12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
JACKSON
“ O kay, Liam, hold it steady. No, other way. Don’t cover the lens.”
“It’s not covered!” he protests. “It’s just my thumb.”
I try not to laugh. Ava’s already laughing, her shoulder warm against mine as she leans closer, whispering, “We should’ve hired a professional.”
I chuckle, adjusting so my head’s not halfway out of frame. “Alright, one more. Noah, you try this time.”
Noah takes the phone like he’s handling a grenade and squints one eye closed. “Say lava dragon!”
“Lava dragon!” Ava and I say in unison.
The shutter clicks. Then again. And again.
When we check the photos, half of them are blurry, two have a finger across the lens, and one has Noah’s nose dead center in the shot.
But there’s one near the end, taken just as Ava laughed at something I said, her head slightly tipped toward mine. We’re not posing. We’re just… there. Real.
“This one,” she says softly, tapping the screen.
I nod once, already pulling up my socials. “You sure?”
She glances up at me, a flicker of nerves passing through, and then she straightens, steady now. “Yeah,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
I upload the photo, thumb hovering over the caption box for a beat longer than I should.
I type: “ Right where I want to be.”
No emojis. No tags. Just that.
I hit post.
Ava’s fingers move across her own screen as she types, then pauses. Her jaw locks for a second, then relaxes.
Her tagline: “Turns out what comes next is better than what came before.”
I can’t help it. A little snort escapes.
She posts it. Then, with one quiet breath, she taps and updates her relationship status.
In a relationship with Jackson Hart.
I do the same. It takes two seconds, but everything shifts in that moment. Like a dial clicking into place.
We don’t say anything. The twins have already lost interest and are sword-fighting with paper towel rolls in the corner.
Ava hands me back my phone. “Well,” she says, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “I guess we’re together now.”
I pocket the phone, trying to keep my voice even. “Looks like it.”
She sits on the arm of the couch, eyes on the photo still pulled up on her screen.
I’m looking at her instead.
Not because of the post.
Not because of what it means to everyone else.
But because I think this part will be way too easy to play.
The notifications blow up.
Ava’s phone buzzes first. Rapid-fire alerts light up the screen like it’s on a loop.
I glance at mine. Same thing.
Comments, likes, private messages stacking up faster than I can keep track.
She doesn’t check hers. Just sets it down on the coffee table like she expected the noise and doesn’t want to give it any more air than it deserves.
I follow her lead.
The twins are still in their own world, shouting something about dragons. One of them knocks a throw pillow onto the floor. No one picks it up.
Ava stands and moves toward the sink, filling a glass of water like it’s just a regular morning. I watch the way her fingers tighten around the rim for a second too long before she sets it down.
“You okay?” I ask.
She turns slightly, just enough to meet my eyes. “Yeah. Just… weird, I guess.”
I nod, even though I don’t know if I agree.
Because it doesn’t feel weird to me.
It feels like the moment right after a goal when the puck hits the net, the light flashes red, the crowd erupts… and you stand there blinking, trying to register that it happened. That it counted.
Her phone buzzes again.
She winces this time, reaching for it on instinct before stopping herself.
“You don’t have to look,” I say.
“I know.” She brushes a piece of hair behind her ear. “I didn’t expect it to feel this loud.”
I grab my own phone and flip it face-down. “We don’t have to feed it.”
She offers a small smile. “Says the guy whose teammates are probably blowing up the group chat right now.”
I shrug. “They can wait.”
Ava sinks into the cushion beside me, her arm brushing mine as she settles in. It’s nothing, really. Bare skin, a quiet shift.
But I feel it all the same. A flicker of something warm that lingers longer than it should.
She glances toward the twins. “So… what’s the plan for tonight?”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You can ride with me. Miss Taylor’s gonna watch the game with the boys until their bedtime.”
“Right,” she says softly. “It’s a school night.”
I nod. “You’ll be in the family section with the wives and girlfriends. The WAGs.”
She arches a brow. “That’s actually what they call it?”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my neck. “And I know Russo’s going to make it a whole thing.”
A pause.
“I told Jenna this morning,” she says. “Figured I should warn her before she opened Instagram. I also told Greg yesterday.”
“I’m aware,” I say. “He called me last night.”
When Greg talked to me about the fake dating thing yesterday, he didn’t say much.
Just exhaled slowly and told me he approved if it got Brad off her back.
Told me to take care of her.
I’m still not sure if that was brotherly approval or a warning.
She doesn’t say anything to that… just leans back a little, eyes flicking toward my phone still facedown on the table.
Her knee grazes mine, light and quick. She doesn’t pull away.
And neither do I.
By early afternoon, the house has quieted again, but the buzz in my chest is building. Game-day adrenaline. Routines clicking into place.
By the time I step into the locker room, I’ve already gotten three texts from Russo and one audio message from him that I refuse to open.
The place is its usual mess of tape balls, scattered sticks, and half-dressed players blasting music that somehow manages to be both motivational and off-key.
Russo’s the loudest voice in the room, which is not unusual. What is unusual is that the minute he sees me, he grins like he’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
“Look who finally decided to make it official,” he calls out, waving his phone in the air. “Hart, you romantic son of a—”
“Don’t,” I warn, dropping my gear bag onto the bench beside my stall.
He ignores me. Of course he does.
“I mean, damn , man,” he says, dramatically fanning himself. “You could’ve told us it was serious. We would’ve planned a team toast. Or bought you a blender.”
The guys around him snort and chuckle. One of them murmurs, “Thought she was his childhood friend or something?”
“She is,” Russo says, turning back to me. “And now she’s in the WAGs section tonight, wearing what I assume is your hoodie, drinking from a SteelClaws tumbler, and living the dream.”
I finish unlacing my shoes and toss them into the corner. “You done?”
“Oh, not even close,” he says cheerfully. “I’m just getting started. I mean, your caption alone… what was it again?” He squints at his phone. “‘ Right where I want to be ’? My dude. That’s a proposal soft launch.”
Someone behind him starts clapping. Russo bows like he’s on stage.
I roll my shoulders once, slow and deliberate. “If your game tonight’s half as loud as you are right now, we’ll be fine.”
“If my game’s half as good as that post, we’ll sweep the damn playoffs.”
I shake my head with a wry smile, more amused than I should be. This is how he works. Loud, relentless, mostly harmless.
But under all that noise, I can feel the pressure building around the game. The stakes. The knowledge that a win tonight locks us in for playoffs. And that one misstep could cost us everything.
Russo finally drops into his stall with a grin and starts taping his stick. “You know I’m happy for you, right?”
I glance at him.
He shrugs. “Just don’t let it screw with your head.”
I don’t answer. Just pull my jersey over my shoulders, the familiar weight settling across my back like armor.
Game face. Game day. The tunnel smells like sweat, sharpened blades, and adrenaline.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, helmets on, gloves secure, sticks in hand, waiting for the signal. The arena above us is already roaring: deep, rhythmic chants shaking the concrete, a pulsing heartbeat we’ve all learned to run on.
Russo taps the blade of his stick against the floor twice. “If we win this, it’s Playoffs, boys. Let’s lock it in.”
I roll my neck, shift my weight, try to drown out everything except the game.
But I still glance up through the cutout above the tunnel. The WAGs section is already filling in, and she’s there: dark hair, SteelClaws jacket, legs crossed at the ankle like she’s not being watched by half the row.
Ava’s leaning in toward one of the other women, listening, nodding like this isn’t her first time sitting up there. Like she belongs.
Then she looks up, and smiles.
She lifts one hand in a quiet wave and I nod back.
It’s supposed to be fake. A show. A strategy.
But seeing her up there, confident, calm, wearing my team colors… it does something to me I can’t name. Something I shouldn’t feel.
“Eyes up, Hart,” Russo mutters, bumping my shoulder.
I straighten. “Eyes are up.”
“Not on the ice, they’re not.”
He grins under his visor, already skating ahead as the signal comes.
The announcer’s voice cracks across the sound system, calling out the starting lineup. The lights cut. The crowd surges.
And then we’re flying.
Onto the ice, into formation, through the familiar chaos of sticks and blades and impact.
Everything else falls away.
The puck drops.
The whistle blows.
And just like that, I’m in it.
The next twenty minutes blur past. Hard hits, quick passes, one near goal that rattled the post.
We skate off the ice to a roar that feels earned.
One period down. Score’s tied, but the energy’s right. We’re moving fast, clean, aggressive.
I unclip my helmet and drag a hand through my hair as I head down the tunnel with the others.
Russo’s running his mouth about a pass he claims I missed, but I let it roll off.
Back in the locker room, everyone quiets when Coach walks in.
He’s got that look. The calm before the storm. No yelling, just expectations.
He runs through strategy while trainers swap sticks and refill bottles.
We go out harder in the second. I dig deep and shut everything else out until I see an opening along the left boards.
Russo’s waiting on the far post. I send the puck low and sharp.
He buries it.
The goal light flashes red. The horn blares. The crowd erupts.
But the other team doesn’t stay down. They slip one past our goalie before the period ends, tying it up again.
We hold them through the rest of the second. Still tied. And by the time we’re in the third, I’m soaked in sweat, lungs burning, but there’s no slowing down. Not tonight.
Not when it means everything.
Final minutes. One more play. One rebound kicked out too far. I’m there.
I don’t think, just act. The blade of my stick meets the puck and sends it flying. Top shelf, glove side.
Goal.
The arena explodes. My pulse does, too.
Final seconds drain off the clock. The buzzer blares.
We won.
The SteelClaws are going to the playoffs.
The guys swarm me. Gloves fly. Russo howls something unintelligible before practically tackling me.
I’m grinning, breathing hard, heart pounding like it might punch straight through my ribs.
Not just from the game.
From all of it.
The moment. The noise. The weight of everything we’ve been carrying is finally giving way to something else.
I look up once more.
Ava’s on her feet, hands cupped over her mouth. She’s grinning. Wide, bright, unguarded.
She’s clapping, cheering so hard it looks like she might lose her voice. Everyone else in her row is right there with her.
But I only see her.