41. Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-One
AVA
T he morning drags and races at the same time.
I open my laptop, ready to finish donor thank-you emails, but my eyes land on it almost immediately.
The pregnancy test.
Still half-hidden beneath a stack of printouts. Exactly where I left it.
Like if I don’t touch it, it can’t become real.
Not when I can still pretend it’s all just stress. Exhaustion. A thousand tiny things all adding up to something temporary.
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes.
God, I’m tired.
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, either. It’s in my bones, woven into the edges of every thought, like I’ve been holding my breath for days.
I’ll take it tomorrow.
When I’ve had one more night of sleep. When I feel steadier. When I’m not so wound up, I flinch every time my phone buzzes.
It buzzes now, like the universe is listening.
Jenna: Just checking in. You okay?
I stare at the screen for a few seconds before typing back.
Me: Yeah. Just tired. Going to the game tonight for distraction.
A pause, then another text from her.
Did you take it yet?
My thumb hovers. My fingers shake a little as I type:
Not yet.
She replies instantly.
Okay. I’m here if you need anything. Seriously.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and glance back at the test.
Definitely tomorrow.
Today, I just need to get through the day.
And hopefully watch Jackson’s team win Game 1 of the Final.
By the time evening rolls around, I’ve barely touched the emails. I couldn’t focus long enough to string more than two sentences together. I spent the afternoon moving papers around and making tea I didn’t drink.
Now I’m standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide if I look like someone who belongs in the WAGs section.
I don’t. Not really.
But I go anyway.
Jackson left for the rink hours ago for media, warm-ups, pregame prep. The house has been quiet ever since. Too quiet.
But not for much longer.
The front door swings open a little after three, and I hear the familiar stampede of sneakers against hardwood.
“We’re home!” Liam yells, dropping his backpack like it personally offended him.
Miss Taylor appears behind them, calm as ever. “They have extra energy today,” she says. “If you can believe that.”
“Because it’s Game Day!” Noah crows, making a slapshot motion with his hand. “Right, Ava? Daddy’s gonna crush it!”
Liam jumps in beside him. “We’re allowed to watch the first period, even though it’s a school night!”
“You are,” Miss Taylor confirms, setting the bag on the counter. “Then it’s teeth brushed and lights out.”
“Can we have popcorn?” Noah asks, bouncing like he’s already eaten sugar.
“Only if you don’t spill it all over the couch like last time,” Miss Taylor warns, trying to sound stern but smiling anyway.
The boys chatter through their snack and homework, buzzing with anticipation. At one point, Liam drags over a drawing he made. It’s Jackson in full uniform, stick raised mid-goal, glitter glue exploding from the puck.
I tape it to the fridge without hesitation, my heart tugging at the sight.
“You think he’ll win tonight?” he asks seriously.
“I think he’ll play like he always does,” I say softly. “With everything he’s got.”
Later that evening, I pull on a jacket, double-check that I have my bag, and head out before I can talk myself out of it.
The drive feels longer than it should. Or maybe it’s just me, stuck in my head again. When I finally reach the arena and make it through the VIP check-in, the noise swallows me whole.
Fans are everywhere. Jerseys, face paint, kids on shoulders, grown men yelling.
It should feel chaotic, but it’s not. The energy is alive, electric, like the whole city’s holding its breath.
I make my way to what’s become my usual seat among the WAGs section. It’s family, partners, a few board members from the team. Russo’s wife nods politely as I sit. I nod back. I’m not really in the mood for small talk.
The game starts fast. The puck drops and Jackson’s line is out there, moving like they’ve got something to prove. He looks good: quick, sharp, focused. I feel it in my chest every time he touches the puck.
Midway through the first period, he cuts across center ice, takes a crisp pass from Russo, and rips a shot top shelf. The puck slams into the net, and the arena explodes around me.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, shouting along with the rest of the crowd. The WAGs section is all up, clapping, hugging.
For a moment, I forget everything else: the exhaustion, the worry, the test sitting at home. It’s just him. Just this moment. And he looks unstoppable.
But in the third period, everything shifts.
He’s chasing the puck along the boards, shoulder to shoulder with another forward, when the hit comes.
It’s clean, but brutal.
Jackson twists, his left shoulder taking the brunt, and slams hard into the glass.
He stays down.
Please move. Please.
I don’t realize I’ve stood until the woman next to me sucks in a breath.
“Oh no,” Russo’s wife whispers, leaning forward. “Was that—?”
“Jackson,” Elena says tightly, already touching my arm. “Ava, are you okay?”
My throat locks up. I manage a small nod, though it feels stiff.
My nails dig into my palm, pulse pounding in my ears.
He gets up. Skates off on his own. But something’s wrong. He’s holding himself stiff, left shoulder angled just slightly. Like he’s trying not to move it.
Elena watches the ice, then turns back to me. “That was his shoulder, wasn’t it? The same one he’s been nursing?”
A hush falls over the section as Jackson skates off, one arm held stiffly at his side. The tension is palpable. I’m frozen in place, eyes locked on the bench, waiting for him to return. He doesn’t.
Russo’s wife reaches under her seat and hands me a bottle of water. “Don’t worry,” she says, voice kind. “He’s tough. He’ll be okay.”
I murmur a thanks, my fingers clenching around the water bottle.
He doesn’t come back out for his next shift.
The buzz of the arena, that roaring, pulsing energy…
It starts to feel like white noise.
I sit down slowly, trying to breathe.
I keep telling myself he’s fine.
But my stomach won’t stop twisting.