Chapter 24 – Jaxon
TWENTY-FOUR
JAXON
The lighting is atrocious, and I plan to tell Coach.
I adjust my phone, scoot it further into my cubby in the locker room and hope that it dims the horrifically bright white lights. They’re doing nothing for my abs—unfortunately, Dawson might be right and I need to lay off the Fruit Loops.
Starting the video, I step back, hands flowing out to my sides and hitting the first move of the dance. Most viral dances come naturally but this one I’ve been practicing for days, Beck’s little sister helping me when she’s been at the house.
The take isn’t bad, but I can do better.
Next one is posted, likes and comments are already pouring in.
I decide to take advantage of the empty locker room and bulk film more videos.
A notification drops down, Blue’s name catching my eye and pulling an idiotic smile from me. Open tryouts are this afternoon, and I sent her a playlist on my walk from student teaching.
Blue
shuffle, right?
Me
we’ve been over this
do not ruin my masterpiece by putting it on shuffle
Blue
don’t tell me what to do
Me
Six letters. Person who can tell me what to do
The playlist is a mix of orchestra covers of popular songs.
Riddle me shocked when I showed up to lift with Jordan and she was listening to Mozart.
She denies that she has a favorite song or genre, but I’ve caught her checking my phone to see what’s playing.
Ethel Cain, Lana Del Ray, Billie Eilish make her ears perk up—softer artists, softer songs, except she loves “1989” by Taylor Swift, for a soft girl.
I scattered a few of their songs while making the playlist last night. I couldn’t sleep, antsy like a kid on Christmas morning waiting to rush downstairs. This isn’t unusual the day before hockey starts back up, but my usual anticipation is muted with nerves for Jordan.
She’s going to make the team. I just know it.
And if she doesn’t, I think I’d give my spot up for her.
The idea is terrifying, and not the first time it plagued my sleep. Over the past month, somewhere between unofficial practices, wrangling twenty fourth graders, and training with Jordan the idea that I have to make it to the NHL has become daunting.
I know what’s at stake, the money that can build a better life for my dad…but I keep asking myself if that’s what I really want. Aren’t there other ways to earn money?
I force the thought aside when Cooper and a sophomore defenseman saunter into the locker room. Slap the expected Jaxon Greene smile on my face and hook up my phone to the Bluetooth.
A new Celine Dion remix echoes against the walls as more of my teammates trickle in. There’s a buzz among everyone, an eagerness to return to the Frozen Four and win, that replenishes my excitement for the season.
Another remix starts, “Like a Prayer” by Madonna and I step up onto the U-shaped bench in front of the cubbies. Undershirt slung around my neck and only in my breezers, I start to sing along. Hips swaying, they lure a handful of the guys to join me.
My thoughts can’t help but drift to Jordan. Is she here yet? Is she listening to the playlist? Is she getting ready? Does her hair need braided? Will she wear one or two? Would she let me get on my knees for her?
Fuck, I want to taste her badly.
I’m about to jump off the bench and head to the women’s locker room when Cooper steps into the center of the space.
“Listen up.” Cooper steps to the center of the main area.
“Coach wants us out on the ice fifteen till five. Everyone needs to wear the silver practice jerseys. If you don’t have one hanging in your cubby, flag down Jonathan.
” A gangly redhead walks up next to Cooper, our team’s laundry bin in front of him.
“He’s our equipment manager for the season.
Be considerate and respectful of him or—”
“Or else.” I eye everyone in the room. Pointer finger added for dramatic effect before flashing them a goofy smile.
“You’ll be like Jaxon and get assigned laundry duty.” Cooper and I laugh. A few other seniors snicker, looping the underclassman in about our freshman year.
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“If anyone has allergies or sensitive skin, please let me know,” Jonathan pipes up. “Or if you prefer your uniform folded or hung up a certain way.”
Landon Jacobs, a freshman center, slowly raises his hand.
“Put it down.” Cooper’s captain voice emerges.
Firm and commanding. “Unless it’s an allergy.
” He arches one brow, and Jacobs shakes his head no.
“Kind of you, Jonathan, but not necessary.” Attention sliding back to us, he continues, “Coach will go over how tonight will flow once we’re on the ice. Fifteen before, don’t be late.”
Once he’s finished, I get ready and sneak out the door.
Jordan
I lift a hand, cupping the top of my head to stretch out my neck. Careful of the corded headphones I’m wearing, the only pair I was able to scrounge up; I count to ten, then switch.
Open tryouts are today.
Coach Lang let me into the women’s locker room. She was waiting outside the main entrance when I showed up, an amused curl to her mouth. Thankfully, she didn’t ask questions, simply unlocked the door and told me to kick ass.
It’s weird being here without everyone else.
At first, I propped my phone up in my old cubby, knowing there’s no one here to care about the volume of music filling the space. The emptiness of the locker room caused a bubbling echo that was too loud, too much of a reminder, so I switched to headphones.
Xanie has to be at work soon; otherwise, I know she’d be here. Brushing and weaving my hair into a tight braid. Before I left, hours earlier than needed but enough time to sneak in one last skate, she promised we’d celebrate tomorrow night after I make the team.
I tie off my hair with a tiny elastic. Mid-tuck—I planned to tuck my braid inside my helmet, hopeful that no one would recognize me—I freeze at the low echo of the door opening. I tug at the headphone cord, they plunge into the gap between my legs, landing on my skates.
“Hello?” I say wearily.
“Hi.” Jaxon steps into view, fully dressed and helmet in hand.
Knowing it’s only him, I bend over to put on my skates. I hear his skate guards click against the floor before he drops to one knee in front of me.
“Here.” Jaxon pats his padded thigh.
I don’t fight him, lifting my left foot first. Jaxon slips my skate on, tying my skates exactly how I like them. Mossy green eyes never leave the laces as he tightens them, moving my ankle to check how secure it is.
“Other.” I switch feet. This time, through brown hooded lashes, he glances up at me. Words circle in his eyes, and he licks his lips but doesn’t say anything. “There.”
Jaxon places my foot on the ground, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He stands, offering me a hand, the headphones come with.
“You’re listening to my playlist.”
“I am.”
He smiles brightly. It’s easy to make Jaxon happy. It amazes me how the tiniest things can bring him joy, the embodiment of good and light—which used to annoy me, but now it’s what I admire about him and crave to be like.
“You ready?”
Two-word question, one-word answer. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He runs a thumb along my cheek. “Kick their asses out there.”
I raise my brows. “And what about yours?”
“If you kick it, what would you have to admire?” he jokes.
“Pretty sure it’s you who admires my ass.” I tilt my head, giving him some sass.
“I do,” Jaxon doesn’t deny it. His candor has me shaking my head, a smile slipping on my face. He starts to leave, both agreeing it would be better if we didn’t leave at the same time.
Before he’s out the door, I stop him. Hand circling his bicep, Jaxon turns to face me. Thank you is on the tip of my tongue, but those two words aren’t enough to express my gratitude for what he’s done for me.
Jaxon must read my mind. “You don’t need to thank me, Blue. You put in the work. You did this, not me.”
“Still. You didn’t have to help or coach me.”
“I know, but I wanted to. If given the chance, I’d do it all over again.” He tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “See you out there.”
Active roster players are dressed in silver practice jerseys, stretching on the left side of the rink. Jaxon’s between Dawson and Cooper, his legs spread wide, shifting forward and backward.
The boy aquarium is different when you’re in it with them. A heat prickles my skin as my gaze fixates on how Jaxon moves his hips, a vision forming of us doing that. Anything that allows his body in or on mine.
I close my eyes and force out a steadying exhale. Thinking about him is not going to land us a spot on the team.
I flip the latch on the gate, stepping out onto the ice and skate to the opposite half. The eleven other people vying for one of the four open slots on the team are to the right. Like the active roster, we’re in silver jerseys but have bright green pennies overtop.
Keeping my head high and gaze away from Jaxon, I circle to the back and start stretching.
No one notices me, which is exactly what I want.
My blue braid is tucked into the back of my helmet, and I doubled up on sports bras—not that I have much to compress.
With no names on the back of the jerseys, only miscellaneous numbers, I’m nameless.
Besides my size, there’s no reason to suspect I don’t have a dick.
I bend my knees, moving into a series of hip-opening stretches as I scan the coaches.
Assistants are huddled, pointing and scribbling what’s probably identification facts down on clipboards.
Cooper’s up skating around the back of the net, firing a pass to Chase before joining them.
They clap him and the assistant captain, another senior, on the shoulders.
Coop leans over a clipboard, his line of sight shooting in my direction.
Quickly, I dip my chin in the opposite direction.
Instead, I’m met with Coach Mathieson’s intense honey-brown eyes. Standing off to the side, arms for once not folded but stuck into the pockets of his midnight blue joggers. The scowl on his face softens as my mouth pulls in a sheepish grin.
Oh, shit.
Wobbling onto the ice in street shoes is none other than the wonderful Athletic Director Thomas.
Mathieson’s features harden as he’s called over.
He instructs the assistant coaches to get us started in a passing drill while skating to the boards.
The AD barely makes it a foot before having an Olympic fail at the splits.
I switch legs, rainbowing my arms over my head toward my right skate. Grabbing a hold of the bottom of the boot, I get as low and deep into the stretch as I can. I tapered my training the past week, focusing on recovery and cross-training.
“Alright. Circle up,” the defensive assistant, Klover, calls.
He gives us a rundown of how tonight will work and when to expect a decision.
Mathieson was a methodical player, and he’s the same way as a coach, so I’m surprised when Klover announces a decision will be made by tomorrow morning.
“D-men with me and forwards with Preston. Goalies…don’t scare them, Beck. ”
Everyone disperses to their respective position groups. Six, including me, pennied players skate toward the blue line where Preston is waiting. There’s one forward spot open, specifically for a left winger.
Two defenseman spots and one backup goalie position. Their odds are less intimidating.
Jaxon must sense my slow, shaky swallow, the intimidation I’m masking behind my visor, because he moves behind me in line and says, “You’re better than all of them. I believe in you.”
“I know,” I say over my shoulder, gleaning confidence from him to fuel my fire.
We run various drills for an hour before Coach Mathieson circles us up again. I’m out of breath but pleased with my performance. With nothing to lose, I’m leaving it all out on the ice. We’re broken into two teams for scrimmaging.
“Grab water. We’ll start in five.” I start to skate toward the bench but am stopped. Turning, Coach Mathieson says, “Looking good out there, Carmichael.”