Chapter 6 – Jaxon
SIX
JAXON
I toss my phone onto my bed, watch it bounce off the side to the floor. I should probably pick it up, be responsible and plug it in instead of letting it ride on low battery, but I’d rather have a dead battery than respond to Mom’s condescending text.
Call your brother for his birthday.
As if she even remembers mine.
Chase waltzes into my room, flopping backward onto my bed. His hula skirt flares out over the plaid comforter. “This is your worst playlist yet. We’re going to a party, not gearing up to cry.”
“Hand me that.” I gesture to the coconut bra lying next to him. Chase sits up, passing the costume to me.
Back-to-Lakeland Weekend—it actual stretches two weeks, but whatever—kicks off tonight with the football team’s annual luau.
Dressing on theme is required.
There’s a small party store twenty minutes from campus that Chase and I scavenged earlier. Luckily finding coconut bras, hula skirts, and an XXL Hawaiian shirt that we left in Beck’s room in hopes of enticing our brooding goalie to come out with us.
“It’s called sad girl music,” I laugh out, securing the plastic bra over my chest. The thin string barely loops around my back, the bow somehow smaller than the inseam of my sharks in sunglasses swim trunks.
“Trust me, I know. Elliot makes me listen to this shit when she’s in her luteal phase.” I turn over a shoulder, staring dumbfounded at my roommate. “Second half of a women’s cycle? Usually two weeks long, leads into the menstrual phase.”
“Yeah, got that. Not clueless about a women’s body.”
I grab my phone, plugging it in.
“She’ll watch these puppy videos”—the tips of his ears darken, a deep contrast to his sandy blond hair—“and within seconds start crying. If we turn blubbering, I put on her sad girl music and hope there is rocky road in the freezer.” Longing shapes his features till something washes over him, snapping Chase back to the present moment.
“But you don’t have a luteal phase and this playlist has repeated twice over—”
“I swear if you diss Ethel Cain or Lana del Ray.”
“And we’re going to a party,” he finishes. “You ready to go? Told Dawson we’d scoop him and Jake.”
“Which pair?” I hold up two pairs of shoes. A beat up pair of high-top Converse in one hand, New Balances in the other. A flash of blue whips across my mind, and I go for the chunky sneakers. “Never mind.”
“Change your socks.”
I drop my gaze to my feet. “What’s wrong with my socks?”
“They don’t match.”
“Yes, they—”
Chase jumps from my bed and opens my sock drawer, tossing me a pair. “Here. I’ll be downstairs.”
I wink at Cooper from across the pong table, water splashing over the rim of a cup. He shakes his head, removing the cup from play and scooping the ball out.
“That’s three in a row.” I beckon for the ball back. Its my tenth game of the night. Most of the team has stuffed themselves into the dining room that’s being used for drinking games. Another folding table is set up with flip cup.
Like the rest of the house, there’s neon lights strung across the ceiling and deconstructed hula skirts haphazardly taped around the perimeter. It didn’t take long once we arrived for me to be whisked away and given control of the aux. Thank goodness because the music was atrocious.
The beer I’ve been nursing for the past hour has finally gone warm as Chase and I win another game. We relinquish the table to four wide-eyed sophomores on the team, a group of girls in matching bikini tops hovering near them.
I dip into the bathroom, and when I exit my skin crawls at the sensation of nails inching their way up my forearm to my bicep.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Sammie takes a step into me to let a couple slip past us, her chest pressing into mine. I dip my chin to find her staring up at me, bottom lip tucked between her teeth. “Thought you slipped out of here without saying hi.”
“Wouldn’t think of it.” That pleases her which pleases me.
“Are you here with anyone?”
“My roommates,” I reply, but I know what she was implying.
Sammie licks her glossy lips. “We should go dance,” she propositions, sliding her hand into mine.
I follow as she guides us toward a living space that’s been converted into a dance floor.
Two large speakers sit opposite of each other, couples gathered in the center of the room dancing like we’re back at a middle school dance.
Bodies pressed up against each other as they sway to the beat of the music.
“I don’t dance,” I tell her, having to lean down. Sammie is just shy of five feet, and even with her wedged flip-flops she barely comes to my chest.
She spins into me, dragging the tip of a nail down my chest. “That’s not true. I watch your videos.”
A loose smile paints my face. “Yeah? What do you think?”
I’m not ashamed that she’s seen them, millions have.
I wouldn’t doubt Sammie’s one of my 500k followers on social media.
I started posting videos of myself dancing and lip-syncing to trending sounds two years ago, going viral a few months in.
Now I get upwards of a million views, especially if I’m shirtless or in my gear.
The whole thing started as something fun—a way to make people smile and I won’t deny the comments and DMs are good for the ego—but when I got my first payout, I realized there was potential to make some serious cash.
And I need the money.
Sure, I’m on an athletic scholarship to play hockey, but that doesn’t cover rent—the whole reason I’m living with the guys is because it’s cheap. Otherwise I couldn’t afford it, neither could my dad.
Dad was a firefighter.
It’s been over a decade since he was a first responder, a captain at his station. The day after graduating high school he applied, immediately accepted. Married his high school sweetheart the following year, and had me four years later.
I loved growing up at the station. Drowning in his uniform, learning how to go down—and climb up—the fire pole, sitting inside an engine.
Before Lakeland, Station 6 was my second home.
Especially after my parents split and Mom moved away.
Dad won full custody, but that’s easy when one of your parents doesn’t want you.
I thought I was losing Dad too in eighth grade.
An industrial loft-style apartment complex with over three-hundred units caught on fire. Middle of the night, the blaze was large enough that almost every station in the county was called in for backup, his included. The sun had barely crept across the horizon by the time the fire was put out.
Or so they thought.
Dad’s crew was sent in to check for any survivors when the fire roared to life again.
From what he remembers, he was near the building’s mechanical room when an exposed beam fell on top of him, trapping his lower body beneath the steel when there was a small explosion.
By the time he was rescued, Dad had lost all feelings in his legs and knew he was paralyzed from the waist down.
And his ears were ringing—he couldn’t understand the paramedics, their words sounded muffled as if he were underwater. Several doctors’ appointments later, it was declared that Dad has complete sensorineural hearing loss in his right ear and partial in his left.
While being deemed incurable, it’s treatable.
The doctors thought steroid treatments would at least work for his left ear, but it didn’t restore his hearing as much as they hoped.
Being a firefighter was already hard on his ears—spending day in and day out around sirens can gradually decrease the efficiency of your inner ear.
The city paid for his hearing aids, but Dad doesn’t like them. Stubborn old man.
Our only other option is cochlear implants. Because the surgery is elective, the city wouldn’t pay for them, and our insurance wouldn’t cover the cost. Dad claims he doesn’t want them, but I’ve seen him crunching numbers to see if we could afford them.
Spoiler: we probably could, but he spent everything on me.
Now it’s my turn to repay him. I wouldn’t be the player I am or have the opportunity to go to the NHL if it weren’t for him.
The money from social media I don’t spend on day-to-day living I have in a savings account.
Hopefully by the end of this year, or with a rookie contract, I can afford to pay for his implants—and anything to make his life easier.
“They’d be better with me in it,” Sammie teases, spinning and guiding me to another room, her sorority sisters waving us over. Glancing back at me, she propositions, “We could make a video together.”
I choke down a laugh. “Didn’t bring my phone.”
“Guess we’ll have to go back to your place then.” I take an empty spot on the sectional couch, Sammie situating herself on my lap, an arm loosely wrapped over my shoulder. She moves my hands to her waist. I remove them. “Or mine…my roommates won’t be home, or if they are…they won’t mind.”
Usually I wouldn’t mind either, but as the words tumble out, I hate how they sound. They coast over my skin like a bad sunburn, sour as I swallow their implications.
The playboy label was slapped on me the minute I set foot on campus.
Having a charming smile and a friendly personality will do that for you.
I don’t mind it, though, even embrace it.
Because making people happy, putting a smile on their face, and being the bud of a joke even if it means they’re laughing at me, makes me feel better about myself. Feel wanted.
It’s easier to play into the persona than correct them, flirting included.
I push a strand of hair behind her ear, coming up with a lie. “I promised Beck I’d get food with him after this.”
She says something, but it’s lost on me as the front door opens. Xanie walks in first, her boyfriend Nico’s arm slung around her shoulders. Behind them, with every eye in the front part of the house on her, is Jordan.
Holy, fuck.
Jordan Carmichael is always beautiful, but tonight she’s hot.
Sexy. A walking wet dream. A smoke show in her coconut shell bra.
Hair rid of her signature braids, styled in loose zigzag waves that curtain her toned back.
Minimal make-up except for shimmery eyeshadow that keeps catching the reflection of the string lights.
And her legs. I think I might be drooling—the guys on the sectional around me definitely are. Murmurs about her drift between them.
She may only be five foot five, but her legs are long and muscular. With each step she takes, the bright kitten heels she’s wearing work for her; her thighs flex. Each thick muscle is clearly defined and honed to perfection.
Sammie scoffs. “I’m sitting right here.”
Her sentiment does nothing to shift my gaze away from Jordan.
“Wanna grab drinks?” I hear Xanie ask faintly over the music.
Jordan scans the room, eyes slightly narrowed like she’s searching for someone. They land on me, then Sammie in my lap. I can’t quite pinpoint her expression. Disappointment or matched expectations. Either way, she shakes her head, following after her roommate.
“Jaxon,” Sammie draws, like she’s been trying to regain my attention.
“I’m gonna get a drink.” I pick her up off my lap and place her on the arm of the couch before finding my way to the kitchen.
They’re gone by the time I can weasel my way in. I grab a beer from the fridge, using the bottle opener next to it before flicking the cap into the trash. Outside, I spot Jordan walking up to her brother.
His excitement to see her out at a party quickly fades. “What are you wearing?” Cooper’s question echoes over the music and orchestra of crickets when he takes in his little sister’s outfit.
“She wanted to match me.” I throw an arm around her. Jordan’s shoulders stiffen. “Isn’t that right, Little Carmichael?”
“Right.” There’s a fake smile on her face, snapping the thin string to my top. Goosebumps flare from where she touched me, my skin burning when she pulls away.
“Where’s your skirt then?” Cooper asks me, then mumbles, “If you can even call that a skirt.”
“If I wanted a babysitter, I wouldn’t have come to college,” she bites at her brother. “It’s just an outfit.”
“A hot outfit.”
“Not helping.” Cooper folds his arms over his chest, beer bottle hanging by the neck.
“Little Carmichael, you look hot!” Elliot saunters up to us, Chase following close behind like a dog. “Xanie asked to borrow that skirt. I had no idea it would be for you.” Cooper groans. “Oh shut it, big Carmichael. I dressed your hot girlfriend tonight too.”
He has little ground to stand on. His girlfriend is in a matching seashell halter top and skirt. Chase adds a third comment, and Beckett, who was so silent I didn’t realize he was present, makes a fourth.
Cooper storms off, accidentally knocking Jordan’s plastic cup from her hand. “That’s my sister.” He tosses his hands in the air.
“I’ve got him.” Sutton’s eyes flutter with amusement. “You look great.” She winks at Jordan before taking off after her baby of a boyfriend.
“Better than great,” I clarify. Jordan removes my arm from her shoulders, stealing my beer and taking a swig.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your girl, Greene?” Sammie is glaring at us from the doorway. When I spin around, Jordan’s disappeared across the back patio, entering the house from a side door.