32. Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Two
JACKSON
And I want this one bad.
I stretch, rub the stiffness from my shoulder, and pad down the hall.
Ava’s at the island in leggings and a hoodie, hair pulled up in that sexy messy bun she swears isn’t intentional.
The boys argue over the last waffle while she moves around like she’s got an extra set of hands.
“Morning,” I say, voice still gravelly.
Ava looks up and gives me a tired smile. “Hey. Want coffee?”
“Always.”
I take in the scene while she pours a mug. On the fridge, her color-coded gala checklist is pinned beside one of Noah’s drawings. Her phone buzzes, and she silences it without even looking, reaching over to help Noah with the milk.
As I take a sip of the coffee she hands me, Liam looks up, serious.
“Daddy, did you know Ava can make lunch, answer her phone, and tell me where my socks are all at the same time?”
I glance at Ava, who’s trying not to laugh, and shake my head. “I’m starting to think there’s nothing she can’t do.”
Ava’s phone buzzes again. She glances down at it then up at me. “Miss Taylor just texted. Her fever broke and her appetite’s back. She’s hoping to be up and about in the next day or two.”
I nod, relieved. “Glad she’s feeling better.”
Ava smirks, thumbs flying over the screen. “She also wrote, and I quote, ‘Don’t get used to being in charge.’”
Chuckling, I check the time. A few more hours, then it’s back to the rink: skate, tape, film, and lock in.
By late morning, the house has settled into its usual weekday rhythm. The boys are at school, Ava’s on a call in the dining room, and I’m grabbing my gear bag from the garage.
She looks tired, focused, pulled in a hundred directions, and still somehow making space for all of them.
For my kids. For this life. For me.
I leave a fresh coffee on the counter with a sticky note that just says: You’re amazing. Don’t forget that.
Before I head out, I see a text from Greg:
Good luck tonight, man.
Then another, a few seconds later:
Also, how’s my sister holding up?
My thumb hovers over the screen. I know I need to tell him, and there’s no such thing as the perfect time. Now feels as good as any.
I grab my phone, lean against the counter, and hit call before I can overthink it.
“Hey,” Greg answers after a few rings. “You ready to smoke these guys again?”
“That’s the plan.”
We talk hockey for a minute before I clear my throat. “Listen… there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
There’s a short pause, enough for me to picture him frowning on the other end. “Go on.”
“It’s about Ava.”
Another pause, longer this time. “What about her?”
“I care about her. More than I planned to. We’re… together.”
Silence. Not long, but long enough to make my grip tighten on the phone.
“So it’s not just for show anymore?” he says finally, voice low. “Not just a play to get Brad off her back?”
“No. Not for me.”
Another pause. Then: “You’re living under the same roof, you’re in the middle of a playoff run… what happens if it goes south?”
“It won’t.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I exhale through my nose. “I know what you told me that night at my place. And I meant what I told you then — I’d never hurt her.”
There’s a faint shift in his tone, like he’s weighing every word. “She seems happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. I’ll give you that. But this isn’t just dating someone — it’s dating my little sister. And that means you don’t get to screw it up.”
“I won’t,” I say, steady.
A long breath on the other end. “All right. I’m trusting you here, Jackson. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t,” I repeat.
“Good. Now win your damn game.”
It’s not a full blessing, but it’s close enough.
Relief threads through the tension in my chest, loosening something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto. Greg didn’t make it easy, but at least it’s out there now.
I know this doesn’t mean I’m in the clear. It just means I’ve been handed the responsibility to prove I deserve her, and Greg’s trusting me with that. That’s enough to settle something in my chest.
Later that evening, after practice and our team meeting, the nerves have settled into something sharper.
Focused. Hungry.
Russo settles onto the bench beside me, lacing his skates without a word at first.
After a beat, he nods toward my stick. “You’ve re-taped that three times.”
I glance down. “Didn’t even realize.”
He shrugs. “Lot riding on tonight.”
“Yeah.”
Russo leans forward. “You good?”
I nod. Even he’s dialed in. No jokes. Just game mode.
In the locker room, the energy ramps up. Guys crank music, shoulders bump, sticks tap against the floor. I pull on my jersey, the weight of it grounding me like always.
Russo catches my eye as he closes his helmet strap. “Two wins at home would feel real damn good.”
I nod once, hard.
The room quiets when Coach comes back in for the final word. “You want this series? Tonight’s your moment. Keep it clean. Keep it solid. And remember what’s waiting for us if we take both games at home.”
The roar hits us the second we step onto the ice.
It’s deafening. Electric. A wall of noise that rattles your chest and drowns out everything but instinct. The first shift flies by—a blur of blades and bodies and sticks clashing at the boards. I hit the ice hard and fast, keeping their top line pinned like Coach said. Quick shifts, no hesitation.
We strike first. A wrister from Russo at the blue line—clean and crisp. The place erupts.
They tie it in the second, a greasy rebound we should’ve cleared. Doesn’t matter. We answer back two minutes later. One of our rookies buries it off a feed from behind the net, and we ride that momentum into the third.
The pace is brutal. Every shift burns.
With five minutes left and a one-goal lead, Coach throws our line out again. My legs are screaming, but I drive the puck deep, win the battle on the boards, and manage a clean dish to Russo, who snaps it top shelf.
The horn doesn’t even need to sound. I know it’s in.
By the time the final buzzer blows, we’re up 4–2 and the place is shaking. Helmets fly. Gloves hit the ice. We crowd our goalie, shouting, back-slapping, half-laughing from the high of it all.
Two wins at home.
Coach’s grin is rare but real as we head back into the tunnel. “That’s how you send a message.”
I peel off my gear in the locker room, sweat still dripping down my spine. Russo bumps my shoulder as we sit side by side on the bench.
“Told you two at home would feel good,” he says, breathless but smug.
I just nod, grinning like an idiot. Because it does. It really, really does.
My body’s still humming with adrenaline, but my heart’s already somewhere else.
By the time I get home, the house is quiet, the dishwasher humming in the background.
I crack the twins’ door just enough to peek in. The boys are out cold, their nightlight casting stars across the ceiling like a quiet galaxy.
I find Ava in the living room, curled up in my hoodie with her laptop beside her. Half a dozen open tabs on one side of the screen, a spreadsheet and an email draft on the other.
“Hey,” she says softly, smile blooming the moment she sees me.
“Hey,” I echo, crossing to kiss her temple. “Still working?”
“Wrapping up.” She closes the laptop and sets it aside. “I didn’t want to miss you.”
I sit beside her, shoulders touching, the hum of the house wrapping around us like a blanket.
“I told Greg today,” I say quietly.
Her head turns toward me fast, eyes searching mine. “You did?”
“Yeah. Before practice. Figured it was time.”
“And?” she asks, voice soft but strained.
“He asked the questions I expected. Didn’t make it easy. But… he said he’s trusting me.”
I watch the tension in her shoulders ease, just a little.
She exhales, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I’ve been worried about what he’d say.”
“Me too,” I admit.
She nods, quiet for a moment, then leans into me like the weight’s shifted off her chest.
“Come up with me,” I murmur.
She tilts her head back to look at me, eyes searching mine. “If I go up with you,” she says softly, “I might not get much rest.”
I chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No complaints from me.”
I turn off the light and follow her upstairs, a quiet warmth curling low in my chest.
By morning, the house is still and dark.
I lace up my sneakers by the door, trying not to make noise, but Ava’s walking down the stairs. She’s in leggings and one of my hoodies, hair pulled up, her eyes looking tired.
“You didn’t have to get up,” I murmur.
“I wanted to,” she says. “You’ll be gone a while. Let me hover a little.”
I smile and lean in, kissing her cheek. It lingers longer than I meant for it to.
“Win,” she whispers.
I lean in and kiss her, slower this time, my hand resting on her hip.
“That’s the plan.”
Then I head out, the front door clicking shut behind me.
By the time we land in New York, the day disappears in a blur. Team shuttle, quick stretch at the rink, meetings, meals, lights out. The travel routine is automatic, but my mind keeps wandering back home. Ava, the boys. The house already feels too far away.
The next day, it’s game time. Morning skate is crisp, energy’s good. We know what’s coming. New York’s crowd, their speed on home ice. Coach drills it into us: start fast, play smart, weather the first ten minutes.
By puck drop, the crowd in New York is loud from the jump. Hostile, hungry, riding every hit like it’s bloodsport. We expect it. Hell, we’ve played in worse. But something about the energy tonight feels razor sharp. Every shift, they’re on us.
Midway through the first, they crash the zone hard and bury one past us. I slam my stick against the boards as the red light flashes behind me.
We fight back, stay in it. But every play feels like it takes just a second too long. Like we’re skating uphill.
Second period, I cut across center ice trying to angle a puck out of the zone when their defenseman blindsides me into the boards. Hard.
Pain spikes through my left shoulder. I stay down longer than I mean to—just a breath—but I hear the crowd swell behind me. I grit my teeth and push to my feet.
I skate it off. Or try to. But I know the difference in my stride. The way I roll that shoulder now, slightly stiff, just enough not to show it.
It’s not bad enough to pull out. But I feel it. Every shift.
We chase the rest of the game. Trying to close the gap. Trying to match their speed, their fire. But we never quite catch up.
When the final buzzer sounds, it’s 4–2.
I skate off with my jaw clenched, chest heaving, the noise of their crowd swelling behind me. We head down the tunnel, shoulders heavy. No words, just that clipped silence of a team that knows it needs to hit reset fast.
I should’ve found a way to do more.
Later, in the hotel room, I check my phone and see a text from Ava.
You played hard. Proud of you.
And just like that, the knot in my chest eases.