Chapter 17
JACKSON
December hits Hartford like a freight train.
Snow, ice, holiday decorations everywhere. The city transforms into something out of a postcard, all twinkling lights and wreaths and that specific kind of cold that settles deep in your bones.
Emma's showing now. Eighteen weeks, and there's no hiding the bump anymore.
She's constantly touching it, talking to it, making Chase feel for kicks.
The excitement is contagious. Even Ethan's caught on, patting Emma's stomach and saying "baby" with his toddler pronunciation that makes it sound like "beh-bee. "
Maya's been here almost two months now. Two months of therapy sessions, of her slowly piecing herself back together, of us sleeping together three, sometimes four times a week, while pretending it's just physical.
And she's healing. I can see it in every small way.
The nightmares that used to wake her screaming have faded to once or twice a week.
She's eating regularly now, actually finishing meals instead of pushing food around her plate.
The smiles reach her eyes more often. She laughs at Ethan's antics without that hollowness underneath.
Dr. Mills is working miracles. Maya comes back from each session exhausted but lighter, like she's slowly shedding weight she's been carrying for too long.
This morning, I woke up to the sound of Emma and Maya in the living room, laughing about something. I head upstairs to find them buried in boxes of Christmas decorations.
"Finally," Emma says when she sees me. "I need someone tall. Maya's useless."
"I'm five-foot-four, Em. Everything's tall to me."
"Exactly. Jackson, help me with the tree."
The Christmas tree is massive, eight feet of fake pine that Emma insists looks more real than a real tree. Chase is at an optional practice before the one later, which means I'm on decoration duty.
Maya's sitting cross-legged on the floor, untangling lights. She's wearing leggings and one of my old Wolves hoodies. I lent it to her weeks ago, and she never gave it back.
She looks up and catches me staring. Something passes between us: heat, memory, last night when she came to my room and rode me until we both forgot the rules about staying quiet.
"Jackson." Emma snaps her fingers. "Tree. Focus."
"Right. Sorry."
We spend the next hour decorating. Emma is directing like a general, Maya and I following orders. Ethan "helps" by pulling ornaments off as fast as we put them on. Max supervises from the back of the couch.
"This one." Emma hands me a star. "Top of the tree."
I climb the stepladder and secure it. When I come down, Maya's smiling at the whole scene: the tree lit up, ornaments glittering, Ethan clapping his hands in delight.
"It looks good," she says.
"It looks like Christmas threw up in here," I say.
Emma throws tinsel at me. "You love it."
I do. This, family, togetherness, Maya being part of it, feels right, feels like how things should be.
Except I can't touch her, can't pull her close and kiss her under the mistletoe, Emma definitely hung in three doorways, can't hold her hand or claim her as mine in any visible way.
And it's killing me.
Practice this afternoon was brutal. December means we're hitting the midseason grind: games every other night, travel, pressure to maintain our playoff position. Coach works us into the ground, running drills until my legs scream.
"Cap!" Jenkins catches up to me in the locker room. "Team holiday party's this weekend. You coming?"
"Probably."
"Bring a date. Make it interesting."
"I'm not bringing a date."
"Why not? You seeing someone?"
Chase shoots me a look from across the room.
"No," I say. "Just focused on the season."
It's not technically a lie. I'm not "seeing" Maya. We're sleeping together. It's different.
Except it's not. Not for me.
The holiday party is Saturday night at some bar downtown that the team rented out. Wives, girlfriends, families, everyone's invited. Emma's excited about it, already planning her outfit even though her maternity options are limited.
"Maya, you're coming too, right?" she asks over dinner.
Maya looks at me quickly, then away. "I don't know. That's a team thing—"
"You're family. You're coming." Emma won't take no for an answer. "It'll be fun. Open bar, dancing, Jackson doing his awkward captain speech."
"I don't do awkward speeches."
"You absolutely do. Remember last year when you thanked everyone for 'puck commitment'?"
"That's a real hockey term."
"It sounds dirty."
Maya laughs, and the sound makes my chest tight.
Saturday arrives too fast. The bar's packed when we get here: teammates and their partners, staff, even some of the younger guys' parents. Christmas music plays over the speakers, and lights are strung everywhere. Very festive, very loud.
Maya walks in wearing jeans and a dark red top that clings to her curves. Her curls are down, makeup done, and she looks stunning.
And I can't touch her.
Emma immediately drags her off to talk to the other wives and girlfriends. Chase finds me at the bar.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You keep staring at Maya."
My stomach drops. "I'm not—"
"You are. And you've been weird around her for weeks." He orders a beer. "What's going on?"
"Nothing. I'm just making sure she's okay."
"Right." He doesn't sound convinced. "Well, whatever it is, be careful. Emma's pregnant and emotional. The last thing she needs is drama."
"There's no drama."
Another lie to add to the collection.
The party progresses. I make my rounds, talking to teammates and their partners, playing the captain role. I stop to chat with Jenkins and his girlfriend. Then Reeves ropes me into some chaotic game with his family.
Across the room, Maya's laughing with Emma and some of the other women. She's relaxed, happy, more herself than I've seen her in months.
But I can't go over there, can't stand next to her, can't touch the small of her back or pull her close or do any of the things I want to do.
Someone bumps into her, one of our rookies, apologizing profusely. Maya smiles and waves it off. The kid's blushing, clearly a little starstruck by the pretty woman.
Jealousy burns hot in my chest. I have no right to feel it. We're not together. She's not mine.
Except she is in every way that matters. She just doesn't know it.
I grab another beer and head outside. The cold air hits my face, sharp and clearing. The bar's patio is empty; everyone is inside where it's warm.
I lean against the railing and stare at the Hartford skyline: lights twinkling in windows, snow starting to fall in soft flakes.
This is torture. Being this close to her, wanting her this badly, and not being able to show it.
The door opens behind me. Maya steps out, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Yeah. I just needed air. It's loud in there."
She moves to stand beside me, not close enough to touch.
But I can smell her. It's the combination of her shampoo and the lotion she uses, and something that's just Maya. It's intoxicating, makes me want to close the distance between us, bury my face in her neck, and breathe her in until I'm drunk on it.
The snow catches in her dark curls, each flake melting the moment it touches her. She's so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her.
"Are you having fun?" I ask, voice rougher than I intend.
"I am, actually. Your teammates are nice. Their partners are welcoming." She pauses. "Thank you for this. For everything. I know having me around complicates things."
"You don't complicate anything."
"I do. But you've been… you've been everything I need. The therapy, the support, the—" She stops. "Everything."
The “everything” she's not naming. The sex. The intimacy. The way we've been healing her trauma one encounter at a time.
"You're doing the work," I say. "I'm just here."
"You're more than just here, Jackson."
The wind picks up, and she shivers, pulling her arms tighter around herself. Every instinct I have screams at me to pull her close, to warm her with my body, to give her my jacket and wrap her in it until she stops shaking.
But I can't. Can't touch her, can't close the distance, can't do any of the things a man should be able to do for the woman he loves.
Loves.
The word hits me like a punch to the chest because that's what this is. Not just want or desire or the remains of a crush. This is love, deep and consuming and terrifying.
"I should get back inside," she says, turning to look at me. "Before Emma notices we're both gone and gets ideas."
She's right. We can't be seen together, can't give anyone a reason to suspect.
But as she starts to walk away, I reach out and catch her hand before I can stop myself. The contact is electric, her skin soft and warm against my palm.
She freezes, looking down at our joined hands, then back up at me.
"Jackson—"
"I know. I'm sorry." But I don't let go. Can't let go. "Just give me one more second."
She could pull away. Should pull away. Instead, she lets me hold her hand while snow falls around us and Christmas music drifts from inside.
"This is dangerous," she whispers.
"I know."
"Someone could see."
"I know."
"We should stop."
"I know."
But neither of us moves. We just stand here in the cold, hands clasped, both knowing this is more than friends with benefits, more than physical, more than what the rules allow.
Finally, she pulls her hand free and takes a step back. "I have to go."
"Maya—"
"Goodnight, Jackson."
She disappears back inside, and I'm left alone on the patio, staring at my empty hand as I can still feel her warmth.
I stand out here longer than I should, letting the cold seep into my bones, trying to get myself under control. When I finally go back inside, Maya's with Emma again, laughing at something one of the other women says.
She doesn't look at me for the rest of the night.
Back at home, everyone crashes fast. Emma’s barely keeping her eyes open, Ethan’s out cold from the car ride, and Chase carries him straight to bed. Maya slips upstairs to the guest room without saying anything.
I go to the basement and lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
I'm tired of hiding, tired of pretending she's just Emma's friend, tired of following rules designed to keep feelings contained when mine have been out of control for years.
I want to walk upstairs right now and tell her everything. Want to say that I love her, that I've always loved her, that the rules are stupid and I don't care about them anymore.
But I can't. Because she needs this to be safe, needs the structure and boundaries, needs to heal without the pressure of my feelings complicating everything.
So I'll keep playing this role. Keep being the friend who helps, the guy who supports, the secret she keeps.
Even though it's destroying me.
Even though holding her hand for those few seconds outside felt more real than anything else in my life.
Even though I'm so desperately in love with her that I can barely breathe when she's near.
I'll keep pretending.
For her.