Chapter 17 Jacob
Jacob
It’s been a week since that night.
The night everything went sideways in the most ridiculously awkward way possible, the night Griffin made eye contact with me while I was dancing with Danny.
A week since I felt that stupid, embarrassing heat rush up my neck and across my cheeks.
A week since his sudden exit from a party he didn’t even want to be at.
A week since I very obviously, awkwardly, and with approximately zero dignity followed him outside like some kind of deranged emotional satellite.
A week since his lips crashed onto mine in a way that was so fucking hot and perfectly timed it shouldn’t have been legal in any universe, and yes, I ground against him like a sad, horny puppy who had been improperly socialized.
And then there was nothing.
Just silence.
He came to the training center like normal people do, except not normal at all, and instead of looking at me, or facing me, or even acknowledging the geographic space that I occupy within the same room, he had Lauren work on his shoulder.
He grabbed his own ice, like a stubborn idiot who also happens to be emotionally unavailable.
He emailed his half of the assignment without even speaking a word to me, not a hint of engagement, not a trace of embarrassment or confusion or anything.
And I am so fucking ashamed of myself it feels like a bowling ball lodged in my chest.
Embarrassment and self loathing are not nearly strong enough words for the parade of cringe I’ve been dragging around since that moment he tore his mouth off mine with the kind of shock and guilt in his eyes that was loud enough to have its own theme music.
He didn’t just look startled; he looked like someone had slapped him in the face, like remorse had set up camp behind his ribcage and was sending postcards.
And yes, I know it isn’t completely my fault because I didn’t force myself on him but I also didn’t exactly cover this whole situation in dignity either. I moaned when his lips met mine, a sound that was embarrassingly loud and embarrassingly pleasurable, and yeah, I fucking ground against him.
I let myself be carried away by one too many drinks and one too many hormones and one too many desires, and I definitely allowed him to kiss me even though my brain was screaming he’s drunk and has a girlfriend.
No, like I said, I didn’t throw myself at him, but I participated.
Actively.
With enthusiasm.
And now he won’t talk to me.
He doesn’t look at me and he doesn’t acknowledge me. No, he has elevated avoidance to an art form, and I’m sitting in my room, halfway packed for the season opener, stewing in every possible permutation of guilt and shame and holy shit did that really happen that my brain can conjure.
And now I need to focus on my fucking job and the first away game of the goddamn season.
It’s a five hour bus ride south and we’re staying in a hotel.
That means I am going to be trapped in the same confined space with him for literal hours.
With no escape. And when we get there, I’m supposed to treat him like a colleague, a professional, a human being with whom I have strictly platonic training obligations.
Except I’m pretty sure every time I look at him, I’m going to see that image of his lips on mine, or feel the stupid phantom memory of his jawline against my cheek, or recall the sound of his voice.
And what really kills me, the truly humiliating cherry on top of this emotional sundae of disaster, is that it’s probably because of Sabrina.
Because maybe, just maybe, his body responded to her grinding on him like that back in the house right before he fled. And maybe that, mixed with some alcohol, is why Griffin Thatcher kissed me so hard that I can still feel him a week later.
So yes, I need to remember that Griffin is not into me in that way.
And I need to stop being a fucking sap about it.
A crushingly horny, emotionally compromised, self aware sap. And an embarrassed one at that.
I groan and leave my room, dragging my feet all the way down the hall toward Hughie’s door. He’s already packed, sitting on his bed like the calm eye of some hurricane of impending disaster, scrolling through his phone with that quiet focus that he gets before he has to be a brick wall in the net.
“You ready?” he asks without even looking up, voice low and unbothered.
And just like that, my brain accidentally lights up with the idea of telling him everything. Not just the kiss, not just the grinding accident, not just the awkward retreat but all of it, the whole catastrophically embarrassing mental replay reel.
I want someone to know. I want someone to validate that I’m not totally insane for reacting that way. But then the other part of me imagines Hughie’s expression if I say those words out loud. I can already imagine the mixture of disappointment and pity.
And then I imagine him telling me “I told you so,” with zero sympathy, and that’s the part that actually makes me sweat.
So of course, I don’t say any of it. I clamp my mouth shut and I choose to keep something from my best friend for the first time…ever.
“Yeah,” I say instead, shifting from foot to foot. “You got everything you need?”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, still eyes locked on the screen.
“What’re you doing?” I ask, genuinely curious despite myself, intrigued that he’s so glued to that phone of his that nothing else seems to matter.
He finally glances up, face immediately folding into this adorable little scowl. “Looking at stats. Why?”
Okay, defensive.
Jeez.
Nothing says “I have nothing emotional going on” like immediate irritation when someone asks a perfectly harmless question.
“I was just asking,” I protest, hands up and smirking, because that’s easier than admitting I’m curious about whatever has him so engrossed in his phone.
He narrows his eyes at me and then, like someone flipped a switch, the scowl melts into a smirk.
“How’s Danny?” he asks with a shit eating grin.
I groan, rolling my eyes because he’s been giving me shit about Danny nonstop. Probably grinning the whole time, imagining me getting over crush I have on his teammate.
“Nothing is going on with Danny,” I grumble, and start to turn toward my room to grab my bag.
I hear his low amused chuckle following me and a moment later, he’s in my doorway with his bags slung over his shoulder.
“Suuure,” he says.
I blink at him. Would it be rude to throw a dirty shirt at his smirking face?
“I’m serious,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest.
He just continues to smirk and shrugs. “Fine. Keep your little boyfriend a secret.”
I groan again and I let out this pathetic little laugh I didn’t even know I had in me.
Because yeah, I’m keeping a secret.
But the secret isn’t whatever he thinks it is.
No.
My secret is that instead of picturing myself with some random guy from the baseball team, my stupid, overthinking, anxiety ridden brain keeps drifting back to Griffin.
And I swear, I am not completely insane.
I’ve decided the worst thing about traveling with the hockey team is that the team doctor refuses to cart around gear, and since Lauren isn’t traveling, she flat-out refused to actually show up and help prep.
Which leaves me dragging around a bunch of bags and equipment that make me look like a fucking cartoon character in some shitty travel montage.
Honestly? It’s a damn miracle I love this job so much, because otherwise I’d have shot myself in the foot by now.
I’m halfway down the training hall when fucking Danny strolls up to me with all the swagger of a dude who’s way too proud of having the exact wrong amount of self-awareness.
And don’t get me wrong, Danny is good-looking in that generic “backwards cap and a grin” kinda way but comparing him to Griffin is like comparing a lukewarm beer to a perfectly poured stout. Totally different leagues.
He just… doesn’t have what I want.
Not even close.
“Jake,” he greets me, meandering up like he’s about to propose a business merger instead of blocking my path while I’m juggling enough equipment to start my own war.
I give him a forced smile and try to keep walking, but of course — of fucking course — he steps right into my path like I’m not carrying bags that could literally knock someone out if they fell on them.
“Hey, Danny,” I grit out, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, which is tough because I already have enough emotional baggage today.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says in a tone that is way too fucking defensive.
I sigh and drop one of the bags to the ground in pure exasperation, staring at it like it might start answering life’s biggest questions. “I’ve been busy. You know how season can be for trainers.”
He hums under his breath, eyes locked on me for this long, uncomfortable minute like he’s trying to read my soul through my visible discomfort.
“Is there someone else?” he asks, casually, like he’s talking about whether we want mustard or ketchup.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“What?” I ask, because I’m genuinely not in the mood for whatever weird ass conversation he’s trying to start.
Danny and I had a single date. One. If you can even call the party where we awkwardly half talked. And he really doesn’t have the right to start interrogating me about my love life when we aren’t anything.
“Is that why you aren’t putting in effort? Because there’s someone else?” he asks again.
I open my mouth and snap it shut a few times because I’m honestly stunned at how bold and wrong this entire situation is.
And then, like the universe decided to send an emotional rescue team, Mack rounds the corner, sees Danny half blocking me, and literally fucking slays the moment.
“Yo, Jake. Coach is asking where you are!” he hollers, voice loud and perfectly timed like he’s been waiting for his cue since birth.
It’s a total lie, I’m early as hell, like always, but I will take this save with every grateful fiber of my being.
“Oh fuck, Danny, I have to go,” I say, scrambling to pick up the bags like they suddenly came with instructions.
But Mack beats me to it. He just swoops in, grabs the bag off the ground, shoulders it like it’s no big deal, and then stands next to me, his shoulder brushing mine in this quiet, unspoken way that says not today, asshole.
“We were talking,” Danny says through gritted teeth, eyes zeroed in on Mack like he thinks he’s witnessing some conspiracy.
Mack just shrugs and says, “Well, duty calls, Danny boy. You’ll have to catch up with our Jake when he gets back.”
I swear to god, there’s steam coming out of Danny’s ears but I don’t wait for his retort. I just move down the hallway dragging gear like someone’s choreographed my exit.
To my surprise Mack actually comes with me. He grabs another bag without saying a word and falls into step beside me like carrying equipment is just part of the friendship logistics.
I half expect some shitty comment or sarcastic joke about my absurd situation, but Mack doesn’t give me shit. He just walks with me, helps carry the gear, and when we finally reach the bus he drops the last bag down and then follows me back inside the training center for round two of unpacking.
Still no commentary. Still no mocking. Just silent, helpful, solid presence.
And when we drop the final bag I exhale this long breath I didn’t even know I was holding.
“Thanks,” I say, chest still tight from the earlier confrontation, but genuinely grateful.
Mack gives me this simple, honest nod with a small smile and then he heads back inside like a normal human being who knows when someone needs support, not commentary.
And for some stupid reason that’s the nicest fucking help I could’ve asked for today.