49. Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Forty-Nine
AVA
M orning light filters through the hotel curtains, and I realize I’m awake before the alarm.
The room is quiet and the sheets are still faintly warm beside me, a lingering echo of Jackson even though he slipped out hours ago.
He must have left before dawn, off to the rink for early skate and meetings. I didn’t hear him go, which means he was careful, probably trying not to wake me.
I shift onto my back, a hand drifting to my stomach without thinking. My fatigue is heavier this morning, the waves of nausea closer to the surface. But underneath it all hums anticipation.
It’s Jackson’s first time back on the ice since his injury.
I draw in a long breath, staring at the ceiling. So much has changed in such a short time. I’m in Denver, pregnant, and waiting for the man I love to come back from morning skate.
The thought makes my chest tighten and then expand all at once.
For the first time in so long, I don’t feel like I’m performing someone else’s version of my life. This, all of it, is mine. Messy, terrifying, fragile, and so deeply real.
I let my eyes drift shut again, trying to rest before tonight, knowing that when he returns, everything will start moving faster: the game, the crowd, the noise of this new future we’re building together.
I sip water and scroll through my phone, barely absorbing anything. Even the usual Open Pages updates feel distant, like echoes from another life.
I take a long shower, get dressed, and keep my hands busy. Anything to slow my racing thoughts.
There’s a soft knock on my door a few hours later, just as I’m sipping water and debating what to order for lunch.
Jackson steps inside wearing a fitted team hoodie and joggers, his hair still damp from the rink. A subtle flush colors his cheeks, the kind that always follows a hard skate.
He closes the door behind him, his eyes landing on me immediately.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and warm, a little rough from the cold arena air.
“Hey,” I breathe back, a small smile tugging at my lips.
He crosses the room in two strides, his hand coming up to brush my jaw, his thumb grazing my cheek. “You okay?” he asks, scanning my face.
I nod, leaning into his touch. “Tired,” I admit, “but good. You?”
His eyes flicker with that restless, competitive edge humming just below the surface, but he softens when he looks at me.
“Ready,” he says. “More than ready.”
I slide my hands up to rest lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“You’ve got this,” I tell him, my voice firmer than I expected.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, careful, deliberate, almost reverent.
When he pulls back, his eyes stay locked on mine, like he’s trying to carry this moment with him into whatever chaos comes next.
“I’m heading to a team lunch, then a quick nap, then the rink. I just… wanted to see you first. I’ll see you after,” he says, his thumb brushing over my wrist one last time before he lets go.
“I’ll be in the stands watching. Go get them,” I whisper.
I catch his fingers one more time as he turns to leave, holding on for a heartbeat longer than I probably should.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the quiet folds around me again, but it doesn’t feel empty this time.
Jenna’s name is at the top of my texts, a string of patient check-ins. My thumb hovers for a second before I finally tap to call.
She picks up on the first ring.
“Ava! I was just about to bug you again,” she says, her voice a mix of warmth and relief. “How are you? Did you—”
“I did,” I interrupt gently. My voice wobbles. “I took the test. It’s positive.”
She inhales sharply on the other end, then goes silent.
“I don’t even know what to say,” Jenna finally says, her voice trembling. “Are you okay?”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I’m terrified. Overwhelmed. But… also kind of at peace in a weird way.”
She lets out a teary laugh. “Only you would say that.”
I pause, then take a breath. “Jackson knows too. We found out together. He’s been incredible, Jenna.”
“I’m so happy he’s there for you, Ava,” she whispers.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I also want to ask for your help.”
“Anything,” she says immediately.
I close my eyes. “I think I need to start stepping back from Open Pages a little. Not all at once, but I want to start leaning on you and the team more. You’ve always been the person I trust most.”
“Of course,” Jenna answers, emotion spilling into every syllable. “We’ve got this. You’re not alone in any of it, okay?”
My eyes burn. Relief and vulnerability crash together, forming something powerful.
“Thank you,” I say softly, meaning it in a thousand different ways.
We talk a few minutes more about practical details—how I’ll start forwarding tasks and meetings, and who can step up where. But beneath all the logistics, there’s this fierce, unwavering thread of love tying us together.
When we finally hang up, I set the phone down and press both palms to my face.
A quiet thought nudges at the edge of my mind about Greg, my parents, and how they’ll take the news when I tell them about the baby. Jackson and I haven’t really talked about when or how yet.
That’s another conversation waiting for us back home.
The afternoon drifts by in gentle stretches. I reply to a few Open Pages emails, jotting down a few notes for the board.
At some point, I make a cup of tea and sit by the window, watching the city shift and settle into early evening.
I change into my favorite black top and jeans, something comfortable but steady, and slip my arena pass around my neck. I smooth my hair in the mirror, pause, and press a hand lightly to my stomach.
I book a car and head downtown, my heart hammering with every passing streetlight.
As we get closer to the arena, the sidewalks thicken with fans in SteelClaws jerseys, some holding signs or snapping photos with friends. A low, electric buzz hangs over the entire street. It’s that unmistakably charged energy that only game nights bring.
By the time I step into the suite, my heart is already thrumming. I move to the front row of seats, leaning forward, fingers twisting around the lanyard of my arena pass.
Below, the lights sweep across the ice as the crowd’s roar rises and falls like a living thing. The players pour out of the tunnel, one by one, each greeted with a wave of deafening cheers.
Then I see him.
Jackson steps onto the ice with squared shoulders, his stride smooth and powerful despite everything he has been through to get here.
I feel my breath catch, my whole body leaning forward as if drawn by a magnet.
It hits me all at once. How fiercely proud I am, how deeply in this I already am.
I press a hand lightly to my stomach, my pulse echoing beneath my fingertips.
And when he skates past the bench, his head lifting for just a moment, I swear it’s like he feels me there: watching, waiting, cheering in every quiet, wordless way I know how.
I lean forward even more, my heart pounding in time with the beat of the arena music.
He’s back.