Chapter 15 Jacks
Jacks
Three days.
But mostly, I kept coming back to the moment under the oak tree leaning against my car.
The wind catching my hair.
Skyler’s hand reaching up without hesitation.
His fingers brushing my forehead, gentle and warm, sweeping the curls from my face like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then—
The freeze.
Both of us going still like some terrified animal whose wide eyes couldn’t release oncoming headlights long enough to run to safety. The air between us had gone thick and charged, filled with a tension I couldn’t name but felt in every nerve ending.
Then he bolted.
And not in with the swagger of a player who played for the Bolts.
Oh, no. He didn’t strut away. He didn’t walk or stride. He fucking bolted, stammering something about workouts and games while sprinting toward the main street like the oak tree had caught fire.
I’d stood there for a full minute after he disappeared, my back against my car, trying to remember how breathing worked.
What the hell had that been?
And then he paused and looked back.
And my heart flipped in ways that would make Simone Biles jealous.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, snapping me back to the present. I was sprawled on my couch, supposedly watching some true crime documentary but actually staring at the ceiling and spiraling.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Question of the day: if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be? And it can’t be pizza. That’s Erik’s lame go-to.
Despite everything, I smiled.
This had become our thing over the last few days—random questions lobbed back and forth, keeping a conversation alive that never seemed to end.
He’d text during breaks at practice; I’d respond between bar shifts.
It was easy and comfortable and felt like something I’d been doing for years instead of weeks.
It also felt very, very dangerous.
Because every time my phone buzzed with his name, my heart did a little skip that had nothing to do with friendship.
Me: Rosa’s carnitas. Obviously. I’m a man of refined taste.
PuckingSkylerShaw: You’re a man who’s obsessed with a taco bus.
Me: Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive.
I watched the typing dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
Waiting for Skyler’s responses had become its own form of torture—the good kind, the kind that made me feel alive and slightly insane.
PuckingSkylerShaw: When’s your next day off? We should grab food again before I leave for the road trip.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He wanted to see me again.
Before a two-week trip.
That meant something, right?
Or it meant nothing. Friends made plans. That was normal friend behavior.
God, I was exhausting myself.
Me: Tomorrow night, but don’t you fly out Thursday morning?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Yeah. Early. Like, stupidly early.
Me: Then you should probably sleep instead of hanging out with me.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Sleep is overrated.
I stared at that message for way too long.
Sleep is overrated.
He’d rather hang out with me than rest before a major road trip.
Good googly moogly, that was . . . something. Wasn’t it?
No. Stop. You pathetic idiot. Stop this. Skyler’s being friendly. He’s friendly with everyone. It’s part of his whole golden retriever energy.
I typed back something practical about not wanting to be responsible for his garbage performance in Seattle, even though every part of me wanted to say, “Yes, absolutely, let’s spend every possible minute together before you leave for two weeks.”
Two weeks.
The thought sat heavy in my chest.
Me: I’ll still be here when you get back. The bar isn’t going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere.
I sent it before I could overthink the words, then overthought them anyway. Was that too much? Too clingy? Did “I’m not going anywhere” sound like a promise I had no business making?
PuckingSkylerShaw: Fine. But when I get back, you’re taking me somewhere equally ridiculous. I want another restaurant that used to be a vehicle. Or still is one. Surprise me.
Me: I know a place that’s a boat. Like, it floats and everything.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’m already obsessed.
We bantered back and forth for another few minutes before he signed off with his usual “Night, Jacks” and I responded with my usual “Night, Sky.”
Sky.
The nickname had slipped out without my permission, and now I couldn’t stop using it. It felt intimate in a way that “Skyler” didn’t. It felt personal. Like something only between us.
Which was ridiculous, because half of Tampa called him Sky.
I set the phone down and rubbed my face with both hands.
This was bad.
This was really, really bad.
I’d promised Finn I’d be careful. I’d promised myself I’d keep things in perspective. Skyler was straight, famous, and going through some kind of personal crisis that had nothing to do with me. I was a convenient distraction, a friendly face outside his hockey bubble.
That’s all this was.
That’s all it could ever be.
But telling myself that didn’t stop me wanting more. It didn’t stop the way my chest ached when I thought about two weeks without seeing him. It didn’t erase the memory of his fingers in my hair, or the look in his eyes when time had frozen between us.
Something had shifted beneath that oak tree.
I didn’t know what it meant—maybe nothing, maybe a weird moment he’d already forgotten—but I knew what it meant for me.
I was in trouble.
Deep, stupid, hopeless trouble.
The next two days passed in a blur of bar shifts and text messages.
Skyler sent more updates from practice, complaints about early morning skates, and a running commentary on Murph’s latest pranks.
I responded with Barbacks chaos, mostly revolving around Benji’s most recent dating disasters, Rod’s ongoing war with the ice machine, and a customer who’d tried to pay his tab in Bitcoin.
Chatting with Skyler was easy and fun. It was the kind of constant low-level connection that made me feel like he was right there even when he was across town.
It also made everything worse.
“You’re checking your phone again.”
I looked up to find Benji watching me from across the bar, his expression somewhere between amused and pitying.
“I’m not checking my phone.”
“You’ve looked at it six times in the last ten minutes. I counted.”
“Maybe I’m expecting an important call. Or playing Tetris. Or watching porn.”
Benji laughed so hard he doubled over. “Golden boy watching porn on his phone at work? No. Baby boy, just no. And the whole ‘important call thing’? Really? Who’s calling? Your mom? The president? The ghost of football past?”
“You’re hilarious.”
“I know.” He slid closer, abandoning the glasses he was supposed to be drying. “It’s him, isn’t it? Hockey Boy?”
“His name is Skyler.”
“I know his name. I also know you’ve got it bad.” Benji’s voice softened. “How are you doing? With . . . everything?”
I considered lying or deflecting or making a joke and changing the subject.
But Benji had been through his own romantic disasters. He understood the particular torture of wanting someone you couldn’t have.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Confused, mostly. He leaves tomorrow for two weeks, and I keep telling myself that’s a good thing, that it’ll give me time to get some perspective and clear my head.”
“But?”
“But I don’t want him to go.” The words came out quieter than I intended. “Which is insane, because we’re just friends, and friends don’t . . .”
“Don’t what?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Benji studied me for a long moment. “You know what I think?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me regardless.”
“I think you’re scared. And I think being scared is making you dismiss things that might be real.
” He held up a hand before I could interrupt.
“I’m not saying he’s secretly gay or that you’re going to ride off into the sunset together.
I’m just saying sometimes the things we’re most afraid of are the things we should pay attention to. ”
“That’s . . . surprisingly wise.”
“I have my moments.” He grinned. “Now stop moping and help me with these limes. We’ve got a Lightning game to prepare for, and your boyfriend’s going to want a good send-off.”
“He’s not my—”
“Save it, sweetie. Cleopatra wants her river back.”
I threw a lime wedge at him, which he dodged with practiced ease.
The evening rush hit harder than one of Erik’s checks.
Game night crowds filling every seat, regulars mixing with tourists, everyone buzzing with pre-game energy.
I threw myself into work, grateful for the distraction.
There was something meditative about the rhythm of a busy shift: stock, pour, clear, repeat.
With all the chaos, there was no time to think about anything except the next task ahead.
That night, the Lightning were playing their last home game before the road trip, and the bar was crammed with fans wearing blue and white. I kept my eyes on my work, not looking at the TVs mounted above the bar.
It didn’t help.
Every time the crowd cheered, my attention snapped to the screens anyway.
And every time I glimpsed number 91 skating across the ice, my chest did that stupid Biles maneuver again.
“He’s playing well tonight,” Finn observed, appearing at my elbow during a brief lull. “Two assists already.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You’re not watching?”
“I’m working.”
“You’re avoiding.” Finn’s accent made the observation sound almost gentle, like a hobbit had imparted wisdom while standing at the center of his cute, little, round doorway. “It’s okay to care about him, you know. That’s not a character flaw.”
“I don’t—”
“Jacks.” He waited until I met his eyes. “I’ve been where you are, falling for someone you think you can’t have. It’s not easy, but pretending you don’t feel it doesn’t make it go away.”
“So what do I do?” I muttered, surrendering to a conversation I wasn’t ready for.
“I don’t have an easy answer. Just be honest with yourself. Whatever happens, you deserve to know your own heart.”
He squeezed my shoulder and moved away to help a customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a half-emptied ice bucket.
The game ended in a Lightning victory, their last win before boarding a plane for wherever the fuck they played next. The bar erupted in celebration, and I let myself get swept up in it, cheering along with everyone else even though my mind was elsewhere.
Skyler would be gone tomorrow.
For two weeks.
Fourteen days of texts and calls and this strange half-sort-of-not-relationship we’d built out of tacos and inside jokes.
My phone buzzed around midnight, after the crowds had thinned and I was doing final cleanup.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Good game. You watch?
Me: Caught some of it between the chaos. You looked good out there.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Thanks. Last one for a while.
Me: I know. Two weeks.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Fourteen days.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Not that I’m counting.
Me: Obviously not. That would be weird.
PuckingSkylerShaw: So weird.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Totally not something I’d do.
Me: Get some sleep, hockey star. Early flight.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I know, I know. Still, I wanted to say . . .
The dots danced for a long time, so long I wondered if he’d forgotten he’d left me on a cliffhanger.
PuckingSkylerShaw: I’ll miss hanging out. You know, while I’m gone.
My heart stopped.
Then it started again at double speed.
Me: Same. It’ll be weird not having you pop in demanding the booth in the back corner.
PuckingSkylerShaw: That’s MY booth now. I’ve claimed it. I expect a little silver sign with my name on it when I come home. Maybe gold. Yeah, make that a gold plaque. Got it?
Me: I’ll jump right on that, sir. “Property of Skyler Shaw. Touch at your own risk.”
PuckingSkylerShaw: Perfect. Guard it for me?
Me: With my life.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Okay. For real now. Sleep.
Me: Sleep.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Text me when you wake up tomorrow? Even though I’ll be in the air?
Me: I’ll send you pictures of the booth. Proof it’s being properly protected. I’m sure it will miss you.
PuckingSkylerShaw: It’ll miss my ass.
His ass? Holy mother of . . . I think my brain stuttered. Inside my head. Where only I could hear it.
PuckingSkylerShaw: You’re the best.
Me: I know.
PuckingSkylerShaw: Night, Jacks.
Me: Night, Sky. Safe travels.
I stared at the conversation for a long time after he stopped responding.
I’ll miss hanging out.
Four words that probably meant nothing to him.
But four words that felt like everything to me.