29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AVA
T he sun’s low when I finally close my laptop, the soft hush of late afternoon settling over the house. Somewhere in the background, the dishwasher hums, and I can hear the faint murmur of the TV in the living room. Miss Taylor and the boys are watching the pre-game broadcast.
I rub my temples and glance at the stack of notes beside me.
In the past three days, everything around the gala has accelerated.
The final sponsor packets still need tweaking.
Evelyn’s scrambling to replace a silent auction item after a donor backed out.
Kim flagged three options, but we needed one confirmed yesterday.
I reopen the sponsor spreadsheet, shoulders already curling forward with focus. I tell myself I’m not checking the score, not yet. But five minutes later, I swipe over to the app.
SteelClaws: 1
Outlaws: 0
My heart lifts.
Miss Taylor steps into the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I’m taking the boys up. One period was enough excitement for a school night.”
Then she pauses, her gaze lingering on me for a beat longer. “Since I’ve been here, I’ve never seen Jackson this happy.”
My breath catches.
“You two…” Her voice is gentle. “You’re good for each other.”
Warmth spreads in my chest, and I manage a small smile. “Thank you.”
She nods, then heads down the hall, the boys chattering behind her. Noah’s saying something about dragons and hockey.
I turn back to the screen, Miss Taylor’s words still echoing in my mind.
Yeah, but not everyone might feel that way.
My thoughts drift to Greg before I can stop them.
Jackson said he’d talk to him soon, but this isn’t just anyone I’m dating — it’s his best friend. That’s a tricky line to cross, and I’m not sure how Greg’s going to take it. The worry lingers, steady and insistent, even as I try to focus on the auction slide.
I make a few final tweaks, send a quick reply to Evelyn, then check the score again.
SteelClaws: 2Outlaws: 1
I grin, fist-bump the air, and whisper, “You’ve got this.”
I try to return to my notes, but my phone buzzes. Jenna.
Third period. Your boyfriend’s killing it. Drinks after gala. Don’t argue.
I laugh under my breath as I text her back.
He is. I hate missing this one. Drinks soon. Promise.
I set the phone down, but not for long. I swipe to the live feed, just in time to see a close shot of Jackson on the bench. Helmet off. Jaw set. Blue eyes laser-focused.
The steadiness in his expression anchors something deep in me.
With Jackson, nothing’s for show. Not on the ice. Not in how he looks at me. I trust him completely. And lately, that trust has started to feel like something I can lean on.
I lose track of time between calls and final notes.
By the time I glance at the clock again, it’s pitch black outside.
I grab my phone and swipe to check the final score.
SteelClaws 3, Outlaws 2.
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding eases out of me.
They did it.
I head to bed early, knowing tomorrow is a big day. Jackson is leaving for Boston.
The house is already in motion when I come downstairs the next morning.
Sunlight pours through the kitchen windows, warming the floor in golden stripes. At the table, the boys are mid-debate, spoons clinking as they shovel cereal into their mouths between animated bursts of logic.
“But it needs wings, Liam!”
“It’s a car. Cars don’t fly.”
“Why not? It’s my car.”
Miss Taylor sips her coffee with the patient expression of someone who’s already refereed three arguments before eight a.m.
Jackson moves around the kitchen in joggers and a hoodie, barefoot, focused as he slices apples with calm precision. His travel duffel is already parked by the stairs.
“Morning,” he says when he spots me, voice warm and just a little rough.
“Morning.” I walk to the counter where he’s pouring coffee. He hands me a mug without asking, and I wrap both hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.
This morning should feel ordinary, but it doesn’t.
It feels like something I’ll miss.
The next fifteen minutes move in a blur of backpack checks, toothbrush reminders, and Liam trying to zip his jacket without putting down the toy car he insists on bringing. Jackson crouches to give the boys hugs before they go.
“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says. “Play nice for Ava and Miss Taylor.”
Miss Taylor ushers them out with a wave, and then it’s just the two of us.
He reaches across the table for my hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it grounds me. We stay like that for a moment until I glance at the time.
“You better get going,” I say gently. “You’ve got a flight to catch.”
“Yeah,” he groans. “And Russo will give me hell if I’m the last one on the plane.”
He straightens, but instead of heading for his bag, he steps closer.
Then closer still.
His hand finds my waist, pulling me in until there’s barely space between us. I rise instinctively onto my toes as he dips his head, and when he kisses me, it’s slow and sure—like he’s memorizing the feel of it. Like he doesn’t want to leave, and doesn’t quite know how to say that out loud.
I feel it in the way his hand lingers at my lower back. In the way his breath catches when we finally pull apart.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw, then presses one last kiss to my temple.
And then, reluctantly, he grabs his bag and heads for the door.
The silence that follows is gentle. Still.
But as I move to rinse out my coffee mug and stare out the window toward the driveway, I already feel the days ahead stretching out in front of me.
Four days without him.
Two games.
And one very full heart already counting down the hours until he’s home.
The past few days have blurred together: gala prep, helping with the boys, and tracking Jackson’s games from afar.
His first game in Boston was two nights ago. They pulled off another win late, and I watched from bed, half-asleep but still cheering when he scored in the second period. One more game tonight, and then he’s home tomorrow.
This morning, I’m meeting Jenna for a walkthrough of the gala venue.
By the time I arrive at the Ridgecrest, sunlight spills bright across the marble steps. We head inside together, a quick hello to the event coordinator who’s waiting to walk us through the space.
The ballroom itself is empty. No linens yet, no floral arrangements, just a wide stretch of polished floors and a few sample round tables set off to one side. I pause in the doorway, picturing it filled with dimmed lights, voices carrying, and the hum of something big taking shape.
The space feels huge now, bare and echoing. In three weeks it will be packed, loud, and full of faces.
Jenna steps in beside me, her voice low. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just ready to see it come together.”
She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “When this gala’s over, I’m taking your phone and locking it in a drawer. Spa day. Wine. No spreadsheets.”
“Deal,” I say.
We move through the space with purpose, discussing flow, where auction tables will be, and how the check-in should run.
Everything has to be perfect.
We make a full circuit of the room, then step toward the area where the bar will go. Jenna gestures toward the corner reserved for author meet-and-greets, raising a brow.
We take one last look around, notes in hand. The event coordinator promises updated diagrams and confirms the next set of deadlines.
Jenna grins as we wrap everything up. “Look at us. Total pros.”
When we step back outside, the sunlight is slanting lower across the lot.
Jenna loops her arm through mine. “Okay, boss lady. You’ve earned a drink. No arguments.”
I start to protest about emails, lists, and everything still left to do.
But she cuts me off with a look.
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. “Fine. One drink.”
“And if your hot hockey player calls, you’d better put him on speaker.”
I shake my head, laughing as we head to our cars.
Even in the middle of all this chaos, she still knows how to pull me back to center. We linger over one quick drink, and then I head home.
By the time I get back, the sun is already dipping behind the trees.
I set my bag down by the stairs. Miss Taylor looks up from the oven as I step into the kitchen. “Did I miss anything?”
“Just a lot of pre-game predictions.” She tilts her head toward the living room where Noah’s voice carries. “Noah has decided it’ll be five to two tonight.”
“I like the confidence.”
Miss Taylor chuckles, pulling a dish out of the oven.
I round the corner just in time for Noah to spot me.
“Ava!” he calls. “Come watch with us!”
Liam pats the cushion between them.
I glance at the clock. The game’s not far from puck drop now. I make my way over, sinking onto the couch between them as Miss Taylor brings plates to the coffee table.
“Snack dinner tonight,” she says with a wink.
There’s cut fruit, mini sandwiches, popcorn, and the boys’ favorite: pretzels with cheese.
Noah tugs my sleeve. “Do you think Daddy’s gonna win?”
I smile, ruffling his hair. “I think he’s going to play his heart out.”
Miss Taylor hands the popcorn to Noah and lowers her voice as she sits. “You know he’s going to come out flying tonight.”
“Like a dragon,” Noah says proudly.
When the puck drops, we lean in close to the screen. Every time Jackson gets the puck, Noah shouts “Go Daddy!” at the TV like he can hear him.
By the end of the first period, the SteelClaws are up 1–0. The boys are radiating with energy.
“All right, time for bed,” Miss Taylor says gently, standing.
Noah slumps dramatically. “But Daddy’s winning!”
Miss Taylor gives him a look. “You can watch the highlights tomorrow after school, all right?”
Liam sighs but hops down, blanket trailing. Noah groans in exaggerated protest but follows Miss Taylor.
The house quiets again, leaving me with the glow of the TV and that familiar ache of missing Jackson.
I curl up on the couch with a blanket, watching the game. It’s fast and physical. I can feel the tension in every shift, every zone battle. Jackson’s focus radiates through the screen. Sharp. Relentless.
I don’t think I breathed during the final two minutes.
When the buzzer sounds and the SteelClaws seal the win with an empty-net goal, I exhale all at once, grinning like they can see me from three states away.
They did it. Again.
I type out a message before I can talk myself out of it.
You did it. We’re proud of you.
I miss you.
I stare at the screen for a second, then hit send.
It’s late now. The house is dark except for the soft glow of the TV and the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background.
I pull the blanket a little closer around me and let myself settle into the quiet.
Just one more day.
And then he’ll be home.