44. Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Four
JACKSON
I ’ve been trying not to think about the unopened pregnancy test.
I told myself I’d wait. That she’d come to me when she was ready.
But the longer I wait, the harder it is to pretend I don’t know about it, invisible but heavy as hell.
And if that weren’t enough, there’s the shoulder.
Every time I move, there’s a dull, angry pull that reminds me I’m not on the ice, not with the team.
The trainer keeps saying the same thing: Be patient. Trust the process.
I tell myself it’s just one more game. Maybe two. But Game 2 of the Final is tonight, and the thought of watching instead of playing guts me.
This is the moment every NHL player dreams of. The chance to fight for the Cup. And I’m watching it from the sidelines.
I see the way Ava looks at me, like she wants to fix it somehow. She hovers, brings me ice packs, checks if I’ve eaten. She’s been more careful than usual, softer. And at the same time, I can tell she’s somewhere else in her head.
I don’t want to push her. God, the last thing I want is to make her feel cornered or scared.
But every time I look at her, I see the same quiet, knotted worry I feel twisting in my own chest.
I tell myself I’ll give it a little longer. Let her come to me. But if she doesn’t…
I can’t keep pretending I don’t know.
I went in early for treatment: manual work, ice, all the things the trainers swear will get me back faster. They sent me home with a band and a list of movements to do.
I run through my rehab exercises in the living room, bands anchored to the railing, slow rotations that feel like they’re moving through wet cement.
The muscle burns in a way that makes me want to push harder, but I know if I do, I’ll pay for it tomorrow.
The guys are probably at morning skate right now, going over last-minute drills, fine-tuning line changes. The locker room will be buzzing later with that electric energy before a big game. The kind that makes your pulse beat in your fingertips.
And I’ll be up in a suite, dressed in a suit and tie instead of pads and gloves.
Useless.
I know it’s the smart call. One or two games now to avoid risking the whole series. But it doesn’t make it easier.
I flex my fingers, rolling my shoulder slowly.
I think of the boys, probably climbing all over Ava, still glued to the TV even though they know I’m not playing.
It’s their last week of school, and I can already tell they’re bursting with summer energy, counting down the days to long days at the park and backyard water fights.
I think of Ava, pacing the living room, that distant look in her eyes she can’t quite hide. The conversation we need to have. The possibility that everything may be about to change.
When I finally head upstairs to grab my jacket before leaving for the arena, the boys are waiting for me in the hallway, practically vibrating with energy.
Noah runs up to me, his hair sticking up in three different directions like he just wrestled a bear.
“Daddy, are you gonna score tonight?”
I swallow hard, forcing a smile. "Not tonight, buddy. I’ll be watching, cheering just as loud as you."
His face falls for a second before Liam pipes up behind him, "Then we’ll cheer extra loud too!"
I ruffle their hair, careful not to let my voice shake. “That’s my guys.”
I glance at Ava as I stand, her eyes catching mine, that same concern living there. I give her a small nod. The kind that says I’m okay even when I’m not.
The drive to the arena feels wrong. No gear bag in the back seat, no stick balanced across the headrests. Just a suit jacket hanging behind me, reminding me I’m going there to watch, not play.
Ava offered to come, but I told her to stay with the boys. They’d need her there, shouting at the TV, asking where I was every two minutes. And the truth is, part of me didn’t want her to see me like this, sidelined and useless.
I park in my usual spot out of habit. My fingers twitch toward the truck bed, like they’re expecting to grab my gear. I catch myself, shaking my head as I reach for the door with my good arm.
Inside, I check in with the trainers one more time: quick wrap check, mobility test, another reminder to ice later. I nod along even though every word gnaws at me.
Russo catches me in the hallway on my way to the suite. He gives my shoulder a careful pat. “You sure you don’t wanna come hang in the room? The boys would love it.”
I force a smile. “I’ll come down after. Right now, they need to focus.”
He nods, reading between the lines.
Up in the suite, I lean against the glass, my breath fogging the edge as I watch warmups. Every stride, every puck snap, looks both familiar and distant. Like watching an old life through a one-way mirror.
The game starts, and I shift restlessly. I can’t sit, can’t stand still. My hand curls into a fist every time we lose a faceoff or get pinned in our zone. I catch myself almost miming defensive coverage like some restless kid in the stands.
Between periods, I imagine Russo cracking jokes in the room, tossing towels at guys and chirping the rookies about their hair or how they tape their sticks. He’ll pretend he isn’t nervous, but that’s just his way of keeping the air light.
I can almost hear the echo of their laughter, the biting scrape of skate blades on the floor, the low murmur of the coaches sketching out the next shift plan.
My shoulder throbs under the wrap, an ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. I shift again, pressing my palm to the glass.
When the final horn blares, I stay by the glass for a minute longer, watching them celebrate the win.
They pulled it off without me. Relief rushes in first. But underneath it, there’s a restless pulse that reminds me I wasn’t out there fighting with them.
I take the elevator down to the locker room. The hallway already hums with energy, trainers weaving in and out, someone blasting music from a phone speaker.
As soon as I step in, Russo shouts across the room, “Hey, Jacks! You coming back out there next game, or do you just like the view from the suite?”
A couple of guys laugh and slap me on the back, careful around my injured shoulder. Someone tosses a towel at my head, and I catch it on reflex.
I force a grin, shake my head. “Maybe next game. Trainer’s call.”
I hang around long enough to hear them rehash plays, pass beers around, watch the rookies get chirped for nothing at all.
I know I’m still part of this. But standing there in a suit instead of gear, not drenched in sweat with them, I feel one step removed from it all.
Soon I clap Russo on the shoulder, nod to the rest of the guys, and slip out.
The trainer cleared me to drive—said my dominant arm was strong enough and I’d be fine without pain meds. I promised to take it slow.
On the way home, I replay every near miss and quick shift, leaning forward in the suite like I might somehow pull myself into the game.
When I pull into the driveway, the front porch glows warm against the dark.
I step inside to find the living room dim and quiet. Popcorn bowls and water cups clutter the table, a half-folded blanket on the couch.
Ava’s curled in the corner of the sectional, her long dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts, casual but somehow still elegant in that effortless way she has.
It hits me hardest when she’s like this: hair undone, barefoot, so completely at home. She knocks the breath out of me.
I slip off my jacket and hang it in the closet, trying to move quietly. When I turn back, she’s already standing up with a stretch.
“They looked good tonight,” she says. “Strong.”
I nod once, swallowing. “They did. Trainer thinks I’ll be cleared soon, but I’ll probably miss the next game too.”
I reach up, brush a loose strand of hair from her face. Her eyes close at the touch, just for a moment. I let my hand slide to the back of her neck and pull her gently into my chest. She tucks her head under my chin, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt.
For a second, I think about asking her about the test.
But I stop. Now’s not the right time.
I press a kiss into her hair, closing my eyes.
I’ll wait a little longer.