22. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
JACKSON
T he kitchen light’s on when I come downstairs.
Ava’s sitting at the table, her back to me, hands wrapped around a mug like it’s the only thing holding her together. Her drink is untouched. She just stares at the steam curling above it, like she’s trying to find something solid in the swirl.
She doesn’t look up when I step in, but I know she hears me.
I move slowly, grabbing a second mug I’d left by the coffeemaker. Pour some decaf and slide into the chair across from her. For a minute, we just sit there, stillness between us.
“The boys are down,” I say finally. “Noah practically staged a protest when I wouldn’t let him sleep in his costume.”
That gets the barest flicker of a smile. Then she looks down again.
I move closer, stopping just short of the island. “Ava.”
She turns toward me, finally. And just like earlier, that mask she’s wearing doesn’t quite hold.
“He’s pulling our funding,” she says quietly. “Brad. That’s what he came to do.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“His investment firm is one of our biggest donors,” she says. “It covers fifteen percent of our annual budget… grants, the mobile library vans, author visits. He knows exactly how much it matters.”
My hands curl into fists.
“Said he was ‘redirecting their charitable giving elsewhere.’ But he looked me in the eye and smiled when he said it.”
Who the hell does that?
It’s not just that he’s an asshole. It’s that he enjoys it. Hurting her, flexing his power, like it’s a game.
I want to put a hole through something. Preferably him.
She shakes her head. “It’s not just the money, Jackson.”
I take a step closer. I want to reach for her and rest a hand on her shoulder, anything, but I stop myself.
“What really guts me is…” She swallows hard. “I almost married him. And now I see it so clearly. The control. The manipulation.”
I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let her say the thing she needs to say.
“We met in college. He was my first real relationship,” she says quietly. “My first everything, really. And he could be so damn charming when he wanted to be.”
She looks down at her mug again. “I thought I was building something safe, something solid. Now I’m staring at the wreckage, wondering how the hell I didn’t see it sooner.”
“You’re stronger than you think, Ava. Walking away from him took more courage than most people ever find.”
Her eyes lift. Something fragile and defiant flickers there.
She exhales, slower this time. Then, almost like she’s bracing herself: “If we don’t replace that funding, I might have to cut bookmobiles, grants, tutoring, events…”
I don’t even think.
I just say, “I can help.”
Her eyes meet mine. They are wary, tired, and laced with confusion.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll cover the gap,” I explain. “Just until you find someone else. No press, no strings. I believe in what you’re doing, Ava.”
She shakes her head instantly. “Jackson, no. I couldn’t accept something like that.”
I want to fix everything for her.
Fix what that asshole tried to break.
But I see it in her face. The lines of pride. The grit.
So, I nod. “Okay,” I say. “But I’ll be here every step of the way.”
She draws in a breath, closes her eyes. When she opens them again, there’s something softer there. Gratitude, maybe. Trust.
“I’d like that,” she whispers.
And just like that, the weight between us shifts. It’s no longer something pressing down, but something pulling us closer.
I care about her.
More than I should.
More than I’ve let myself feel in a long damn time.
The next morning, my phone buzzes as I’m about to pull out of the driveway. I see it’s a text from Greg.
Congrats on the two wins, man.
You around for dinner this week?
We should catch up.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back against the seat.
Game tomorrow. Thursday’s open.
Why don’t you come here? The boys would love to see you.
I’ll check with Ava to make sure she’s free too.
I set the phone on the console.
I should be focused on tomorrow’s game, but my thoughts keep drifting to how naturally Ava fits into our family.
And the more I think about it, the harder it is to remember what it was like without her.
By the time game day rolls around, that feeling still hasn’t left me.
The locker room is buzzing. Not the usual pre-game noise. This is the first home game of the series, and the playoffs are more cutthroat. Ruthless. The kind of current that builds when everyone knows what’s on the line. No room for mistakes.
I roll my shoulders back, tape crinkling in my hands as I wrap the blade of my stick. After our wins in New Jersey, we’re up two-nothing. The place will be packed. Loud. And we’re not taking that lead for granted.
Russo drops onto the bench beside me, helmet dangling from two fingers. “Crowd’s gonna be nuts tonight.”
“Good,” I say, pulling the tape taut. “We feed off that.”
Sticks clack against the floor. Skates scrape concrete. Low bursts of laughter can’t quite mask the tension humming underneath.
Everyone’s locked in. I can feel it in my chest. Game mode.
But under all of it, something else presses at the edges of my mind.
Ava.
She texted this morning that she’d be in the WAGs section again. Said it casually, like this is normal now.
And hell, maybe it is.
I flex my grip on the stick.
Russo taps his against the floor, watching me. “You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re thinking about something that ain’t hockey.”
I shake my head. “I’m thinking about the game.”
“Sure, you are,” he says, grinning as he stands.
Coach calls us in. We circle up, heads nodding through the final adjustments.
And then we’re moving. Sticks in hand, blades tapping concrete as we file into the tunnel.
The doors open.
The crowd hits like a wave. Lights. Sound. The kind of intense vibration you feel deep in your chest.
I push hard on my first stride, carving across the blue line. One lap, warm-up drills spreading out around me.
The puck drops and the world narrows.
First shift, legs burning, lungs raw. Playoffs don’t give you space. Every read matters.
Russo calls left. Switch. I pivot, tracking the puck through the boards. Johnson angles in to cover high, while O’Connor presses on the forecheck. We reset.
First period hums past. Tough game. No easy shots. The New Jersey Hawks clog lanes, slow us down.
I dig in harder on the next puck battle, boards rattling. Russo snags the loose puck, flips to center. I break fast, open ice ahead.
Shot. Off the post.
Damn .
Line change. I hit the bench, grabbing water. Coach passes behind me. “Right idea. Keep pressing.”
I nod, my chest heaving, mind still honed in.
Then the line change call hits, and I’m moving again. Skates biting ice, blood pumping.
First period ends tied, 1-1.
Second period’s rough. No easy plays. We hold the zone, keep pressure high, but the Hawks are scrappy as hell.
They clog passing lanes, blocking every shot. By the time the horn blows, sweat’s pouring and my legs are on fire.”
The third period crowd sounds different: louder, hungrier.
We take the faceoff. Shift after shift, it’s a battle. The Hawks press hard, but our lines hold. Our defense is solid, our speed sharp.
And then midway through the period, I catch the puck in the neutral zone and fire a clean pass ahead. Russo takes it in stride, blows past the last defender.
One stride, two, and he snipes it glove side, past the goalie before the crowd even breathes.
Goal.
The place erupts. I’m at the boards in a second, gloves high as Russo slams into me with a grin. I block out everything but the next shift.
The puck. The play. My line.
We’re up 2-1. Hawks pull their goalie, six attackers flooding the zone. I dig deep. Legs screaming, lungs burning, but there’s no way I’m letting them tie this.
The last faceoff drops. We clear the puck. The clock ticks down slow as hell.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
The horn blares.
We win.
I raise my stick as the crowd erupts, the noise crashing like a wave. Russo barrels into me, grinning wide, and I slam my gloves against his back in return.
A blur of teammates crashes in around us, sticks raised, shouts echoing off the glass. I catch Stevens’ grin and O'Connor’s thumping my back hard.
Somewhere through the roar, my eyes flick instinctively to the WAGs section. I spot her instantly. Ava is on her feet, hands clapping hard, eyes shining beneath the lights.
I skate off with the team, adrenaline still pounding through my veins.
The locker room smells like sweat and adrenaline and more importantly, victory.
Russo’s grinning across the room, yelling something about his shot being prettier than my face. I just shake my head, towel slung around my neck.
Then we’re moving. Showers, interviews, gear getting stripped down and packed.
Games used to be about the ice, the win, the numbers.
But now there’s something else. Not the press. Not the fans.
It’s her.
I shove the phone in my bag and stand.
One more interview, then I’m out of here. Because tonight, for the first time in a long damn time, it’s not just the game that matters.
It’s who I’m going home to.