Chapter 13
JACKSON
It's been three days since Maya propositioned me in the car, and I'm losing my mind.
Not in a bad way, not in a distracted, can't-focus way.
More like every nerve in my body is tuned to her frequency.
Every time she walks into a room, I'm aware of it.
Every time she laughs at something Emma says, I feel it in my chest. Every time our eyes meet across the dinner table, the air gets heavier.
She's nervous too. I can tell by the way she keeps fidgeting with her bracelet, the way she won't quite hold my gaze for more than a few seconds.
We agreed on rules, set boundaries, and made this as safe as possible.
And now we're both just waiting.
Practice this morning is good. Better than good. The team's clicking, everyone's energy is high, and we run through power play setups while I nail every pass, reading the ice like I've got eyes in the back of my head.
"Cap's on one today!" Jenkins yells after I thread a beauty through three defenders straight to his tape.
"That's what I like to see!" Coach is actually smiling. "Keep that energy, Anderson. The team follows your lead."
We run the drill again. I win the face-off clean, send it back to our defenseman on the point. He walks the line, looking for an opening while I battle for position in front of the net. The pass comes, and I tip it perfectly, top corner.
"Again!" Coach yells. "Run it again!"
Five more times we execute the same play, each one sharper than the last. By the end, my legs are burning, but my head's clear, focused on hockey instead of Maya waiting at home.
Chase skates up beside me during a water break. "You seem good. Like, actually good."
"I am good."
"Maya doing better?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. Therapy's helping."
"Good. Emma was worried." He takes a drink. "You two seem closer lately."
My stomach tightens. "She needed help. I helped."
"Right." Chase gives me a look I can't quite read. "Just don't fuck it up."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just an observation." He skates away before I can press him.
Practice ends with a scrimmage. My line dominates: three goals in ten minutes. Reeves is pissed, claiming we're cheating somehow. The energy is electric, and everyone is talking shit and laughing. This is what I love about hockey: the simplicity of it, the brotherhood.
After showers, Chase and I head out together. He's in a good mood, talking about Emma's latest pregnancy craving, ice cream with hot sauce, which sounds disgusting.
"She made me try it," he says. "Wanted to make sure it was as good as she thought. It was not."
"That's marriage, man."
"No, that's pregnancy. Marriage is her stealing all my hoodies and then complaining she has nothing to wear."
I laugh. It feels good, normal.
We pull into the driveway, and I can smell dinner before we even get inside. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce hits me immediately.
Emma's at the stove when we walk in, stirring something in a big pot. Maya is beside her, chopping vegetables. Max is weaving between Maya's legs, meowing for attention.
"Smells good," Chase says, kissing Emma's temple. "What're we having?"
"Pasta. Maya's making her famous marinara." Emma tastes the sauce and makes a face. "Needs more salt."
"It's perfect," Maya says, but she adds salt anyway.
I grab water from the fridge and lean against the counter, watching them work. They move around each other with easy familiarity: Emma pointing out where things are, Maya adjusting the seasoning, both of them laughing about something.
This is what normal looks like. Cooking dinner, talking about nothing, and Max being a nuisance.
Except every time Maya turns, every time she reaches for something, I'm hyperaware of her body. The way her jeans hug her hips, the way her shirt rides up when she stretches for a spice on the top shelf, the way her curls are piled on top of her head with a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She catches me staring and holds my gaze for two seconds before looking away, color rising in her cheeks.
"Jackson, can you set the table?" Emma asks.
"Yeah. Sure."
I move on autopilot. Plates, silverware, napkins. Ethan's already in his high chair, banging his spoon and demanding "Pasta! Pasta!"
"Someone's excited," Chase says, ruffling his son's hair.
"He's been talking about pasta all day," Emma laughs. "So Maya promised him she'd make her special sauce."
"It's just marinara," Maya says, but she's smiling as she brings the pot to the table.
We eat as a family. Emma talks about her doctor's appointment: everything looks good with the baby, they're thinking about names, but can't agree on anything yet. Ethan throws more food on the floor than he eats, delighted every time Max appears to investigate the mess.
"This is really good, Maya," Chase says around a mouthful of pasta. "You should cook more often."
"Don't encourage her," Emma jokes. "She'll take over my kitchen."
"Your kitchen could use some taking over," Maya fires back. "You keep your spices in alphabetical order. That's psychotic."
"That's organized!"
"Our mom used to do that," I say. "Drove Dad crazy from what she said. He could never find anything."
The conversation flows easily comfortable, and for a moment, I can almost forget the tension humming beneath it all. Almost forget that in a few hours Maya's going to come to my room and everything between us is going to shift.
But then she reaches for the water pitcher at the same time I do, and our hands brush. The contact is brief, accidental, but I feel it everywhere. She pulls back quickly, eyes meeting mine for half a second before she looks away.
Emma doesn't notice. Chase doesn't notice. But I do.
Maya's quiet but present. She's eating, which is good, and engaging with the conversation when Emma asks her questions. But I can feel the tension radiating off her, the same tension that's been building in me for three days.
After dinner, Emma and Chase take Ethan up for bath time, and Maya helps me load the dishwasher.
"You played well today," she says quietly.
"Thanks. How'd you know?"
"Chase mentioned it. Said you were on fire."
We work in silence, her loading, me drying and putting away. The kitchen feels too small suddenly, too warm.
"Maya—"
"I know." She doesn't look at me. "I'm nervous too."
"We don't have to do this. We can forget the whole thing."
"I don't want to forget it." She closes the dishwasher and turns to face me. "I want to do this. I'm just scared."
"Of what?"
"That I'll freeze. That it'll be too much. That I'll panic and ruin everything."
"You won't ruin anything." I step closer, giving her space to back away if she needs to. She doesn't. "We go at your pace. We stop when you need to. That's the deal."
"What if my pace is too slow?"
"Then it's too slow. There's no timeline, Maya."
She studies my face. "You really mean that."
"Every word."
Something shifts in her expression. The fear doesn't leave, but it softens. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Tonight. After everyone goes to bed." She pauses. "If you still want to."
Want to? I've wanted her for years. But saying that would break rule number five.
"I want to," I say instead. "But only if you're sure."
"I'm sure."
She leaves the kitchen before I can respond. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, the guest room door closing.
I stand here gripping the counter, heart pounding.
Tonight.
The next two hours are torture. Emma and Chase watch some show in the living room. I sit with them pretending to pay attention, but all I can think about is Maya upstairs waiting, nervous, probably second-guessing everything.
I try to focus on the TV, but it's useless. My leg bounces with nervous energy, my hands keep fidgeting with my phone, and every five minutes I check the time like that'll make it move faster.
Chase notices. "You good, man? You keep bouncing your leg."
"Yeah. Just thinking about tomorrow's practice."
Another lie to add to the collection.
Emma yawns around ten. "I'm exhausted. Pregnancy is kicking my ass."
"Come on." Chase helps her up. "Let's get you to bed."
They head upstairs, and I hear them moving around, the bathroom routine, the bedroom door closing.
Then silence.
I should wait, give them time to fall asleep, and make sure nobody's going to come back downstairs for water or a snack.
Instead, I head to the basement. My room feels too small, the walls too close, and I sit on the edge of the bed trying to steady my breathing.
This is happening. Maya's going to come down here, and we're going to have sex. Physical. Healing. Safe.
Except it won't be just physical for me. It'll be everything I've wanted for years wrapped up in rules designed to keep feelings out of it.
I'm already breaking rule number five. Have been for years.
I check my phone again. 10:45 p.m. The house is quiet above me; everyone settled for the night. I wonder if Maya's changed her mind, if she's lying in bed right now talking herself out of coming down here.
Part of me hopes she does. Part of me hopes she decides this is too much, too fast, too complicated.
The other part, the part that's been in love with her for eight years, hopes she doesn’t.
I stand and pace the room. Five steps to the wall, turn, five steps back. My heart's racing like I just finished a shift on the ice, and my hands won't stop shaking.
This is different from anything I've ever done. Different from hookups after games, different from the few relationships I've had over the years. This matters in a way those never did.
Because it's Maya.
And if I fuck this up, if I push too hard or not hard enough, if I make her feel unsafe or uncomfortable or anything less than in control, I'll never forgive myself.
The clock on my nightstand reads 11:00 p.m. Maybe she's not coming. Maybe she decided—
Footsteps on the basement stairs. Quiet, hesitant.
My heart stops.
A soft knock on the door.
"Jackson?"
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. Come in."
The door opens.
And there she is.