8. Jax
Chapter eight
Jax
Brody wolf-whistles before I’m through the door.
So it’s going to be that kind of night.
“Not a fucking word.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Sebastian has his phone out before I’ve even put my jacket down. Caleb offers me a mint. Aiden says nothing, which says everything. Liam looks up from his phone, looks back down, and says, “Don’t embarrass us.”
From Liam, that’s basically a speech.
“You clean up good, goalie boy,” Brody says.
“I hate this shit.”
“The monkey suit?”
“All of it. The suit. The event. The whole situation.”
“You look great, though.”
“Shut the fuck up, Brody.”
“Just saying—”
“Sit down.”
He sits down, still grinning. I grab my keys and get out before anybody says anything else.
She opens the door on the second knock.
Jesus.
She’s in a dress. Dark. Hits mid-thigh. The neckline does something that makes it very difficult to be a serious person right now, and her hair is loose around her shoulders and her green eyes are sharp and already laughing at me.
My cock kicks.
Just like that. Done.
I keep my face as neutral as I can manage because I’ve been controlling my crease for ten years and I should be able to manage this.
Probably.
Barely.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Jax.”
“Give me a second.”
“We’re going to be late.”
“We’re not going to be late.”
“You’re still staring.”
“I’m aware.”
She tilts her head. “You want to try being subtle, or is that not in the budget tonight?”
“I’m being extremely respectful.”
“You look one sentence away from a human resources complaint.”
“I look like a man with eyes.”
She huffs a quiet laugh.
I offer my arm.
She takes it.
I walk her to the car and spend the whole elevator ride thinking about cold showers, game tape, and literally anything else.
None of it works even slightly.
The gala is exactly what I knew it would be.
Canyon Bay money, Canyon Bay names—the kind of room where everybody’s performing and pretending they’re not. I’ve been doing this for years. I hate it every single time.
“You good?” she asks quietly as we walk in.
“Fantastic.”
“That was unconvincing.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you want to fight the canapé tray.”
“The canapé tray should be nervous.”
That gets a real laugh out of her. It lands somewhere square in my chest and stays there being inconvenient.
She moves off to work the room and I let her go because I’ve got people to talk to and things to say and a version of myself to put on for the next few hours.
I get to work. She finds her version in about four minutes.
I’m halfway through a conversation with a sponsor when I catch sight of her across the room. She’s with the retired defenseman—the one who’s been giving everybody else three minutes and a handshake all night.
He’s laughing.
Actually laughing.
She does something with her hands. Says something I can’t hear.
He laughs harder.
I say something appropriate to the sponsor. At least I assume I do.
I’m mostly watching her.
The way she moves through a room like she’s not trying too hard even when she absolutely is. The way she listens with her whole face. The way people start giving her more than they meant to and seem almost relieved about it after.
I think about the grocery store. The rock-paper-scissors. The woman who told the truth to a stranger at nine p.m. because apparently that’s just who she is.
I look away before I get caught.
I get caught.
She looks across the room right at me.
Holds it.
One second. Two.
Then turns back to the defenseman like nothing happened.
I turn back to the sponsor like nothing happened.
Neither of us says a word about it.
That’s worse somehow.
Ten minutes later I’m trapped by a hockey equipment sponsor talking blocker design and wrist support.
I say the right things. Ask the right questions.
The whole time I know exactly where she is in the room.
That part has stopped surprising me.
She’s watching me now.
Something shifts in her face, and I think about the empty physio suite. The version of me she saw there. The one I usually keep locked down.
Quick. Controlled. Gone.
She writes something down.
I want to know what made the page.
I don’t ask.
On the way out, the crowd funnels toward the exit and my hand finds the small of her back.
Automatic.
She goes still. Not pulling away. Not uncomfortable. Just—registering it.
Like her whole body took a breath and held it.
I feel her spine straighten slightly under my palm.
She doesn’t move away.
I don’t move either.
Something about the exact heat of her through that dress is going to be a problem for me for a long time.
I keep my hand where it is and guide her out.
Neither of us says a word.
We get to the car.
I sit down, grip the wheel for a second, then start the engine.
City lights slide past.
The silence between us builds.
She breaks it.
“You knew who I was at the grocery store.”
Not a question.
“No.”
She turns toward me. “No?”
“No clue who you were. Not till the rink.”
She studies me for a second.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
I glance at her. Back to the road.
“Didn’t seem like the time.”
That lands.
The city keeps moving.
“When did you figure it out?” I ask.
“Roster.”
“After the first practice?”
“After the first practice.”
I nod.
“You let me keep talking,” she says.
“You were saying interesting things.”
“That is still the most infuriating answer you could give me.”
“Probably.”
She exhales. Half laugh, half something else.
“That article,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“You’re not exactly… using it.”
“If I wanted to use it, you’d know.”
Her head turns.
“That is either reassuring or deeply unsettling.”
“Could be both.”
She studies me. “You’re impossible.”
“No. You just don’t like my answers.”
“I definitely don’t like your answers.”
“That’s fair.”
She goes quiet again. Different quiet.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Why not what?”
“Why not keep your distance?”
I glance at her. Back to the road. “Because you’re here.”
She doesn’t move.
“That’s it?”
“That’s not nothing.”
The city passes. Neither of us speaks again.
Her building.
I pull up.
She doesn’t open the door.
“Jax.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
I look at her. Her face is turned toward the windshield, but her hands are tight in her lap.
“For what?”
Her hands tighten once.
“That people keep turning you into a story before they know what actually happened.”
That lands harder than I expect.
“Yeah,” I say.
Her mouth tightens, like there’s more sitting behind her teeth. She doesn’t give it to me.
“Good night,” she says.
“Good night, Nova.”
She gets out and I watch her walk inside.
The door closes.
I sit there for a while with the feel of her back still in my palm and the thing she didn’t say hanging heavy in the car.
Then I drive home.
***
I’m loosening my tie before I’m through the door.
Jacket on the chair.
Done with all of it.
I pour a drink and sit on the couch. Brick climbs onto my chest like he’s been waiting.
“Rough night,” I tell him.
He blinks once.
“She looked—” I stop. “Doesn’t matter.”
It matters.
My phone buzzes.
Nova:
Thank you for tonight.
I stare at it.
Still there.
I don’t answer.
Another buzz.
Aurora:
Had coffee with your journalist today. She asked about you.
I lean my head back.
Brick settles heavier on my chest.
I read it twice.
Then again.
She asked about me.
I don’t answer that either.
Doesn’t stop me thinking about it.
Tomorrow’s going to be a problem.