34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
JACKSON
I wake up alone.
The other side of the bed is cold, blankets pushed back. Faint light filters through the curtains, catching her hoodie still draped over the chair. She’s already up.
Not surprising.
The gala’s less than two weeks away, and Ava’s been in go-mode. I don’t have to guess where she is: either in her office or at the kitchen table, surrounded by her laptop, a spreadsheet, and that same mug she keeps reheating but never finishes.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rub a hand over my face. It’s Game 5 tonight. We’re finally back on home ice, and it feels like the ice is ours again. A quiet buzz hums under my skin. Not nerves, just that charged stillness that always hits on game day.
Downstairs, she’s at the table, laptop open and papers spread around her like a halo of organized chaos. She’s in leggings and one of my shirts, her hair twisted up and mug in hand. She doesn’t look up right away, just types, clicks, reaches for her mug.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway.
She startles, then offers a tired smile. “Can you believe the gala’s almost here?”
I walk over and kiss the top of her head. “My tux is ready.”
She hums, but up close, I see the weariness under her eyes, the way she’s nursing the same sip like it’s too much effort to finish.
“You okay?” I crouch beside her.
“You’ve been running nonstop. If you need to rest today, skip the game.”
She gives a faint smile. “I’ll be okay. I can rest later. I want to see you play.”
I don’t press her. Just nod, squeeze her knee, and head for the shower.
When I come back downstairs, the boys are mid-cartoon, and Ava’s still at the kitchen table, but she’s closed the laptop this time, sipping what has to be her third or fourth cup of coffee.
She looks up as I grab my keys and gear bag.
“Good luck tonight,” she says.
I hesitate at the door.
“You’ll text me if you’re not feeling up to it?”
She arches a brow. “I’ll be there.”
I cross over to her, kiss her temple, and linger for a beat. “Okay. See you later.”
By the time I get to the arena, that quiet hum from this morning has intensified. Home ice always hits different. Familiar boards and a cold that sinks into your bones and somehow steadies you.
I nod to staff and trainers on my way to the locker room. Russo’s already running his mouth, a few of the guys chirping back, but there’s focus under the noise.
Coach Barrett claps me on the back. “We’re back where we belong. Let’s make it count.”
The rink’s buzzing hours before puck drop. Normally it settles me, but tonight my mind drifts. I keep thinking about the look in Ava’s eyes this morning. Exhausted, like she hadn’t slept at all. I’m worried she’s running herself ragged.
“You good?” Russo asks, clapping my shoulder. “You’ve got your grumpy face on.”
I grunt. “Didn’t know I had a happy one.”
When I skate out for the anthem, I glance up.
Ava’s in the WAGs section, hoodie, dark hair spilling out, hands folded in her lap.
She claps, even smiles when Russo hams it up, but the usual spark in her eyes is quieter.
The kind of quiet that makes me wish I could skate off the ice and ask if she’s okay.
But there’s nothing I can do right now. So, I skate, hit, shoot. I chase the puck like it owes me something.
Next shift, I don’t overthink it. I push harder. Strip a puck clean in the neutral zone, drive it deep. When Russo crashes the net, I thread it to him and he buries it. Crowd erupts. We tap gloves.
The game doesn’t let up. Neither do I.
We keep the lead. Block the lanes. Force the dump-ins and win the battles on the boards. It’s not pretty, but it’s solid. Gritty.
We lock it down.
When the final buzzer cuts through the roar of the crowd, it hits me like a jolt to the chest.
We won .
The boys mob Russo first. He scored the third-period go-ahead. We crash together near center ice, helmets tapping, gloves slapping backs. It’s chaos, it’s loud, and it’s ours.
Sticks tap the boards, gloves fly in the air, and Russo yells something unintelligible as he tackles me in a half-hug, half-headlock.
“Tell me that wasn’t the cleanest redirect you’ve ever seen!” he shouts, grinning like a maniac.
“You tripped into it,” I laugh.
The buzzer fades, but the energy doesn’t. We pour into the tunnel, the adrenaline still thudding behind my ribs.
In the locker room, it’s loud: helmets clattering, water bottles spraying, towels snapped like whips. Coach Barrett makes his way through with quick back slaps and half-shouted praise. The room smells like sweat and ice and victory.
Russo reenacts his celebration in dramatic slow-motion: finger guns blazing, knee sliding across the rubber floor.
“You see that crowd?” he yells. “Had ’em eating out of my hands.”
“More like you had them terrified you were gonna faceplant,” someone calls back.
Laughter ricochets off the walls, and I stand there, letting it soak in. The sound of a team coming alive again.
I pull off my gloves, and start peeling down my gear. Russo flops onto the bench next to me and bumps my shoulder with his.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he says.
I nod. “Damn right it does.”
We’re not done yet, but we’re close.
Just one more win, and we’re in the Finals.
When I get home, the house is quiet except for a faint glow from the kitchen.
She’s already home, which isn’t surprising. She usually beats me back, with media and cooldown dragging me behind.
She’s curled into her usual spot at the table, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, laptop open in front of her.
Ava looks up, smiling. “You crushed it.”
“Thank you,” I say with a grin. Then I gesture toward the laptop. “Still at it?”
She gives a sheepish shrug. “Just updating the silent auction list.”
I wrap my arms around her shoulders, kiss her temple. “No more spreadsheets tonight.”
She leans into me. “You’re bossy when you win.”
“You’ve got two options,” I murmur. “I carry you, or you walk with me. Either way, your getting a good night’s sleep.”
“That sounds dangerously like a promise.”
“It is,” I say, already pulling her up and into me. “And I don’t make promises I don’t plan to keep.”