from the pantry and adding it to my blender. I start a pot of oatmeal. Familiar. Focused. But then I glance toward the hallway.
And see her.
Ava appears in the doorway, long dark hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a soft pink hoodie over her leggings. Her eyes are still a little sleep-soft, but she smiles when she sees me.
“You’re loud in the morning,” she murmurs.
I smirk. “This is me being quiet.”
She pads in barefoot and starts helping without being asked: grabbing bowls from the cabinet, slicing a banana. It’s seamless, easy. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
Like she belongs here.
That thought hits harder than I expect.
“Morning, Ava!” Noah barrels into the room like a rocket, backpack half-zipped, socks mismatched. “We’re out of the good granola.”
“Tragedy,” she deadpans, handing him a spoon. “You’ll have to survive with oatmeal like the rest of us.”
Liam follows behind, quieter but not shy.
“Do you have a game tonight?” he asks, eyes on me.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching for the milk. “Puck drop’s at 7:30. I’ll head out after dinner.”
“Can we go?” Noah asks through a mouthful of banana.
I lift an eyebrow. “It’s a school night bud.”
He swallows his bite, his next question catching me off guard. “Is Ava going?”
Ava’s eyes widen, surprised.
I clear my throat. “Only if she wants to.”
Her gaze meets mine. Hesitant, but not unwilling. “I think I’d like that. Can you give me a ride?”
I nod, and just like that, something settles in my chest. A steady kind of pull. She fits. The boys like her. She’s here, blending into the rhythm of our day like it’s second nature.
Which might be the most unsettling part of all.
After breakfast, the house shifts into its usual weekday rhythm.
Miss Taylor wrangles the twins for school, and I head out for my morning skate.
Ava stays back, but when I return late that afternoon, she’s curled up in the front room with a book and a blanket draped over her legs, like she’s been here longer than four days.
Dinner comes together easily: baked chicken, roasted potatoes, and salad. The twins burst through the door in a whirlwind of announcements and snack requests.
Ava helps Liam open a stubborn juice box while Noah tells a story about a glue stick emergency with dramatic flair. She laughs, genuinely, and I catch myself watching her a second too long.
By the time we sit down, the table’s loud with energy. Miss Taylor asks about spelling words, Liam wants to know how many fans will be at the game, and Ava gently redirects Noah when he tries to swap his broccoli for extra bread.
It’s noisy, imperfect, real.
And Ava fits like she’s always had a seat at this table.
She doesn’t say much, but when I head upstairs to get ready, I hear her pad into the kitchen and start making tea. By the time we’re out the door, the sun’s just starting to set, and she slides into the passenger seat like muscle memory.
The arena is already buzzing when we hit the ice that evening.
Fans are filing in, jerseys in every row, the kind of energy that crackles even before puck drop.
It’s not quite sold out—weekday games rarely are—but the lower bowl’s filling fast, and the sound system’s cranked up loud enough to vibrate the glass.
Two games left in the regular season. We need to win both to clinch our playoff spot. The guys feel it. I feel it. No one says it out loud, but it’s there… coiled under our ribs, fierce behind our focus.
Coach Barrett paces behind the bench, jaw clenched. He doesn’t need to say much tonight. We all know what’s on the line.
I settle into the rhythm of warmups: skate, stretch, pass. But my head’s not as clear as it should be. It keeps drifting to the way Ava smiled at Liam when he handed her that lava dragon drawing, the way she laughed at Noah calling oatmeal “prison food.”
I pull on my helmet and skate into the first drill. The scrape of blades over clean ice clears my head. Almost.
Because I know exactly where she’s sitting. Center ice, just above the glass. Hoodie down, dark hair loose, eyes tracking us as we move. And that’s enough to mess with my focus more than I want to admit.
Russo catches me looking.
“You gonna daydream all night or join us?” he chirps.
I grunt. “Mentally preparing.”
“For the game or for her?”
I shove him lightly with my stick. “You talk too much.”
We rotate through drills, the mood tense. Focused. Coach calls out a few adjustments, calm but firm.
“Let’s go, Jacks,” Russo mutters as we line up for the opening shift. “Time to turn it on.”
And we do.
When the puck drops, the noise in my head fades. The game demands everything: speed, instinct, precision. We move clean through the first, staying tight on coverage and hammering their breakout attempts.
By the second, it’s a grind. The other team plays heavy: chippy in the corners, testing us every shift.
But we’re sharper. Hungrier.
In the third, I assist on a rebound goal that puts us up by two.
The crowd erupts. My teammates swarm. I slap gloves, nod at Coach, and skate back to the bench, heart hammering. I glance toward the stands. She’s there. I can’t tell if she’s smiling, but she’s watching.
And something about that steadies me in a way I wasn’t expecting.
When the final horn blows and we’re up 4–2, the weight that’s been pressing on my chest all week finally lifts.
We did it.
One win down, one to go to make it into the Playoffs.
Russo claps me on the helmet. “You’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For not telling the whole team you were checking the stands every five minutes.”
I roll my eyes, but the grin that tugs at my mouth is real.
I don’t bother arguing because he’s not wrong.
By the time I’m done with the post-game breakdown, media quick hits, and a protein shake, I’m finally leaving the locker room. The arena is mostly emptied out.
Russo slaps my shoulder on his way out. “Go find your girl.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches.
I head toward the suites, where family and guests usually wait, and spot her instantly. Ava’s leaning against the wall near the private hallway. She’s scrolling on her phone but looks up the second she senses me.
“Hey,” she says, straightening.
“Hey,” I echo, adjusting the strap of my gear bag.
“You survived the whole game?” I tease.
She nods, raising an eyebrow. “Congratulations, by the way. That assist in the third? Very nice.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Did you actually watch the game, or were you just pretending so you could sound convincing later?”
She lifts one shoulder in a mock shrug. “I had help. The guy next to me was yelling out plays like it was his job.”
I snort. “Yeah, there’s always one guy who thinks he’s auditioning for ESPN.”
She laughs, and it’s soft, real. The kind that eases tension I didn’t know I was still carrying.
We walk side by side toward the exit. The arena is quiet now, just the low buzz of the janitorial crew and a few stragglers heading for the player lot.
“Thanks for coming,” I say, glancing over.
“You don’t have to thank me.” She hesitates, then adds. “It was nice. Weirdly calming. I think I needed the noise.”
I nod. I get it.
We stop near the parking lot exit. I pull out my keys but don’t move yet. Neither does she.
She shifts her weight, looks up at me. “You looked… in your element out there. Like your body always knew exactly what to do.”
I swallow, caught off guard. I’m not used to being seen like that. A part of me wants to look away, but I hold her gaze.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “It’s pretty much muscle memory now.”
She smiles faintly, then reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Her fingers barely brush mine. But the contact is enough to short-circuit my next thought.
She drops her gaze. “Ready to head back?”
I nod once. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
We walk out together, the cool night air greeting us like a wall the second we step outside. I automatically angle myself closer to her, shielding her from the wind without thinking.
And we walk toward the truck like we’ve done it a dozen times.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the adrenaline from the game has mostly worn off. It’s replaced by a slower kind of hum, something quieter and closer to contentment.
I kill the engine, and for a second, neither of us moves. The house is dark except for the porch light Miss Taylor must’ve left on. The twins will be asleep by now. The whole place feels still, like it’s waiting for us to come back in and fill it again.
Ava unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t open the door right away.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
She turns slightly in her seat, tugs at the hem of her sleeve. “I need to go back.”
The words land heavy. Not panicked, just quiet. Measured.
“To your old place?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She nods, but the tension in her shoulders doesn’t go away. “Yeah. Jenna brought my clothes, laptop, toiletries, but the rest of my stuff’s still there. My books. Notes for my nonprofit. Some personal things. And my car.”
She hesitates, letting out a slow breath. “I’ve been avoiding going back. I wasn’t ready. Still don’t know if I am. But the longer I wait, the harder it’s going to be. And wherever I end up next… I’ll need those things.”
I nod. “Okay. Want me to go with you?”
She gives a small nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Coach gave us a light skate tomorrow morning. Want to go after?”
“Okay.”
I catch the shakiness in her voice.
We get out of the truck, and I walk her to the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When I open the door for her, she pauses, glancing back at me under the porch light.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice quiet. “For… all of your support.”
I almost say “anytime”, but that doesn’t feel strong enough. So instead, I nod, holding her gaze for a moment longer.
She disappears through the door and up to her room, and I stand there a beat longer than necessary, cool air biting at my skin, already planning how to make sure tomorrow goes smoothly.
And if Brad so much as looks at her wrong…
He’ll have more than regret to deal with.