13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
AVA
H is mouth is on my neck, burning with intensity, a feeling so real it almost makes me gasp.
I feel his hands, warm and sure, sliding up my back, pulling me closer.
His breath is hot against my skin, each kiss moving lower, across my collarbone.
I arch into him, desperate for more, feeling his body press against mine.
I gasp, my body aching for more, and his mouth moves lower, trailing wet heat down my stomach.
I wake with a sudden inhale, my skin flushed, heartbeat racing.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. The dream felt so real.
Then it rushes back. The guest room, the soft morning light pressing through the curtains, the quiet hum of the house.
And no Jackson in my bed.
God.
I press the palms of my hands to my eyes, trying to blink the images away, but they cling. The way his hand slid over mine. His mouth at my ear. The heat of his body, real and solid and entirely too much.
It was just a dream, but it felt like more. The way he looked at me, like I wasn’t breakable.
Like I was his.
I shove the covers off and swing my legs over the side of the bed, grounding my feet to the floor like it’ll help.
It doesn’t.
It’s just because of yesterday. The way we posted those pictures and announced our relationship .
That’s all it is.
Get it together, Ava.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel his hand at the small of my back. His mouth brushing mine. The way he whispered my name, his lips trailing lower…
Nope. I am not thinking about this.
I change into a sweatshirt and leggings, then head for the door. The hallway is quiet, but the scent of coffee drifts up from the kitchen.
Of course, he’s up.
I pause with my hand on the banister, suddenly aware that I’ll have to look him in the eye in a moment. That I’ll probably sit next to him at breakfast. That my brain will replay every second of that dream even while he’s asking if I want more coffee.
I press my lips together. It’s fine. I can handle this. I square my shoulders and head downstairs.
The kitchen is already alive when I step inside.
Jackson’s leaning against the counter in a dark gray shirt and joggers, his hair damp from a shower.
Noah is on the floor trying to teach a stuffed animal how to do a slapshot with a plastic mini stick.
Liam’s sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and the comics section spread out beside him.
“Morning,” Jackson says, without looking up. He’s pouring coffee, my mug already beside his.
I blink. “Oh. Morning.”
Noah glances up, his stick tapping against the tile. “Do you sleep here every night now?”
The question catches me off guard. “Um… for now,” I say. “Just while I figure some things out.”
Noah shrugs, apparently satisfied, and goes back to adjusting his bear’s slapshot grip.
Jackson lifts the coffee pot, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Nothing like an interrogation first thing in the morning, huh?”
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, offering me some coffee. “I figured you’d want your usual.”
My throat goes dry instantly. “Thanks. That’s… yeah. That’s perfect.”
I take the mug, fingers brushing his.
Big mistake.
The contact sends a spark through me like a live wire. Stupid, residual dream nonsense.
Jackson doesn’t seem to notice. He just leans back against the counter again, sipping his own coffee like this is just any other morning.
Noah crashes his mini stick into the cabinet, prompting a lecture from Liam about stick handling.
I sit down at the table, lifting the mug to my lips and praying he doesn’t notice I’m unraveling inside.
Jackson moves across the kitchen and grabs something from the fridge. I keep my eyes on the steam curling off the coffee. Anything but his hands. Anything but the way that shirt clings to his back.
Focus.
“So,” he says casually. “You sleep okay?”
The question lands with more weight than it should. I almost choke on my coffee.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “Fine. Great. Just… you know. Long week.”
His eyes flick toward me, but he doesn’t press. Just nods and starts slicing a bagel.
“Miss Taylor’s taking the boys to school in a few,” he says, glancing toward the clock.
I nod again, grateful he doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Because I wouldn’t know how to answer.
Miss Taylor appears in the kitchen like clockwork, dressed in a soft sweater and flats. There’s a flurry of movement as the boys scramble to get their jackets on, backpacks slung over one shoulder.
Jackson calls out, “Whoever behaves best today gets dibs on dessert tonight.”
Noah doesn’t miss a beat. “I pick lava cake!”
Liam crosses his arms. “That’s not how dibs work.”
Miss Taylor sighs, but there’s amusement in her eyes as she shepherds them out the door. The moment it closes behind them, the house falls quiet again.
Jackson crosses back to the table, sets down a plate with two bagels. One plain, one blueberry.
“I didn’t know which you’d want,” he says. “So I figured you could pick.”
My throat catches again, but I manage a smile. “Thanks. Blueberry.”
He slides the plate closer without sitting down. He’s got that easy posture he gets when he’s home, shoulders relaxed, one hip against the counter.
“I was thinking,” he says, “we could get out of the house today if you’d like. Maybe go for a drive.”
I blink. “You don’t have practice today?”
He shakes his head. “Day off. Coach gave us one after the win. Practice tomorrow, then prep.”
“Right. Because you’re in the playoffs now.”
“Because we’re in the playoffs,” he echoes, voice low with satisfaction.
I tear off a piece of the bagel and pop it into my mouth, chewing slowly while Jackson rinses something in the sink. The quiet stretches between us. It’s comfortable, but edged with something I can’t name. Not tension, exactly. But not nothing.
Once I finish breakfast, he glances over. “You up for that drive?”
There’s no pressure in his voice, just a simple offer. But something about it lands deeper than it should.
“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just let me get ready real quick.”
He nods once. “I’ll warm up the truck.”
I rush to pull on my coat and boots, my hands clumsy with something that feels too close to excitement.
By the time I slide into the passenger seat, the cab is already warm. Jackson’s truck rumbles beneath us as we wind through back roads.
I glance over at him, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. There’s a comfort in the silence, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled.
“Where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes.
He grins without looking away from the road. “You’ll see.”
Fifteen minutes later, he pulls into a small, city-owned rink on the edge of town tucked behind a public park with faded signage.
I blink. “Jackson, what are we doing here?”
He tosses me a lopsided smile. “You told me you haven’t skated since you were in middle school.”
My heart flutters annoyingly at that. “You remember that?”
He shrugs, but his voice is quiet. “I remember a lot.”
He shuts off the engine and climbs out. I follow, the wind brushing cool across my cheeks. Inside, the building smells faintly of old rubber and ice, and the fluorescent lights buzz as we step inside.
Before I realize it, he’s handing me a pair of skates. “Come on. Humor me.”
Ten minutes later, I’m wobbling toward the ice like a baby deer. Jackson steps onto the rink with practiced ease. The contrast makes me want to back out entirely.
“It’s empty,” I murmur, glancing around.
Jackson shrugs. “Perk of showing up on a weekday morning. No school groups, no open skate crowd.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “At least no one else will see me fall.”
He holds out a gloved hand. “You trust me?”
I hesitate for half a second, then take it.
As I slide forward one cautious inch at a time, Jackson doesn’t let go. His grip is steady.
“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, guiding me along the edge.
I laugh. “You’re such a liar.”
“Maybe. But a supportive one.”
We circle slowly, my balance improving as I let myself lean into him, just a little.
The rhythm is shaky, but I feel safe with him there.
There’s a moment where we glide almost in sync, and I forget to be embarrassed.
He spins me gently by the waist, guiding me in a wide turn, when suddenly I lose my footing and lurch forward.
My heart rate spikes, but before I fall, his arm loops firmly around my back.
“Told you I’d catch you,” he murmurs.
My breath catches and I feel shivers run down my spine. His face is close, eyes warm, lips inches from mine.
I could kiss him.
But I don’t.
Instead, I straighten slowly, heart pounding.
“Thanks,” I murmur, not quite meeting his eyes.
He doesn’t push, just squeezes my hand once more before letting go.
We skate a few more laps. And every time he steadies me, every time he laughs or meets my gaze, the butterflies come alive in my stomach.
By the time we head out, I’m disappointed it’s over.
On the drive back, I notice that I feel lighter. Jackson has a way of pulling walls down without asking you to break them.
I try to remember the last time I felt this light, this free. With Brad, even the fun moments came with a cost.
Expectations. Pressure.
But with Jackson, it’s just... easy. Like maybe it’s okay to just be.
We pull into the driveway, and I’m already unbuckling when he turns off the engine and glances over.
“Hey,” he says, voice low but steady. “The team’s doing a celebratory dinner tomorrow night. Players, coaches, plus-ones. It’s a ‘we made it into the Playoffs’ thing.”
My stomach flips.
Those dang butterflies again.
“You want to come with me?” he asks. “You’d be with the other WAGs. Russo’s wife’ll be there, couple of the others too. Nothing fancy. Just food, some speeches, probably a lot of bad jokes.”
I blink, caught off guard by how genuine the offer feels. Like he wants me there, but won’t hold it against me if I say no.
“Okay,” I say, the word settling warm in my chest.
He smiles. “Cool. I’ll tell Russo not to bug you too much.”
We head inside, and he holds the door open like he always does. Easy, natural, like I already belong here.
Later, upstairs in the guest room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a flush in my cheeks, a softness in my eyes I haven’t seen in a while. I grab my phone and sit on the edge of the bed, pulling up our photo from our post yesterday.
One caption. One photo. And now I’m going to a team dinner with him like I belong in his world.
I press the phone to my chest, staring up at the ceiling.
If this is fake, then why does it feel like the realest thing I’ve had in a long time?