Chapter 19 – Jaxon
NINETEEN
JAXON
Big Carmichael
you good, jax?
I fire a quick text, finally responding to the guys. I’ve been weirdly silent in our chat this morning. Zero interest in anything that doesn’t have to do with blue hair or tryouts or crosswords.
Me
you’re interrupting my dance break
They’re not, but Jordan is. She’s interrupting everything without even trying.
I’m staring at my phone like it’ll manifest a response from her, too distracted that I don’t hear the barista call my name. Someone taps me on the shoulder, breaking my blue daze to let me know my coffees are ready.
An hour later, they’re still cold—thanks to the rink and the cold shoulder Jordan’s enforcing. She hasn’t responded to me in two days, and I don’t know why, but I thought she’d at least talk to me while training.
She listens, but that’s it. There’s no banter or sarcasm. No playful, lingering touches. No braids; her hair has been up in a pony tail. There’s only a sheet of ice, fortified and cold.
And Jordan’s never been cold to me.
We wrap up, and I follow her to the boards. Watch as she contemplates taking the latte or not, a scribbled affirmation in my trash handwriting on the cup.
She walks away, leaving it behind.
Two days later, nothing’s changed.
I sigh into my hands, run them though my hair before returning my focus to lunch duty. Grant, one of my favorite campers turned student, sits across from me.
“Wanna trade? Mom made PBJ, but we were out of strawberry and grape doesn’t like me.” The plastic wrapped halves are slowly slid in my direction as he examines my lunch. “The cheese stick and whatever’s in that container.”
Pasta salad and pulled BBQ pork? Yeah, right.
Lucky for him, I reach into the brown bag I packed and pull out my snack for later. Disappointment clouds his features when he sees a sandwich that looks like his. It’s not, it’s better. Almond butter with banana, honey, and my secret ingredient: Fruit Loops.
“Think fast.” I toss Grant the sandwich, his eyes flare when I tell him what’s on it.
He rips into the bag, inhaling half. “You’re being weird. Does the girl you like not like you back?” Grant teases, licking nut butter off his fingers. I shrug nonchalantly and it cracks a toothy smile on his face. “You don’t have girl troubles.”
He’s right, I don’t. But with this girl, I’m in big trouble.
My phone vibrates in the back pocket of my cargo shorts. I’m not supposed to be on my phone around students, but I risk it, fishing the device out. And I’m glad I did.
Blue
Can we push back our lift an hour?
Me
Six then?
Blue
*thumbs up emoji*
I showed up early to the arena, finishing my run quicker than anticipated. Each step, all I could think about was kissing Jordan—which isn’t different than the rest of my day.
Yesterday, I saw her crossing the lawn on campus before I left for student teaching.
Six hours in a fourth-grade classroom, twenty sets of eyes on me, and all I could see was how her gray-browns burned like molten lava the second before she pressed her mouth to mine.
During recess, I took a tetherball to the face when I caught sight of a loose blue braid from outside the fence running by.
Plagued with the phantom feeling of her lips on mine, I can’t focus in class, conditioning with the boys, or dinner.
All I can fixate on is kissing her again, wrapping her long hair around my hand while her legs wrap around my waist—or what had me gripping my dick in the shower, while she’s on her knees for me.
It ended exactly like it had that morning, the day before, and the day before that. On the verge of painting my palm and the shower tile, her name on my tongue, till I remember the ass I made of myself by walking away. It’s as if my dick is punishing me.
And to make matters worse, she looks kissable, fuckable tonight.
Her biker shorts have this seam—ruched, I think?
I don’t know, and don’t really care except for the fact that it makes her butt look—I bite a knuckle as she finishes her front squat set.
Not staring was thrown out the window when she asked me to check her form.
Jordan reracks the bar. “Was that deep enough?”
I lift my hands to run them through my hair, but forget I’m wearing a hat. Knocking it off, I catch it before it tumbles to the floor. “Turn your toes out slightly. It’ll help you go deeper, and it should be more comfortable on your hip flexors. Here, I’ll show you.”
We trade spots, and I demonstrate a few reps.
“Make sense?” She nods, sipping on her water. Lips pursed around the straw. Tongue darts out to catch a drop clinging to her bottom lip. “Two more sets, then we’ll finish with sled push and pulls.”
Jordan tosses me a thumbs-up, checking her phone before repositioning herself.
The song cuts out, Dad’s ringtone taking over. I silence the call, returning my focus to Jordan. Her posture is better as she squats. I’m about to tell her to increase the weight next round when Dad calls again.
Jordan
“You should answer that,” I encourage, tone even-keeled, borderline dismissive. It’s probably someone prettier or friendly or warm calling to ask him out.
“It’s my dad.”
Oh.
I know they’re close, and that’s why I encourage him to answer the call. “Really. You should answer it.” I thumb at the squat rack. “I’m fine.”
Physically at least.
Mentally, I’m nowhere near fine.
Only two more weeks till tryouts. The countdown has become my daily affirmation and reminder that I can go back to pretending Jaxon is only Cooper’s best friend and not the guy I stupidly kissed and unsurprisingly scared off.
It’s the only way I’ve survived this week thus far.
Classes have been a nice distraction despite it only being syllabus week. Terribly easy and boring, but I’ve thrown myself into the week.
I force myself to refocus on my workout.
Racking the bar and cleaning the equipment before I move to the slender strip of turf that stretches from one end of the weight room to the other.
I add plates to one of the two sleds, gaze catching on Jaxon straddling a bench, phone propped up against a dumbbell.
Halfway down the turf, I realize he’s not talking with his hands but using them to talk. Through the floor-to-ceiling mirrors I’m able to make out the signs for the letters of my name, his mouth forming each syllable slowly.
They talk the remainder of my workout. Jaxon’s laugh echoes off the walls, replacing the music and only partially quieting the nagging voice in my head.
The one that eerily sounds like Luka’s at the moment, taunting me about those remaining two weeks. I add another twenty-five-pound plate to the sled.
Legs sore and ready to give out on me, I make it halfway down the turf for my last rep. Knuckles white from gripping the handles firmly and refusing to let my biceps or lats do the work. Knees bent, creeping backward with controlled steps, it’s my hamstrings, calves, and glutes putting in the work.
When I make it back to the starting point, I refill my lungs with air. Step around the sled, and starfish on the turf.
A body shifts next to me, and I startle. My eyes flutter open to find Jaxon placing a cold towel and my water bottle next to me.
Jaxon
I make a figure four with my legs to stretch out my right hamstring and glute.
Working out with Jordan encourages me to go heavy, push myself outside of how I normally would if I was working out alone.
Sure, it started off as wanting to impress her, but who wouldn’t?
Jordan’s the most driven person I know. She’s special.
She’s…she’s everything and I want her to see me, want me.
We’ve both put on muscle and hit several PRs. I’m bummed I missed hers today—she hasn’t admitted to it being one, but I know it was. I kept tabs through the mirror—but Dad called me with a win of his own. The joy on his face stretched through the phone.
I switch legs, finding Jordan staring at me, biting her cheek. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Does that mean you’re speaking to me again?” Jordan tilts her head, the whites of her eyes creep out. “Always. You can always ask me anything.”
“Is your dad Deaf?”
“He has complete sensorineural hearing loss in his right ear, and partial in his left.” I can tell she doesn’t know what that means. “It’s when the inner ear or auditory nerve is damaged. He was in an accident while on duty that left his ears severely damaged.”
“Is it…is that treatable?”
“To an extent, yeah. Most people can use hearing aids, while some need cochlear implants.” I explain what those are when she looks confused. “They caught the damage early enough and treated it with steroids. Once we can afford the implants, he should regain up to seventy percent of his hearing.”
“And now? Does he wear hearing aids?”
“That’s more than one question,” I tease, recalling the night out at the pool.
“Sorry.” Jordan plays with her ponytail. “I’ll stop.”
“Don’t. I’m happy you’re talking to me again.
” My tone dips into pathetic. “He’s stubborn and doesn’t like to wear his hearing aids.
Loves to ‘forget’ to charge them.” I use air quotes.
I explain why I sign and speak while on the phone.
And when she asks about the accident, Jordan listens intently, never once showing any signs of the pity people throw our direction when they learn of what happened.
Jordan sets her empty bottle down, hand splayed out on the turf. It’s accidental but her pinky brushes mine. “Your dad is a hero. He’s inspiring.”
“He is.” I smile, looping our fingers. I’ve missed her. “Do you know any sign language?”
“Basics, and I mean extreme basics like the alphabet, thank you, and…fuck you.” I laugh as she does the sign. “Did you know any before his accident?”
“None. I took classes for over a year—we all did. It was rough at first trying to communicate.” My shoulders jostle thinking back to that year. “Dad would get frustrated when he couldn’t hear us clearly or communicate. He felt helpless when having to use a whiteboard.”
“And you’re fluent now?” Jordan keeps asking questions; I keep answering. I’d spend forever stuck in this cycle, probably would’ve the remainder of the evening if we weren’t kicked out by the custodians.