33. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
AVA
I can tell how hard he’s taking it, even from hundreds of miles away.
I tell him about how the boys drew smiling faces on the bananas because they looked “too sad.” Anything to make him laugh. Or breathe. Or remember there’s still joy waiting for him at home.
Tonight it’s Game 4, and they are halfway through the second period.
Miss Taylor put the boys to bed after the first. She’s been back a day, and it’s already a relief having her here again. Like the house has settled into its usual rhythm.
I’m curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped around my legs, my laptop balanced beside me, but I haven’t typed a word in twenty minutes.
Game 4 isn’t going well.
I can feel it in the way Jackson moves. Rigid. Rushed. Like he’s trying to will the entire team into shape by sheer force. His shoulder must still be bothering him, even if he won’t admit it. Every time he takes a hit, I flinch.
I can tell they want it. But tonight, nothing is clicking.
A blocked shot turns into a breakaway. A bad line change gives up a goal. Passes don’t land. They’re chasing instead of dictating, reacting instead of controlling.
As I watch Jackson, I notice the restless shifts between whistles, and the way his stick grip tightens when he’s barely keeping his temper in check.
The game ends in another loss, 4–2.
The arena feed cuts to replays. Analysts start circling mistakes on the screen. I mute it.
My phone rings—Greg.
“Returning your call,” he says, a pager beeping faintly behind him. “I’ve got two minutes.”
“I wanted to check in,” I say. “I know Jackson told you.”
“He did. I wanted to hear it from you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. More than okay.”
“And he’s showing up the way he should?”
“He is. I feel safe. Home’s steady.”
A breath on his end, softer. “Good. I know who he is. It’s fast, and I’m still your brother, but I’m not here to throw a wrench in it. If you need anything, you call me.”
“Deal.”
“Eat something real tonight,” he adds, already moving.
I smile. “I will if you will.”
He laughs. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
The line clicks off, the knot in my chest easing.
I leave the TV on mute and my thoughts turn back to Jackson.
I know he’s hurting. I know his shoulder’s bothering him more than he lets on. I know how much he wants this. Not just for himself, but for the whole team.
As I’m getting ready for bed, a text comes through from Jackson:
We’ll fix it.
My heart clenches as I reply:
I know. I have no doubt.
Tomorrow, he comes home, and if nothing else, I want him to walk through that door and know he isn’t going through this alone.
The next day, when the front door opens, the boys are already running toward it.
“He’s here!”
The rapid patter of socked feet race across the hardwood. Noah makes it to the entryway first, Liam right behind him, both yelling over each other in excitement.
I set down the dish towel and step into the hall just in time to see Jackson drop his bag and scoop them both up. He has one arm around each boy, lifting them off the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.
“Missed you, monsters,” he says, grinning, pulling them closer.
And then he sees me.
He lowers the boys gently, murmurs something about dinner, and they tear off toward the kitchen like it's a race.
But Jackson doesn’t move. Not at first.
He just looks at me.
I cross the last few steps and wrap my arms around his neck. His arms come around me instantly, strong and sure.
“Hi,” I whisper into his shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs back.
There’s tension in his frame, but it’s already beginning to soften. His breath evens out, like just being here helps reset something that’s been fraying at the edges.
I don’t say anything about the losses. He doesn’t either.
Dinner is loud, messy, normal.
Liam snatches a piece of garlic bread off Noah’s plate when he’s not looking. In revenge, Noah drops a green bean into Liam’s water glass. We pretend not to see any of it. Until Liam takes a sip, gags dramatically, and shoots Noah a glare.
“Ugh! You turned it into vegetable water!”
When Jackson laughs, our eyes meet, a shared smile and a quiet kind of heat.
I ask about his shoulder, and he shrugs. “Stiff, but manageable.” I can tell it’s more than that, but I don’t press.
Miss Taylor handles the bedtime routine like the seasoned pro she is, herding the boys down the hall with promises of one story each and a strict “no negotiating” clause. I hear her laugh as she shoos them down the hall.
Jackson and I are alone in the kitchen.
“I missed this. Missed you,” he says softly.
He steps closer, his hand finding my waist like it’s second nature.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly we’re kissing—slow, certain, like we have all the time in the world.
My fingers curl into his shirt; his arm slips around me, drawing me closer.
The kiss deepens, heat sparking low in my stomach.
“Upstairs?” I whisper.
His nod is rough, voice lower. “Before I do something reckless right here.”
I laugh, but it’s cut short when he lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist, and his lips claim mine again.
Seconds after the bedroom door shuts, clothes scatter to the floor.
“You know,” he teases, “after all that traveling today, I think I should take a shower.”
I lean in, smiling. “Guess I’d better help.”
His mouth finds the curve of my neck, hand sliding down my arm until our fingers thread together. He guides me toward the bathroom, unhurried, lips never leaving my skin. One hand reaches for the faucet.
The water steams hot when it hits us, but his touch is hotter. His hands roam like he’s memorizing me, and when I glance up, there’s something raw and tender in his eyes that makes my stomach flip.
His palms cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I gasp.
His head lowers, lips closing over one, and my hands find his hair, holding him there.
My back arches as he switches to the other, giving it the same slow attention.
The heat of his mouth, the sure weight of his hands—it’s all I can feel.
I can feel him hard against my stomach, thick and urgent. Water slides over us as he pins me lightly to the tile, his mouth catching mine again until my knees go weak.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs at my ear, his breath warm enough to make me shiver. His lips trail down my neck, teeth grazing lightly, before he lifts me. My legs wrap tighter around him, my arms around his neck.
One hand slides between my thighs, fingers slipping inside—slow, deep, perfect. My head rests back against the tile as he works me higher, another finger joining, his rhythm steady but insistent.
“Come for me, Ava,” he growls, teeth grazing my shoulder. “Let go.”
The words rip through me. My body tightens, trembling around his fingers as pleasure crashes over me, fierce and sweet. I cling to him, gasping, riding it out until I’m shaking in his arms.
He eases me down but doesn’t let go. His eyes are dark, hungry. “I’m not done with you.”
He turns me carefully, guiding my hands to the wall.
I brace as he presses in behind me, his grip firm on my hips.
The first deep thrust drags a cry from my throat.
He holds still just long enough for me to feel every inch of him before he starts moving—hard, fast, relentless.
The sound of us mixes with the rush of water, each thrust driving me higher.
Heat coils low again, and when release hits, I clench around him, pulsing, shaking. His low, guttural sound follows, his grip firm as he spills inside me, hips stuttering before going still.
For a moment, we just breathe—water still falling, skin slick and warm. His lips brush the back of my neck. “You okay?”
I nod, turning for a soft kiss. “More than okay.”
The water’s cooling by the time he shuts it off. He wraps me in a towel, one arm still around me as we move to the bedroom. We dry each other slowly, almost reluctantly, and slip under the covers. I curl into his side, his arm a solid weight around me, his breathing deep and even.
I fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart, the world narrowed to the warmth of his body and the feel of his skin against mine.
When I wake early, he’s there, solid and warm, one arm heavy across my waist. For a second, I stay still, watching him, letting last night replay in my mind. The memory is enough to make me want to stay right here.
But the gala is only two weeks away, and the list in my head is already starting to unfurl.
I slip from bed carefully so I don’t wake him, pull on one of his shirts, and pad into the kitchen. I make tea, open my laptop, and start tackling the list: silent auction notes, sponsor graphics, a quick email to Jenna.
Halfway through the second paragraph, a queasy twist rolls through my stomach. I pause, pressing a hand to it.
Not now.
It’s probably just stress. Late nights. Too much caffeine. Still, the timing makes me uneasy.
Two weeks to go. Too much to do.
Getting sick isn’t an option.
I sip my tea, willing the unease in my stomach to settle, and get back to work.