19. Jaxon
Jaxon
Slow down, man.
I blow out a heavy breath, but it doesn’t help.
Summer left to check on the broodmares with a flush on her cheeks, while I’m pacing the floor, hands still warm from touching her.
All I can think is how good it felt to have her in my arms and how close I came to angling my face and putting my mouth on hers.
After that last picture, I stepped away before I lost control.
I wipe the sweat from my neck and blame it on the weather.
Kentucky does this every year, teasing me with fake fall and the entire pumpkin-spice version of September, before “real” fall shows up when it’s good and ready.
The cool nights are the only sign it’s coming. Well, that and the Keeneland sale.
When I reach the office, there’s a letter from the bank sitting on the mail pile. A week ago, I asked for an extension on one of the loan payments. I knew the odds were slim, but I needed to try anyway. I tear the envelope open, skim through the letter, and get to the decision part.
Denied.
I crumple it in my hands. The clock is ticking now, which means we can’t afford for anything to go wrong at Keeneland.
All our yearlings need to do well to pay off this debt, and the new wedding venue can’t be draining our funds either.
I hate that I’m doing the math on Summer’s dream, like I only care about the bottom line, but it’s my job to care about numbers now.
I stare out at a horse trotting across the field and remember all the times I used to sit here, half listening to my dad while I daydreamed about the NHL. Now, all of that is gone—my career and my father.
Reaching into the desk drawer, I see a ceramic horse figurine near the back, partially hidden behind a paperclip holder.
I flip it over and see my childlike scrawl on the bottom—Lucky Chance Ranch.
It was a Christmas gift for my father when I was six years old.
Saved all my money doing chores, then went to the general store and picked it out.
I was so proud of that gift, and Dad made such a big deal when he opened it. It’s just a cheap, ceramic trinket. But the fact that it’s still here tells me he kept it for a reason.
Dad might not have been perfect, but he built this farm into something even his own grandfather couldn’t have imagined.
I didn’t understand any of that as a teenager.
Back then, it felt like he was forcing something on me I didn’t want.
As the oldest son, I was supposed to care about Lucky Chance and its history tracing back to 1920.
But I didn’t care all that much. I just wanted to play hockey.
He never said outright that he wanted me to take over, but he’d walk me through the barn and explain things he never bothered telling my brothers.
There was an unspoken pressure for me to follow in his footsteps, and the more I felt it, the harder I pushed back.
I wanted to make my own path, not take the one my father had taken.
My brothers got to figure out who they were—why couldn’t I?
I thought if I came back to Lucky Chance and failed to live up to what my dad had wanted, I’d have disappointed four generations of Chances.
They say when one door closes, another door opens, but I always hated that phrase. What if it’s a door you never wanted in the first place?
I set the figurine back in the drawer and pull up my email. There’s a message with the subject line NHL Assistant Coaching Position. My stomach flips over until I read the first line:
We regret to inform you that the position has been filled…
I don’t even finish the email before I close the laptop and head to the barn.
Earl finds me on my way out and tells me a stallion kicked through a board in his stall.
That horse isn’t the only one who wants to kick something right now.
I grab some tools, spending the next two hours in the barn repairing something I am not remotely qualified for, which feels like a lot of things in my life right now.
By the time I get back to the house, Ada Mae left a note saying there are cold sandwiches in the fridge.
For a minute, I stand in the kitchen, wondering what I’m supposed to do.
I’m so used to noise that the silence feels suffocating.
When my brothers were here, we slipped back into our usual roles—Wyatt blaring a ’90s country playlist while Grady complained about it.
Rhett on his phone while ESPN played around the clock.
Now the house feels full of too many memories and not enough people.
I grab sandwiches from the fridge, put on my swim trunks, and head toward the pond.
With its muddy brown water and thick weeds around the edge, the pond is mostly an unimpressive watering hole.
But to my brothers and me, it holds some of the best memories of our childhood.
We spent half our summers out here jumping off the rope swing after we finished our chores each afternoon.
I set my sandwiches on the bank, strip off my shirt, and look at the murky pond.
It’s just the frogs and me out here, so I take off my trunks too, because why not?
There’s nobody for at least a quarter mile in any direction, so it doesn’t matter if I skinny-dip.
Then I grab the rope swing, pull it back for a running start, and let go.
I whoop, sailing through the air before cannonballing into the water.
The water is cold enough to send a shock through me, which is exactly what a Kentucky pond should feel like after a day like this. And boy, has it been a day.
I break through the surface and take a deep breath, feeling better than I have in a long time. Shifting to my back, I watch lazy clouds overhead as I float across the water. Somewhere in the trees, the sound of a twig snaps.
I freeze, looking at my clothes on the bank and the distance between me and my swim trunks. So close, yet so far away.
Summer comes through the trees just then, a towel slung over her shoulder and a long T-shirt reaching mid-thigh. She sees me and stops dead.
“Jaxon.” Her eyes widen. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
“Summer…heeeeeeeyyyy.” I drift casually toward the deepest part of the pond, where the water sits at collarbone height and the mud-colored liquid handles everything below that. Thank God for Kentucky pond water.
“Hey?” She blinks. “Are you swimming?”
“What else would I be doing?” I say, trying to cover the embarrassing fact that I’m buck naked.
She shifts the towel on her shoulder. “You know, I’ll just leave then…”
Her eyes travel slowly to the bank, where my shirt and swim trunks are sitting in an incriminating pile about six feet from the water’s edge.
Her brow pulls into a frown. “Uh…Jaxon?” Her voice squeaks an octave higher. “Tell me you’re wearing something right now.”
“Well…” I say, my voice cracking. “That is a complicated question.”
Her eyes close. “You have got to be kidding me.”
I put my hands up. “In my defense, I didn’t think anyone would show up. This pond is on private property.”
“Yes, I know,” she says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Which is why I wasn’t thinking that you would be skinny-dipping!”
“That’s a reasonable assumption.” I look at the bank where my trunks are sitting next to my sandwiches. “Well, if you throw me my shorts, I’ll be decent in thirty seconds.”
She opens one eye, stares at the shorts, then gets a look on her face that tells me she’s up to no good. “You know, I’m just thinking,” she says, bending to pick them up, then holding them at arm’s length.
“Please don’t think too long.”
“These are such nice shorts.” She tilts her head. “Be a shame if something happened to them. Then again, maybe you deserve it for not telling me right away that you didn’t have any clothes on.”
“What was I supposed to say? Hello, maybe you should leave, I’m naked?”
“It might have been nice to have known that upfront.”
“I cooperated for your photo shoot. Even offered to take a picture shirtless,” I remind her. “The least you can do is return a man’s swim trunks.”
She dangles them at the edge of the pond. “You’re going to have to do better than that, cowboy.”
“Fine,” I huff. “I’m sorry for not telling you. How about more pictures, any location you want.”
“Even for the newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“And a promise that you’ll keep Rebel.”
My mouth gapes. “You’re bartering for horses now? Rebel is a drain on the farm.”
“Until you train her,” she says. “Then again, maybe you want to walk home.”
She picks up my T-shirt too, bundles both of them under her arm and whirls around.
Leaving me with absolutely no clothes to wear back. I will have to walk buck naked to Lucky Chance Ranch, wearing nothing but my boots.
And if Colleen Cromwell happens to be driving out this way for any reason whatsoever—which she probably would, knowing my luck—I’d be the talk of the Golden Springs Women’s Committee for years.
I can only imagine the nicknames they’ll come up with: Unlucky Chance, The Full Moon Farmer, Jaxon “Bare Bottom” Chance.
“I’ll agree to it,” I grumble. “Rebel stays.”
“Hmm.” She taps her chin. “I didn’t hear any enthusiasm in your tone.”
“You got me to agree,” I argue. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
She turns around, winds up, and throws the shorts directly into the water about twelve feet to my left. I watch them land, then look back at her. “Your aim is the worst.”
“I played softball for about two days in fourth grade,” she says. “I was not good at it.”
I twirl my finger in a circle. “Can you turn around?”
I wade toward the shallows, keeping low enough that I can get them on under the water while her back is turned. “Okay. I’m decent now.”
She turns and looks me over to confirm I’m dressed. “Why are you even out here?”
“The house was too quiet,” I answer without going into details. “You planning on getting in, or are you just here to stand on the bank and steal my shorts?”
She looks at the water, then at the rope swing. “That thing still hold?”
“Yes, it does. Found out when I jumped in.”