19. Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Nineteen
AVA
T he crowd is louder than I expected. Louder, fiercer, electric in a way that pulses straight through my chest. I’ve watched Jackson play before, but this is different.
This is the playoffs. And New Jersey knows it.
I’m in the guest section, the small block of seats reserved for family and partners. Russo’s wife gives me a little wave, and I return it with a smile. I’ve met most of the other women before, but the energy tonight is something else entirely.
Everyone’s on edge, but in a good way.
Charged. Ready.
And I’m glad I’m here.
Glad for the noise, the distance, the change of scenery.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until now.
Just being out of Pennsylvania, and out of my own head, has let me breathe again.
Being here with Jackson, even if it’s under the pretense of a fake relationship, has made everything feel a little less heavy.
I tell myself it’s just a trip. A way to support him. Not a test of whatever this is between us. But part of me still wonders if that night was a mistake to him. A heat-of-the-moment thing he regrets.
The question cuts deeper than I’d like.
And when he asked me to come to New Jersey, part of me wondered if it was just to keep up the fake dating ruse, to look the part. But another part, the part that keeps getting louder, hopes he really does want me here.
On the ice, he’s locked in. I can tell from the second he glides onto the rink.
His strides are clean, his passes precise.
Focused in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
He doesn’t glance up at the glass, doesn’t scan the crowd.
He’s just in it. And I admire how he disappears into the game like it’s the only thing that matters.
The first period flies by. Then the second. Jackson scores once, assists twice. The third period’s all grit and speed, but when the final buzzer sounds, the SteelClaws come out on top. 4–2.
The place erupts.
I’m on my feet without realizing it, clapping until my palms sting, cheering before I even realize what I’m doing. I’ve never been a die-hard hockey fan, not the kind who screams herself hoarse. But tonight, it’s easy to get swept up in it. Easy to celebrate.
I end up in the players’ tunnel after the game. Someone must’ve told security I’d be there, because no one stops me. A few of the other wives and girlfriends pass by with congratulatory smiles.
And then, there he is.
Jackson rounds the corner, flushed and glowing, his hair damp under a black beanie. He slows when he sees me.
“Ava,” he says, eyes bright. “You might be my good luck charm.”
I laugh, but something catches in my throat. The words are light and playful, but the way he says them sinks in deeper than I expect.
“You sure it’s not because you basically live at the rink?”
He grins. “Nope. It’s you.”
He’s teasing. Mostly. But I still feel the heat rise in my chest.
Someone calls his name farther down the tunnel, and Russo’s wife appears, phone in hand.
“Wait! Quick photo!” she chirps, already lining up the shot.
Jackson steps in close, slipping his arm around me. I loop mine through his, and for a second it feels startlingly natural. Easy.
The flash goes off.
He squeezes my arm once, quick and warm. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
I nod. “Go celebrate.”
He jogs off, blending into a crowd of laughing teammates and fist bumps.
And I stand there, still smiling, heart beating faster than it should when Lauren texts me the photo.
The next day, the morning sun filters through the hotel curtains, soft and pale, like the city hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet. I stretch slowly, blinking against the quiet.
For the first time in over two weeks, I’m not thinking about the wedding. Or Brad. Or any of that drama.
I’m actually enjoying myself.
I sit up, pulling the comforter around me. My phone’s on the nightstand. When I grab it, I pull up the photo from last night. The one Lauren snapped in the tunnel and sent right after.
I hadn’t meant to post it so fast, but it felt right in the moment.
Jackson’s flushed from the win, his dark hair curling slightly under his beanie, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. I’m next to him, arm-in-arm. I hadn’t realized until now how naturally we were leaning into each other.
The caption had been simple:
Win night smiles. #Playoffs
But now, in the quiet, it feels like more.
As I stare at the photo, it hits me how happy I look.
Genuinely happy.
The last time I was on a trip like this, it was for one of Brad’s investment conferences in Miami. All buttoned-up dinners and careful appearances. I’d smiled so much my jaw hurt. I remember thinking, This should feel good.
But it didn’t. It never did.
My phone buzzes and I see a text from Jackson.
Want to grab breakfast and do some sightseeing before I head to the rink?
I bite my lip to keep from smiling like a complete idiot.
I’m in.
My heart lifts, warm and sudden.
We end up at a spot along the boardwalk, tucked just far enough from the crowds to feel like we have the city to ourselves. The air smells like saltwater and roasted coffee from a stand nearby.
Jackson walks beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, ball cap pulled low. Even without the gear and cameras, people still recognize him. Broad shoulders, steady stride, that quiet confidence he wears like a second skin.
“It’s nicer than I expected,” I say, tilting my face toward the sky. “New Jersey, I mean. I’d like to check out some of the lighthouses.”
He gives me a side glance. “Maybe we can do that next time.”
Next time.
The words settle between us, warmer than I anticipated, and I can’t help but wonder what that means for us. I don’t ask. Instead, I let the breeze carry us forward.
The rest of the morning drifts by as we wander in and out of small shops, sipping lattes. By the time we head back so he can prep for the game, something in me feels lighter. Steadier.
Game 2 feels different from the first.
The crowd’s louder now, sharper around the edges, like everyone knows the stakes just got higher. I’m back in the WAGs section, but this time I’m leaning forward in my seat without realizing it.
The SteelClaws hit the ice with more weight behind every move, especially Jackson. He’s relentless tonight. Aggressive but smart, fast but controlled. His stick finds the puck like it’s magnetized, and he’s already credited with two assists before the second period ends.
By the time he scores late in the third, I’m on my feet with the rest of the section, cheering like my life depends on it.
I catch myself grinning so much it hurts, hands cupped around my mouth as I cheer his name. He’s buried under a pile of teammates, and the energy is infectious, lifting the whole arena like a collective breath finally exhaled.
SteelClaws 3, Hawks 2.
They sweep the weekend.
After the final buzzer, the team floods off the ice, jackets pulled on over damp jerseys, skates swapped for sneakers, equipment bags thudding on the floor. I head toward the back tunnel like last time, heart still racing. I don’t even try to suppress the huge smile tugging at my mouth.
Jackson rounds the corner, hair damp, smile loose and lopsided. Tired but glowing.
He sees me, and something in his expression softens.
“There’s my good luck charm.”
The words shouldn’t land like they do.
I laugh, brushing my hand against his briefly as we fall into step, and it sends a spark up my spine. A shiver that has nothing to do with the chill in the tunnel.
He adjusts the strap of his gear bag, then nods toward the team bus waiting at the curb.
“Gotta head out soon,” he says. “Recovery, film, usual playoff chaos.”
“Of course.”
He hesitates, then adds, “I’m really glad you came with me.”
I nod once, trying to keep the emotion tucked behind my smile. “Me too.”
The team is already loading up, a few of the guys tossing Jackson waves or teasing chirps. Russo walks by and nudges him hard in the shoulder.
“You bringing her to every game now, Hart? 'Cause whatever she’s got, we need to bottle it.”
Jackson just smirks. “Don’t worry. She’s booked through the Cup.”
Russo grins at me. “We like her.”
Then he’s gone, shouting something over his shoulder at the equipment manager.
Jackson glances at me again. “I’ll text you when we’re settled. Tomorrow’s early.”
But I don’t move right away.
Neither does he.
His jaw shifts like there’s something else he wants to say, but he doesn’t.
Something’s shifting. And I’m not sure either of us knows what happens when this trip is over.
The next morning, I wake to soft gray light slipping around the edge of the blackout curtains and the low hum of traffic several stories down. For a second, I forget where I am.
Then I roll over, the plush hotel comforter shifting with me, and it all comes back. Two playoff wins, the wild cheers, Jackson lighting up the ice.
And the way he smiled when he saw me in the tunnel, like I was the first person he wanted to find.
I stretch and sit up slowly. My suitcase stands zipped and ready near the door, packed last night before I let myself crash. We fly out at noon.
My phone buzzes.
It’s him.
You up?
I smile and type back.
Barely. You?
His reply comes almost immediately.
Yeah. Can’t sleep past 7 no matter where I am. Meet at the lobby in 30 minutes to head to the airport?
Then another buzz:
Can’t wait for tomorrow. The story time thing with the boys. Sounds like fun.
I blink.
He remembered.
My breath catches.
After all the travel, the media, the back-to-back playoff games, he still remembered.
I reach for my phone again and just stare at the thread for a long moment before texting him back:
You’re officially the best fake boyfriend on the planet.
He responds with a winking emoji and a thumbs-up. It’s enough to make me laugh.
There’s something about this trip, about him, that makes it harder to keep pretending.
And I wonder if there’s anything about this that still feels fake at all.