28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JACKSON
Y ou can’t hear much over the sound of tape ripping and gear hitting the floor.
No one’s talking.
Coach keeps it short.
“One loss,” he says, voice low and clipped. “Don’t let it turn into two.”
I yank my helmet off, drop it beside me, and lean forward on my knees. Sweat still runs cold down my spine.
It should’ve been a different game.
The Boston Outlaws played exactly like we knew they would: controlled, physical, grinding us down in the corners. But we let them dictate the tempo. Took dumb penalties. Gave them too much ice when it mattered.
And it’s eating at me.
Russo strips off his pads nearby, jaw rigid. He glances over, but neither of us says a word.
There’s nothing to say.
I drag my jersey over my head and toss it into the bin. One game.
But if we don’t respond fast, it’ll spiral. And I’m not letting that happen.
Not this year. Not when we’ve fought this hard to get here.
I catch Russo’s eye again when he grabs his phone. He lifts his chin slightly. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
The room’s already half empty by the time I hit the showers. Water scalding. Steam thick around me. I stand there too long, head down, letting it beat against the back of my neck.
Trying to drown out the replay in my head.
But it doesn’t work.
By the time I pull on a hoodie and jeans, the rink’s quiet. Just the low hum of lights and the echo of my own footsteps down the hall.
I grab my phone from my locker. Screen lights up.
Text from Greg:
Tough one. You good?
I stare at it a second longer than I need to.
Yeah. One game. Just need to reset.
Just a simple text. Friendly. Normal.
But it still lands heavier than it should.
Because the longer I wait to tell him, the harder this conversation’s going to be.
Three weeks ago, I’d have walked out of this room and gone home alone to stew. No one to see it. No one to feel it but me.
Not tonight.
Not anymore.
Because tonight, there’s someone waiting at home I can’t stop thinking about.
And part of me needs that more than I’m ready to admit.
The truck’s quiet except for the low rumble of the engine and the soft clink of my water bottle against the console.
City lights blur past the windshield: white, gold, too bright against the night.
I should be breaking the game down, running plays, and fixing mistakes.
But my focus keeps drifting to Ava.
I can still see her this morning, barefoot in the kitchen, hair tousled from sleep, hands wrapped around her coffee mug.
Steady. Warm.
And without even trying, she’s become the place my head goes when everything else tilts sideways.
The Cup’s still out there. Boston’s going to come at us even harder in Game 2. We’ve got no room for another stumble.
But underneath it all, something keeps pulling at me
I want to see her.
Not just because it’s been a shit night. Not because I need comfort.
But because I need her.
And for the first time in a long damn time, I’m not sure I want to face nights like this alone anymore.
Then I hit the blinker, turning toward home. Toward the one place tonight that still feels steady.
Toward her.
When I get home, I kill the engine and sit there for a second, hands resting on the wheel.
There was a time when I would’ve driven past the house on nights like this. Parked somewhere else. Stayed out late. Anything to avoid coming home with this kind of loss in my gut.
But not tonight.
I grab my bag and head inside.
The door clicks softly behind me. Kitchen’s dark except for one small lamp over the stove. The faint hum of the dishwasher filters through the quiet.
I start to set my keys down, then pause when I hear movement.
Soft footsteps.
Ava rounds the corner from the living room, hair loose now, sleeves pushed up, laptop tucked under one arm.
She stops when she sees me. Eyes searching mine.
“Hey,” she says, voice soft.
I take two steps toward her before I even think.
“Hey.”
She sets the laptop on the island, crosses the rest of the way. No hesitation. No forced words. Just slides her arms around my waist like it’s always been this way.
I exhale against her hair, my own arms coming around her like they belong there.
“They asleep?” I murmur.
She nods against my chest. “Miss Taylor took them up during first period.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me. “I know tonight was rough.”
I hold her gaze. My voice comes low, rough around the edges. “Yeah.”
I don’t offer more. Don’t need to.
Because right now, all I need is her, here, steady beneath my hands.
Her fingers flex lightly against my back. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
I press a slow kiss to her temple. “Good. Because right now, I just want this.”
She leans into me again, no questions asked. And for the first time all night, some of the weight in my chest lets go.
Ava pulls back a little, her hands smoothing down my sides as she studies me.
“You look wiped.”
I let out a sigh. “I guess I look how I feel.”
She watches me for a second longer. Not pushing. Not asking.
Then she says softly, “I’ll stay down here if you want.”
No questions. No need for me to explain why my head’s still spinning.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I’d like that.”
She gives a small nod, the barest smile at the corner of her mouth. Then moves back to the couch, grabbing a blanket and her book.
I set up at the kitchen island, laptop open. The film’s already queued from earlier. Boston pinching hard, crowding us in the neutral zone, winning battles we shouldn’t have lost.
I lean forward, elbows on the counter, pen tapping a slow rhythm as the footage rolls.
Across the room, Ava’s tucked into the corner of the couch, blanket pulled around her, book resting open in her lap.
The longer I watch the clips, the harder it gets to lock in.
Because every few seconds, my eyes drift off-screen.
To her.
The curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket. The way her hair falls loose over one side. The slow turn of a page, fingers light and sure.
I try to keep watching, pen tapping against the counter, attempting to stay locked in.
But after a few minutes, my focus shifts for good.
I give up, closing the laptop. Water bottle in hand, I head for the couch.
Ava looks up as I drop down beside her. “Done for now?”
“Yeah.”
She shifts without a word, blanket sliding as she makes room. I pull her in gently, arm around her shoulders, her head fitting against me like it’s been there a hundred times before.
Neither of us speaks.
The film plays on, muted now: Boston celebrating, analysts breaking down the game.
I don’t pay attention.
Ava’s breathing slows against me, her head heavier against my chest.I close my eyes for a beat.
After a few moments, I feel her stir lightly, her voice soft. “You should sleep.”
I press a kiss to her hair. “You too.”
I stand, reaching for her hand.
“Come on,” I say, voice low. “Let’s head up.”
She lets me pull her to her feet with a tired smile. She doesn’t let go of my hand as we climb the stairs.
The kids haven’t noticed Ava stays in my room now. But we won’t be able to keep it quiet much longer.
I’ll need to tell them. The right way. When the time’s right.
In my room, the quiet settles deeper. Ava moves to the dresser, pulling out one of my shirts to change into. I tug off my hoodie and drop it onto the chair.
When she crosses to the bed, I slide in beside her without hesitation.
Lights off. The hush of the room folds in around us.
She shifts closer, her head finding my shoulder, her palm resting lightly over my chest.
After a beat, her voice is quiet. “You think Greg’s going to be okay with this? With us?”
Greg’s been in the back of my mind for a while now. I’ve been telling myself I’d bring it up when the timing was right—when it wouldn’t sound like I’m blindsiding him.
That window’s closing fast.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, steady. “He’ll hear it from me.”
Her shoulders loosen just a little, like that’s all she needed to hear.
Telling him won’t be simple. But putting it off won’t make it any easier.
Even after she drifts off, I’m wide awake—already running through what I’ll say, and how to make him see what I do.
That she’s safe here.
Safe with me.