Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACKO
The scent of rubber and ice hits the second I step into the rink. Comforting, in a gross sort of way. Like coming home to your nan’s musty old flat, it’s familiar, if slightly rank.
“Oi, Jacko,” Dylan calls across the locker room, a towel slung around his neck like he’s just done something heroic instead of stretching for six minutes and calling it physio. “Back from your bake-cation, are you?”
Murphy grins as he laces up, looking like he’s got a snarky remark queued and ready. “Must’ve burned a few batches, if they finally let you out.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, shrugging off my hoodie. “Remind me to mix laxatives into your protein shakes.”
That earns a round of groans and laughs, but Ollie just holds up his phone like he’s documenting the moment. “Quote of the day,” he says solemnly, typing it into his notes. “Jacko threatens mass digestive revenge. Iconic.”
“Can we focus, guys?” I deadpan. “I’ve got ten minutes on-ice before my physio turns into a human cattle prod.”
Dylan slaps my good shoulder as he passes. “They say sarcasm’s a coping mechanism. You alright, big guy?”
I pause, rolling my shoulders. The left one still twinges, but it’s a dull ache now, not the stabbing misery it was two weeks ago. Progress. “I’m good. Just glad to be moving again.”
Truth is, the sitting still’s been worse than the injury. I’ve missed the ritual; lace-up, head-down, push-off. Missed the clatter of sticks and the glide of blades on fresh ice. Missed the noise. The brotherhood.
Out on the ice, the lights seem too bright at first, but it’s a balm. I step onto the rink tentatively, no stick in hand. That’s still off-limits until the shoulder’s cleared. But even without it, the feel of the ice under my skates is enough to make my chest loosen.
Coach nods from the bench, arms crossed. He won’t say anything sentimental, but his eyes soften when he sees me make that first lap.
“You skate like someone’s nan,” Murphy calls as he zips past me. “She alright, shoulder-wise?”
“She’s resting comfortably,” I call back. “She says you’re a right gobshite, by the way.”
Ollie grins as he catches up to me. “I missed this,” he says. “The chirps. The delicate ballet of toxic masculinity.”
“You been writing poetry again?” I arch a brow.
“Only when I’m emotional,” he deadpans. “Or bloated.”
I laugh, but it’s short-lived. My body’s still stiff, and the twinge in my shoulder nags like a whiny toddler.
Mia gave me the green light for light skating, but no contact, no stickwork, and definitely no heroics.
Which, for a guy whose entire job is throwing himself into collisions, is basically a cruel joke.
We coast through drills. The others loop in full sets of passes, stops, and checks. I do laps. Occasionally Dylan throws me a grin as he sails by, like he knows exactly how antsy I am.
He does. He had a similar injury last season. Nearly went feral.
“Oi, Jacko!” Murphy calls as we’re heading off-ice. “Heard you’ve been moonlighting as Paul Hollywood.”
“Only if Paul Hollywood was six-six and dead inside,” I reply, peeling off my gloves.
“Dead inside but can do a mean laminated dough,” Ollie adds, nodding thoughtfully. “A dangerous man.”
They’re teasing, but not mean about it. Ever since that viral video of me shoulder-checking a guy twice my size and then handing a kid a box of macarons surfaced, my off-ice hobbies aren’t exactly secret.
“Laminated dough?” Dylan says, squinting. “Is that, like, a fancy sandwich?”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, pulling off my helmet. “I swear I lose brain cells every time I talk to you lot.”
In the physio room, I lie back while Mia rotates my shoulder through its limited range. It’s not the pain that gets me. It’s the reminder that I’m not whole yet. Not game-ready. Not useful.
“You’re improving,” she says without looking at me. “But don’t get cocky. Overdo it and I’ll ban you from the kitchen as well.”
I blink. “You can’t take away baking.”
“I can,” she says flatly. “And I will. I’ve spoken to Jonno.”
“Snitch,” I mutter.
“Reckless,” she shoots back, patting my shoulder a little too smugly.
When I head back to the locker room, Murphy and Ollie are halfway through some dumb debate about who has the worst penalty minutes this season.
“It’s Jacko, easy,” Murphy insists. “He’s a walking misconduct.”
“I’m a gentle giant,” I say, unwrapping my brace. “Besides, half those were because you lot can’t keep your heads up.”
“That’s not fair,” Ollie protests. “One time, Dylan skated backwards into a ref.”
“That ref was a twat,” Dylan argues from behind his water bottle.
I sit on the bench and let the noise of it wash over me. It’s dumb and loud and juvenile but it’s home.
And for a minute, it almost makes up for the fact that I still can’t take a proper slapshot.
“Right,” Murphy says, standing. “We’re grabbing shakes. You coming?”
I think about it. Normally, I’d go. Let Ollie flirt with the cashier, listen to Dylan defend pineapple on pizza, laugh at Murphy getting recognised and trying to act humble about it.
But today, I think about a little girl with gap teeth who called me “Mr Bear” and offered me a sticker for helping her ice fairy cakes. I think about her quiet, fierce, guarded mum. The way she watches the world like it’s something that could turn on her without warning.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ve got a thing.”
They pause, eyeing me.
“A thing?” Ollie asks. “Like a date? A secret cat? A baking emergency?”
I grin. “Let’s call it a flour-related obligation.”
Murphy whistles. “It’s a girl.”
“It’s not,” I start, then stop. “It’s complicated.”
Ollie’s eyebrows are in his hairline. “You’re baking for a woman.”
“More like with her.”
“And this woman,” Dylan says, slow and deliberate, “is not a granny, or a celebrity chef?”
“Nope.”
“Then it’s official,” Murphy announces. “Jacko’s got a crush.”
“Fuck off,” I say, grabbing my kit. “You lot are worse than the press.”
But as I leave the locker room, their teasing fades into the background. Because truth is, they’re not wrong. I do have a crush.
But it’s not just that. It’s the way Maya looked at me like she didn’t expect kindness and wasn’t sure what to do with it. The way she stood between her kid and the world, even when she was clearly tired and scared.
It’s the way being around them feels like something I don’t quite have words for yet.
I step outside, the cold air biting at my neck. My shoulder still aches, but it’s a good kind of ache.
Progress.
And maybe something else. Something worth showing up for.
Still, as I sit behind the wheel and let the engine warm up, I don’t start driving right away.
The usual post-practice buzz fizzles out, replaced by that quiet weight I’ve learned to carry.
The kind that settles deep behind the ribs, somewhere unspeakable.
I spent so long building myself into someone no one messed with.
Big lad, takes hits, gives worse. Safe to stand next to in a scrap.
Dangerous if you’re on the wrong side of it.
But lately it’s different.
Lila’s tiny fingers sticky with icing sugar. Maya’s soft, measured voice calling “Lila, love” like it’s the only thing she’s sure of. The way her whole body tenses when someone gets too close. The way she relaxes, just slightly, when I’m the one nearby.
That stays with me more than anything else today. Not the chirps from the guys. Not the slap of blades on ice. Not even the ache in my shoulder.
She barely knows me. But she trusts me enough to let her daughter stand next to me with a piping bag in hand. That trust, the fragile, fierce thread of it, feels more important than anything I’ve ever earned on the ice.
And I want to honour it. Earn it. Without asking for anything in return.
It’s not love. Not yet. But it could be. It could grow into something real and solid and slow. The kind of thing that doesn’t break when life gets loud.
I pull out of the car park and turn toward the community centre instead of going home.
The bakery’s probably shut for the day. Doesn’t matter. I’m not going there to talk.
I just want to see the lights on.
To remind myself that they’re still there. That they made it another day.
And so did I.