4. JAXON
JAXON
Unexpected Reunion
Control.
That’s the word I keep coming back to, over and over, like if I repeat it enough, it’ll settle into my bones and stay there.
Maybe if I have control on the ice, in the meeting room, at home—maybe then I can control what happens in the courtroom, too.
I know the logic is flawed, but I can’t stop myself.
I’ve always been a bit of a control freak, but right now it’s on another level.
And today has been… a test.
I lean back in the driver’s seat at a red light, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel, my mind replaying the last few hours in sharp, dissected fragments.
Today was my first practice with the Metro Raptors.
New team. New system. New expectations.
They’re good.
Just as good as I’d hoped—fast, aggressive, and skilled enough to make up for a few minor mistakes.
They had a great coach in Petrov. Now they have to get used to me. Trust that I know what I’m doing—even if I do things differently.
I’ve been on the ice myself long enough to know how players think, how a locker room breathes. And I’ve spent the last few years behind the bench, learning how to lead instead of just execute.
I’ve done this before. Taken on a new team and made them mine.
I can do it again.
I have to.
Because this isn’t just another job.
This is the Metro Raptors.
Media attention. Ownership pressure. Fans who expect results yesterday.
The light turns green. I press the gas a little harder than necessary.
Good. Let them doubt me. I work better when I have something to prove.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down just long enough to see my lawyer’s name.
I don’t pick it up. I already know what’s in that message.
Another reminder. Another warning dressed up as advice.
Stability matters, Jaxon. Routine. Structure. A consistent home environment.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair.
That’s what this is all about.
Not the job. Not the team. Not even the reputation.
Lily. Everything leads back to her.
Six years old, and already too aware. Too observant. She notices when I’m distracted, when I come home late, when I get stuck in my own head.
The memory hits me out of nowhere—her sitting at the kitchen counter this morning, swinging her legs, telling me something about a dragon that sings.
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
I’m doing this for her.
Every late night. Every decision. Every piece of control I force into place.
It’s for her.
***
By the time I pull into the garage, exhaustion has settled deep, the kind that doesn’t shake off easily.
I grab my bag and head for the elevator, already shrugging out of my jacket and rolling up my sleeves.
The building is quiet and polished. Exactly how I like things.
The elevator doors slide shut, and for a second, there’s nothing but the faint hum of machinery and my own reflection staring back at me.
I look tired.
I feel worse.
And that’s when she slips into my head.
Zara.
I don’t even try to stop it.
It hits fast—her smile, sharp and easy. The way she’d looked at me like she saw straight through everything I was trying to keep in place.
The way she’d reacted to me.
God.
My jaw tightens.
But it was just this one night. I’m never gonna see her again and that’s a good thing. I don’t have room for anything more in my life.
It’s just Lily and me. And that’s what counts.
***
The apartment is quiet when I step inside.
Lily must already be asleep.
The new nanny did her job well, then. I don’t like Lily staying up too late. She’s six. She needs her sleep.
I drop my bag by the door and roll my shoulders as I head toward the kitchen.
It smells… incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything this good.
Sweet. Warm. Chocolatey.
Whatever it is, I want it.
My feet pick up pace, drawn toward whatever magic is waiting for me.
I step into the kitchen—
And stop.
A woman stands at the counter. It must be the new nanny, because it sure as hell isn’t Mrs. Henriksen.
Her back is to me. Her hair is pulled up, but not neatly—loose strands falling along the back of her neck. Curly. Auburn.
A shade I’ve only seen once before.
For a second, my brain doesn’t catch up.
Doesn’t connect the image in front of me with reality.
Because there’s no version of this that makes sense.
Not here. In my kitchen.
The woman turns and the world snaps into place.
It’s Zara.
The woman from last night. The one I kissed like I’d lost my mind. The one I did not expect to ever see again.
Every muscle in my body goes tight.
Her eyes go wide, breath catching like she’s just been hit with the same realization.
“Oh God.”
Yeah.
That about covers it.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharp, not exactly friendly. But in my defense, the last thing I need is her in my carefully controlled world.
Her expression shifts fast—shock, then something steadier, like she’s bracing herself. “I think I work here.”
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.
“No,” I say. I know I’m being harsh, but who can blame me?
She lets out a short, disbelieving breath. “Yeah. I’m having that same reaction in my head right now.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
Good. At least I’m not the only one horrified by this situation.
“You’re the nanny?” I ask, each word clipped.
She nods. “Zara Winslow. Hired through the agency. Started today.”
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “This has to be a joke.”
“I wish it was.”
I look at her again, really look this time.
Same eyes. Same mouth. Same pull in my chest that I shut down immediately.
Absolutely not.
“This doesn’t work,” I say flatly.
Her chin lifts slightly. “What doesn’t?”
“This.” I gesture between us. “You. Here.”
Her expression doesn’t crack.
If anything, she straightens a little, shoulders back, like she’s bracing for impact instead of backing down.
“Right,” she says calmly. “Well, that’s inconvenient.”
My jaw tightens. “Inconvenient?”
“Yes.” She folds her arms. “Because I just moved my entire life here for this job.”
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. “That was before—”
“Before what?” she cuts in, one brow arching. “Before two consenting adults made a decision neither of them regretted five minutes later?”
I stare at her.
She doesn’t flinch.
“That’s not the point,” I say, my voice sharper than I intend.
“Then what is the point?” she fires back. “Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that’s changed is that now we know each other.”
My laugh is short. Humorless. “That’s exactly the problem.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. Not into my space—but close enough that I feel it. “It’s only a problem if you decide it is.”
I shake my head. “You’re my employee.”
“And you’re my boss,” she shoots back. “Congratulations, we’ve both grasped the basics.”
Jesus.
“Zara—”
“No.” Her voice stays calm, but there’s steel underneath it now. “You don’t get to just decide this ‘doesn’t work’ and send me packing like it’s no big deal.”
“I’m not—”
“I relocated for this,” she continues, her words precise, controlled. “I signed a contract. I turned down two other placements. And I am very good at what I do.”
She sounds confident. And I need that—someone who knows what they’re doing when it comes to my daughter.
Someone who can give Lily stability and security, especially right now. She’s probably already attached to Zara. She’s like that. And I don’t want to take that away just as it’s beginning.
“I’ve spent ten years taking care of children,” she goes on. “Difficult children. Complicated families. High-pressure situations. I don’t flinch, I don’t quit, and I don’t make things messy.”
Her gaze locks on mine.
“What happened last night,” she says quietly, “doesn’t affect my ability to do this job.”
I study her.
All I see is honesty. And resolve.
“You’re asking me to ignore it,” I say.
“I’m asking you to be an adult,” she corrects. “We can both be adults about this. Professional.”
I glance toward the hallway, in the direction where Lily is asleep in her room. The whole reason any of this matters.
“No chaos,” I mutter.
“What?”
“I said,” I look back at her, “I can’t afford chaos right now.”
Something in her expression softens. Just a fraction.
“You won’t get that from me,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about me coming on to you, behaving inappropriately, or ending up in your bed one day.”
I huff out a quiet breath, weighing it.
This is a terrible idea.
Every instinct I have says this is complicated. Risky. Messy in ways I don’t have time for.
But—she’s right. I can’t just fire her over this.
Not when Lily already likes her.
Not when I need stability.
Not when she’s standing here looking me dead in the eye, promising she won’t make this harder than it already is.
I nod once. “Fine.”
Her shoulders lower slightly. Not relief exactly—but something close.
“Fine,” she echoes.
“We keep this professional.”
“Strictly.”
“No blurred lines.”
“None.”
“No more… situations.”
Her mouth almost curves at that, but she catches it in time. “None.”
Another beat of silence.
Then—
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” she agrees.
We stand there for a second longer than necessary.
Then she straightens, smoothing her hands over her jeans like she’s resetting herself.
“Great,” she says lightly. “So… would you like a cookie?”
God, yes. My mouth is already watering. I glance at the tray. The chocolate chip cookies look as good as they smell—golden edges, soft centers, packed with chocolate.
“Yes, thank you,” I mutter, reaching for one and taking a bite.
I chew slowly, my brow tightening just a fraction.
“That good?” she asks, watching me a little too closely.
I swallow. “It’s a cookie,” I say, aiming for nonchalance.
She folds her arms, unimpressed. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s—” I pause, like I’m choosing my words carefully. “—acceptable.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re lying.”
I take another bite. “Fine. It’s good,” I admit.
“So, is that what you and Lily did today? Bake cookies?”
“We had a good day,” Zara says. “I think we’re already becoming fast friends. We made cookies. She told me about her friend Maria and a hamster with a very important name.”
Sir Fluffington.
Something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.
“She also made me meet all her stuffed animals. There are… a lot of them.”
“There are,” I confirm.
“For bedtime, I read her three chapters of her book. I’m a fan of early bedtimes for kids. They still need their rest, you know?”
Huh. A flicker of grudging respect settles in.
“Thank you,” I say. The words feel almost unfamiliar in my mouth.
Her expression softens just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
Silence settles between us again. The space between us isn’t neutral. It’s charged.
Her eyes flick to my mouth for half a second.
Fuck.
I step back immediately. Distance. I need distance.
“Get some rest,” I say. “We start early.”
“Yeah,” she replies quietly. “You too.”
I push away from the counter and head down the hallway to Lily’s door.
I open it quietly and slip inside, tiptoeing to her bed.
She’s sprawled across the mattress in that way kids do, one arm flung above her head, the other curled around her stuffed rabbit. The nightlight casts a soft glow over her face, her lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing slow and even.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching her.
This—this is what matters.
Her.
I move closer, quieter now, like I might somehow wake her if I’m not careful, even though she sleeps like a rock most nights.
Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I brush a strand of hair off her forehead.
“Hey, bug,” I murmur softly, even though she won’t hear it.
Her brow twitches slightly, but she doesn’t wake.
I lean down and press a kiss to her temple, lingering there for a second longer.
There’s always this moment.
Right here.
Where everything else fades.
The pressure. The expectations. The constant fight to keep things together.
It all narrows down to this small, steady breath beneath my hand.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
My gaze lingers on her face, taking in every detail like I haven’t memorized it a thousand times already.
I straighten slowly, adjusting her blanket gently, tucking it around her shoulders.
“Sleep tight,” I murmur.
Then I stand, step out into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.