16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
JACKSON
T he rink is quiet this early. Just the steady scrape of my skates carving into the ice and the hollow rhythm of my breath beneath the helmet.
I came here before sunrise.
Didn’t even wait for the coffee to finish brewing. I just grabbed my bag and left like a coward who didn’t know what to say after waking up next to the woman he’s been trying not to fall for.
I push into a sharp turn around the far faceoff circle and skate hard toward the blue line, forcing my body to move faster, more precise. Trying to outpace the thoughts chasing me. But they’re always just behind me. Especially this morning.
Ava.
Her name alone hits like a check to the chest. I close my eyes for a second mid-glide and all I see is her: tangled in my sheets, her hand warm against my jaw, the sound of her voice when she said yes.
I shouldn’t have let it happen.
I slam the puck against the boards, frustration bleeding through. The echo rings out, harsh and accusing, like it knows exactly what I’m trying to escape.
This wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to be fake dating. Give her cover from Brad. Keep her safe without crossing the line.
But last night, there was no line left.
It wasn’t just about Ava.
It was about what it meant—wanting someone again after losing Claire.
Her name whispers at the edge of my mind as if I’m getting close to forgetting. Like she’s standing just behind me, watching. Like I’ve done something wrong.
I told myself for years that Claire was my one and only. That anything else would be a betrayal. But lying beside Ava last night didn’t feel like betrayal.
It felt like breathing again.
I slow to a stop behind the net and drag my glove across my face, jaw clenched.
What the hell am I doing?
I glance around the empty rink. I used to love being here alone. It used to center me. Now all it does is echo my thoughts right back to me.
By late morning, my body is screaming to slow down. I’ve been out here for hours, firing pucks and trying to silence my thoughts with muscle memory.
I finish another round of line sprints and skate to the bench, chest heaving. My shirt clings to my back, damp and heavy. I tug off my helmet and lean forward, elbows on my knees, letting the chill settle over me.
I grab a protein shake from my bag and down half of it in a few long gulps. It’s lukewarm now, but I don’t care. My stomach turns at the idea of food, but I force it down anyway.
The click of a door opening echoes across the arena. I glance up as Russo steps onto the bench platform, not dressed for ice yet, coffee in one hand, and skate guards clacking against the concrete.
I skate toward him, slowing near the boards.
“Damn Jacks. You skate through the night or something? Practice isn’t for another forty minutes.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Russo studies me for a second, raising an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie, pushing off again. My legs are lead now, burning from hours on the ice, but I grab a puck and set it at center ice anyway.
He steps closer to the boards, leaning over slightly. “So… rough night or are you just trying to win the Cup single handedly?”
I force a half-laugh and tap the puck ahead of me, skating in a quick circle before flipping it on net. “Didn’t sleep much.”
He gives me a long look, then nods slowly like he knows not to push.
“Alright. But if you burn yourself out before the first playoff game, Coach is gonna skin you alive.”
I nod once, jaw clenched. He’s not wrong.
Russo heads towards the locker room, leaving me alone again on the ice. I stare down at the puck beneath my blade, trying to will myself into focus.
Practice is about to start, and I still don’t know if I’m more afraid of forgetting the past or facing the future.
I skate to the boards and brace my forearms against the top of the dasher. My head drops between my shoulders. My pulse still hammers from the morning’s drills, but beneath it sits a gnawing discomfort, lodged deep between my ribs.
I let myself just breathe for a few seconds.
I spent two years pouring everything into my boys and hockey. Those roles were safe. But if I wanted something again, I’d have to admit I moved on.
Without her.
My hands curl into fists on the boards. It doesn’t feel right, even now. Even after all this time. Like I’m betraying something sacred just by thinking about someone else.
But then I picture Ava’s face from last night: her smile, the way she looked at me when I reached for her hand. The way she leaned into me like she belonged there.
And maybe she does.
But I don’t know how to hold that. How to make room for her without feeling like I’m erasing Claire. Without drowning in the guilt of wanting someone again.
I catch the overhead clock out of the corner of my eye. Twenty minutes until practice. The quiet won’t last much longer.
I need to get it together before the rest of the guys show up.
Before I see Ava again.
Because I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.
By the time I leave the locker room an hour and a half later, every part of my body aches, from my quads to my stiff hands.
Practice went fine, despite pushing through drills on autopilot and fielding a dozen chirps from the guys. Russo told them I’d been out there since dawn, which opened the floodgates.
“Damn, Hart, are you training for the Ironman?”
“You know there’s no extra credit for extra laps, right?”
“Someone tell Jackson the sun comes up even if he sleeps in.”
Coach didn’t say much, just gave me a look during warmups and muttered something about “pacing myself.”
Now, in the quiet of my truck, I sink into the seat with a groan. My water bottle’s warm and mostly empty, but I chug what’s left and toss it aside. My phone buzzes just as I turn the key in the ignition.
My heart rate spikes when I see it’s Greg.
He’s probably between surgeries or on a quick break. He doesn’t call much, but when he does, it’s usually important.
I hesitate before answering.
“Hey,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Hey, got a minute before I scrub in. Thought I’d check in.”
I swallow, trying to sound normal. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” Greg says, a pause. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just getting ready for the playoffs.”
He snorts, and it loosens tension in my chest. “Did you finally move into the rink full-time?”
I force a laugh. “Right back at you. You living in the OR yet?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” he chuckles. “What can I say? You know I’ve always thrived on being go-go-go.”
It’s true. He’s always been that guy. Focused. Driven. While I was staying late at the rink, chasing NHL dreams, Greg was charting his path to med school with surgical precision.
“Congrats on the win, by the way, and for making it into the playoffs. That’s huge, man.”
“Appreciate that.”
Another pause. Then: “I saw that pic Ava posted last night. The team dinner thing.”
My fingers tense on the steering wheel.
He lets out a quiet breath. “She looked happy.”
I keep my eyes on the windshield, jaw clenched. I don’t trust myself to speak.
Greg’s quiet for a moment. “I appreciate you doing this, man. I know it’s a lot.”
The knot in my chest tightens.
“Just looking out for her,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of that’s both true and safe to tell him but guilt hits like a fist to the ribs.
“It’s not like she can stay with me in my glorified closet of an apartment,” Greg says, a hint of self-deprecating humor in his voice. “I basically just sleep there between shifts.”
I counter, “Hey man, we’re both thirty. Maybe it’s time you upgrade to an actual adult apartment?”
We both laugh.
“Let’s get together sometime soon,” Greg says. “Maybe after your next home game, if you’re free and I’m not stuck in surgery.”
I chuckle. “That’s a big ‘if.’”
“Yeah, well. You bring Ava. I’ll bring my hospital pager.”
After he says that, he pauses. “Wow, it’s like you really are a couple.”
You have no idea.
I’m saved from having to respond when he says: “Okay. I’ve got to scrub in, but I just wanted to check in. Thanks again, Jackson.”
“Anytime.”
The line goes dead, and I drop the phone in the passenger seat, staring at it like it might burn through the leather.
Greg doesn’t know I crossed a line.
Guilt sits heavy in my chest, but it’s tangled up with other things too: desire, hope, the terrifying ache of wanting more.
I shift in my seat, stretching my shoulder until it cracks.
I’m sore as hell, half-exhausted, and nowhere near ready to face her.
But I’m going to have to go home eventually.