24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
JACKSON
T he puck snaps off my blade, hitting the boards with a clean thud.
I drive into another sprint, sweat already building, but Greg’s words from last night loop louder than any whistle.
“She’s my sister, Jackson. You might be my best friend, but if anything happens to her under your roof, that won’t matter.”
He hadn’t said it like a threat. Not like a warning. Just dead serious.
I angle back into the drill, pushing harder. Sweat stings the edge of my brow. Coach is barking shifts from the bench, but I’m already half a beat off.
Because it’s not fake anymore.
Not for me. Not even close.
I should’ve said something to her by now. About Claire, about that night, about why I pulled away.
I grit my teeth and push through the next drill, forcing the thought away.
Russo coasts up beside me as the whistle blows. “You good?”
I shake out my shoulders. “Fine.”
He eyes me for a beat. “You’re a shit liar, Jacks. You’ve got that edge. Like you’re trying to skate through a brick wall."
Not wrong. I don’t answer.
Game 4 tonight. Win, and we close out the first round. Lose, and things get harder fast.
I’m the first one off the ice. Gear half-stripped, towel slung over my neck, I sit in front of my locker, elbows braced on my knees.
Coach’s voice cuts through the low hum of the locker room.
"Dial in. We finish this tonight."
By the time I’m back home, the boys are racing through the living room, riding a post-school sugar high. Miss Taylor corrals them with practiced ease. Ava’s in the kitchen, phone tucked to her shoulder, jotting something down on a notepad.
The normalcy hits harder than it should. It feels like something I could want.
Something I could lose.
My muscles are loose, but my chest still carries that restless buzz. Game day edge. That’s part of it.
But not all.
Not with her standing there in my kitchen like she belongs. Like this is us.
She ends her call and looks over.
“Hey.” Her smile’s soft but there’s something else beneath it. Something unsaid. “How was practice?”
“Good. We’re ready.” I grab a protein bar from the counter and peel it open more for something to do than out of any real hunger.
The sound of the boys thundering down the hall cuts her off. Liam barrels into the room first, grinning. “Daddy! We picked what we’re wearing tonight!”
Noah’s close behind, holding up a SteelClaws cap. “We got hats too!”
I crouch, grinning. “Good thing it’s a Friday so you guys can come, huh? You guys ready to cheer loud?”
They nod furiously, and I ruffle their hair. When the boys run off again, Ava watches me from across the kitchen. There’s still a question in her eyes. The air between us is different now. Charged with everything we haven’t said.
I check the time. “I should head out soon. I’ll see you there?” I ask.
She lifts her chin. “Of course.”
And damn if that doesn’t hit square in my chest. The way she says it… sure, steady.
I nod once, grab my bag. As I pass her near the door, my hand almost brushes her arm.
But I pull back at the last second.
The rink hums louder than usual tonight.
Even at the players’ entrance, you can feel the charge in the air.
I move through the tunnel with my bag slung over my shoulder, nodding to the security guys. The place is already filling fast since it’s Friday night.
When I hit the locker room, the guys are already half-geared up. Russo’s taping his stick at warp speed. Stevens is chirping Johnson about some busted playlist in the weight room. O’Connor’s got his headphones in, head bobbing.
Coach leans in from the hall. “Pre-game in fifteen.”
I settle in at my stall, start pulling on my base layer. The ritual helps. Tape. Pads. Laces. Focus clicks into place with each piece.
Russo flops onto the bench beside me. “Your boys and Ava here tonight?”
When I nod, he grins. “Good. You always skate better when your crew’s in the stands.”
I play it off, but something in my chest tightens because I like the sound of her being a part of my crew.
Coach steps in, his voice cutting through the chatter. “This is our house. We lock it down early and bury them fast. Win this, and we punch our ticket to Round 2.”
Around me, heads nod. Tape rips. Sticks hit the floor in rhythm.
I can’t screw this up. Not tonight.
Not with her watching. Not with the boys watching.
Coach claps his hands once. “Let’s go.”
I grab my stick and head out with the team, blades biting into fresh ice.
The first shift hits hard.
Body to body, blade to blade, every inch of ice a battle. I take a clean hit off the boards, keep my feet, and dump the puck deep. Russo’s already chasing it down, barking something back at me that I barely register over the noise.
The place is electric tonight. Packed house, playoff buzz, the kind of adrenaline that makes your lungs burn and your legs move faster than they should. Every whistle is a thunderclap. Every SteelClaws goal chase has the arena surging to its feet.
Second period, I pick off a loose puck in the neutral zone and take it in fast, faking a pass before ripping it low glove-side. The puck kisses twine and the red light flares.
1–0. SteelClaws.
I don’t even hear the horn. I just feel the slam of bodies around me as Russo and O’Connor crash into me, howling like wolves.
“Let’s go, baby!” Russo roars, slapping the back of my helmet.
O’Connor grins wide, shouting something I can’t even hear over the noise. Stevens skates in for a rough back-pat.
I slide onto the bench, water bottle in hand, pulse still racing. I glance up at the WAGs section.
And there they are.
Miss Taylor in the middle, steady as ever. The twins sitting on either side of her, eyes huge under their SteelClaws hats. Noah’s on the edge of his seat, shouting something with both fists raised. Liam’s half-standing in his chair, clapping so fast his cap’s almost sliding off.
And Ava’s beside them, her dark hair loose, her eyes bright even from here. Hands cupped around her mouth, leaning forward, eyes locked on the ice.
The sight hits harder than the goal did.
Third period. They press hard.
I block a shot with my leg, feel the sting vibrate through my shin pads, but I don’t slow.
We net an empty-netter with thirty-two seconds left. 2–0.
The final horn blows, and it hits like a cannon.
SteelClaws take Game 4. Series won.
Round 2 here we come.
The crowd goes insane.
I skate toward the pile forming at center ice, a grin splitting my face even as sweat soaks through my gear. Helmets crash together, gloves slap backs, someone’s cursing with joy loud enough to make the refs shake their heads.
The locker room’s a madhouse.
Music’s thumping, guys shouting over each other, sticks banging against benches. Russo’s half out of his gear, towel around his neck, still grinning like a lunatic.
O’Connor’s holding a water bottle like a mic, mid–mock interview with Stevens. He spins toward me with a dramatic flair.
“First star of the game,” he booms, grinning. “Tell us how that goal made you feel, Hart!”
“It felt like we’re moving onto Round 2,” I answer, voice rough with adrenaline.
That gets a loud cheer from the room.
Coach comes through the door a second later, hands raised. The noise dims, just enough.
“Hell of a game,” he says, eyes sweeping the room. “Hell of a series so far. We lock it down, we move on. Proud of every damn one of you. But enjoy tonight. We go again soon.”
Another round of cheers. Russo lets out a piercing whistle.
I towel off, tug on a clean shirt and jacket, and navigate the media horde, giving quick answers and delivering a soundbite about team first, playing our game, and staying dialed in. Finally, I head into the tunnel, pausing by the player entrance to pull out my phone.
I glance toward the concourse. I know they’re still up there. Ava, the boys, Miss Taylor. They are waiting for the crowds to thin. No point going up. They’ll take their time, get out easy.
Maybe that’s better. I need a moment to get my head straight before I see her again.
I text Miss Taylor:
I’ll see you all at the house.
A simple reply buzzes back a minute later:
Got it. They’re already begging for a snack stop on the way.
By the time I’m in my truck, keys in the ignition, some of the post-game rush has faded. What’s left is quieter.
Heavier.
I should’ve said something before. Should’ve told her why I pulled away that morning after we... after everything changed.
I drive with the windows half down, cold air cutting through. The adrenaline fades, but my head stays anything but clear.
When I pull into the driveway, the house is still dark. Miss Taylor’s car isn’t back yet. She and Ava must’ve taken the boys for snacks after the win.
I head inside and strip off my jacket. I’m halfway through a bottle of water when I hear the crunch of tires in the driveway.
The front door swings open and the twins barrel straight toward me, still bouncing with leftover energy.
“Daddy! You did it!”
I crouch to catch them both. “You two were my good luck charms, huh?”
Noah nods furiously. “I yelled so loud!”
“Me too!” Liam says, wide-eyed.
Ava follows them in, slower, quieter. She sets her bag by the door, meeting my gaze across the room. It’s a small movement, but it pulls my attention like a magnet.
Something in her look makes the air thicken.
Miss Taylor herds the boys down the hall with promises of one quick story before bed, leaving us alone in the living room.
I set the water bottle down. My pulse kicks harder now than it did during the game.
Ava shifts her weight, hesitates, then steps closer.
“Jackson…” Her voice is soft, but sure. “We should talk.”
Something shifts in my chest, the words catching in my throat, but I completely agree.
Yeah, we should.