Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
JACKO
There’s blood on the ice. Not mine, this time.
I’m breathing hard, leaning on my stick, heart pounding like a war drum.
The crowd’s a dull roar in my ears, the kind of white noise you get used to when your job is to drop gloves and make grown men regret their life choices.
The ref’s still yelling at me, trying to herd me toward the penalty box like I’m some pissed-off farm animal, but I’m not moving yet.
Not until I make eye contact with the other guy.
He’s curled up near the boards, nose bleeding, probably missing a tooth or two. That’ll teach him to goad our goalie and cheap-shot one of our rookies in the same shift. I don’t regret it. But I do know the fine for this one’s gonna be a big one.
Coach is gonna kill me.
Eventually I skate off, jaw tight, ignoring the chants of “JACK-O! JACK-O!” echoing around the rink. They love me when I’m smashing faces. But my shoulder is screaming, and I can already feel the bruises blooming.
By the time I hit the locker room, I’m buzzing with leftover adrenaline and the regret is creeping in now. Not because I fought. Because it’s going to cost me ice time. Again.
I strip off my pads, wincing as I roll my right shoulder. This thing’s been messed up since December and I’ve been playing through it like a dumbass. But you don’t tell a coach you need a break unless your arm’s literally hanging off. Or unless a doctor says you have to.
Lucky me, I’ve got both.
“Jackson,” Coach barks from the hallway, his voice already ten shades of pissed. “Office. Now.”
I sigh and pull on a hoodie, still half soaked with sweat. My hair’s wet, and I probably look like a walking concussion. Which, honestly, wouldn’t be that far off.
Coach’s office smells of bad coffee and stress. He’s pacing when I walk in, hands on his hips, that vein in his temple throbbing like a cartoon character.
“You want to tell me what the hell that was?”
“He went after Dylan. And he called Matteo…”
“I know what he said,” Coach cuts in, eyes sharp. “Doesn’t mean you get to turn his face into a meat grinder on live TV.”
I sit down across from him, keeping my face blank. I’ve had this talk before. With him. With other coaches. With league officials. PR reps. My mum.
Coach sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Look. You need time off. The shoulder’s shot. The doc agrees. We’re sitting you for a month.”
That gets me.
“A month?”
“You need it, Jacko. And we need you in April more than we need you now. Playoffs matter more than pride.”
I lean back in the chair, hands clenched into fists. “So what? I just disappear?”
“Not exactly.” Coach pulls a folder from his desk and tosses it my way. “You’re doing community outreach. Quiet gigs. Stay in the city, keep your head down, work on recovery.”
I open the folder. A bakery program at a community centre. Kids. Public smiles. Probably no knives.
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly. You like baking, don’t you?”
I stare at him.
“Everyone on the team knows, Jacko. You brought a goddamn Swiss roll to media day.”
I flip the folder closed. I could say no. Refuse. Be a stubborn jackass. But then I’d be sitting at home doing nothing but twitching with pent-up energy and reading angry tweets.
Fine.
“When do I start?”
Coach smirks like he knew he’d win. “Monday. 9 a.m. And Jacko? Try not to flatten anyone who messes up your scones.”
Monday comes too fast. I’m running late because Dave, my sourdough starter exploded overnight and I spent an hour mopping up the kitchen. I didn’t even have time to grab a decent coffee.
The community centre is a squat red-brick building sandwiched between a church and a dodgy-looking laundry place. The car park is half full. I pull in next to a rusted minivan with a bumper sticker that says “COFFEE FIRST, ADULTING LATER.”
Big mood.
Inside, the centre smells like floor polish and cinnamon, and a little like my granny. There’s a board with paper flyers for yoga classes and parenting groups. Kids scream in the distance. Somewhere, a baby cries.
I follow the signs for the bakery program and find a room that looks like the set of a budget cooking show.
Stainless steel counters, big industrial oven, a shelf full of mismatched mixing bowls.
There’s a woman at the far counter, her back to me, elbow-deep in dough.
She’s petite, in a flour-dusted apron, her dark hair twisted into a knot.
I clear my throat. “Hi. Owen Jackson. I’m the volunteer from The Raptors.”
She turns.
And everything in me just stops.
She’s pretty, but not the polished, camera-ready type I’m used to. There’s something real about her. Something quiet. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, like she wasn’t expecting a six-foot-six enforcer to walk into her safe baking space.
“You’re the hockey guy?” she asks, voice sceptical.
“In the flesh,” I say, offering a hand. “Jacko, usually. Unless you’re mad at me.”
She hesitates before shaking my hand. Her hand is small. Cold. There’s flour on her cheek.
“Maya,” she says. “I run the bakery program.”
“Nice to meet you, Maya.”
She crosses her arms, eyes still scanning me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m a danger to pastry.
“Have you ever baked with kids before?”
“I’ve been on a team with Ollie. That count?”
She doesn’t laugh. But the corner of her mouth twitches.
“We do a lot of simple stuff here. Muffins. Cupcakes. Basic bread.”
“Sounds good. I’m decent with muffins.”
She arches a brow. “Decent, huh?”
“I brought lemon-poppyseed to a fight once. The guy still dropped gloves. But he said it was a solid bake.”
This time, she snorts. It’s quiet. But it’s there. A crack in the ice.
“You can start by prepping the trays. Wash your hands. Aprons are in the drawer, although I’m not sure we have any that will actually fit you. Try not to scare anyone.”
“No promises,” I say, and head for the sink.
As I scrub up, I watch her move around the kitchen. She’s efficient, neat, but there’s something tight about her shoulders. Like she’s ready for something to go wrong.
I get it. Hockey taught me how to brace for impact. But this feels deeper.
And maybe it’s none of my business.
But maybe I want to know anyway.