Chapter 17
Jackson
“Ican’t believe you shaved.” Aurora gets onto her knees on the couch and trails her fingers along Ethan’s jaw.
“It’ll grow back fast.” He bends down to kiss her. “Behave yourself. Rest.”
Reece’s critical gaze drifts over me. “I see you found a skintight T-shirt to match your tight-ass jeans.”
“Good one, Viking. Gold star for effort,” I mock dryly. “I see you found a personality as ugly as your face.”
We both sound ridiculous and share a smug grin before I lean over the back of the couch and kiss Aurora. “Can I tag your IG while we’re out? You’ve got more New York followers and connections.”
“Of course. Be safe.” She glances between Ethan and me. “Are you taking the twins with you?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “Lucas will be downstairs if you need him.”
I shove my boots on, not even bothering with the laces—I just tuck the ends inside so I won’t trip. Who has time for proper knots when Ethan is standing here looking like a whole damn meal? And he smells delicious, too.
He eyes my hoodie. “You’re going to freeze your ass off in that zip-up. Where’s your jacket?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. I pull this shit just so he’ll express concern for me. I know it’s immature, but sometimes, love outweighs sense.
“I’m fine.” I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone and wallet. “My ass is your responsibility to keep warm anyway.”
He shakes his head, but I catch a faint hint of a smile.
“I’m buying you a damn jacket.”
“The team will give me a few.”
“True. I’ll work on that next week.”
We step into the elevator. The place is old—one of those historical New York buildings with metal cage elevators that always make me feel like I’m on some haunted ride.
I punch in the code—4913, mine and Ethan’s jersey numbers—to get it moving while Ethan pulls the gate closed. “Who set this code?”
His fingers weave through the back of my hair. “Rocco, probably.”
“We should hit the emergency button and make out.”
Another head shake. “That’s a good way to send Aurora and the entire Rossi family into a panic.”
Why is he always so rational? “True.”
At the next floor, the twins get on. Lucas peers up from his computer and waves. I haven’t been in their place yet, but from the layout, it’s clearly a studio apartment. They could lie in bed and watch the snow or the city, but thick, floor-length gray curtains cover the windows.
Ethan hits the button for the ground level, and the elevator lurches into motion.
“Hey, sunshine.” Des leans in and sniffs my neck. “Who smells so good?”
My shoulders jump to my ears. “Boundaries, Des. It’s Ethan.”
“He smells like he’s trying to get laid,” he whisper-yells.
Des and I might share the same filter—or lack thereof—and we’re both impulsive.
I scoff. “Trust me, it’s not necessary. He gets more ass than anybody I know.”
Des doubles over in laughter. “I love when we’re together.”
Dante snatches his leather jacket and yanks him upright. “Focus.”
I sneak a glance at Ethan beside me. A familiar flush creeps up from the base of his neck, blooming across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
He shoots me a sideways glare. “Keep it up, and you won’t be getting laid.”
“So does that mean if I’m good, I will get laid?”
He stays silent, and I can practically feel the heat radiating from his face.
It’s only noon, and Bryant Park is already packed.
The outdoor rink is bigger than I remember and full of families.
There’s no reason to be here. I could’ve taken a picture of us at home, posted it on social media, and achieved the same desired goal.
I’m not telling Ethan that, though, because this feels special.
I hook our pinkies together, and butterflies flutter in my stomach. “We probably don’t even need to skate. Sitting in the crowd, drinking hot chocolate, and taking some selfies will be enough.”
Ethan weaves through a mass of tourists, their phones held high, recording everything. “I already reserved tickets.”
“I love a man who takes charge,” I tease. “You’re the best boyfriend.”
He lines up at the rental counter and glances over his shoulder, a scowl on his face. “Now I’m your boyfriend, huh? Is that why I blacked out getting this ring for you?” He raises his left hand.
Unable to stop smiling, I loop my arms around his waist from behind. “I fucking love you. You can be whatever you want to be. One day, we’ll be married—you, me, Aurora, and, reluctantly, Reece.”
After we have our skates, I plop down on a bench to put them on.
Ethan sits next to me, his fingers making quick work of his laces.
Once we’re done, I take out my phone and move closer to him, our bodies pressed together.
His arm comes around my shoulders, and I hold up my phone to get the perfect shot.
I lean my head toward his. “Smile like you’re secretly fucking your captain, Coach.”
He gives me a sexy smirk, and I can’t help but laugh.
I snap a couple of selfies, then flip through them to decide which to post. I swipe, and, holy shit, there’s one where I’m gazing at him instead of the camera. My expression says everything. My eyes are so full of love, it’s almost embarrassing.
It’s perfect. I open Instagram and upload it, typing: Missing our girl @auroraembers while hitting the ice with Coach. Welcome to New York #newyork #bryantpark #iceskating #fafo
The objective is to stir up a shitstorm of speculation but confirm nothing. I start to second-guess myself. Is that what I just did? Are we taking this too far? Not for me, but for him?
“Is this going to hurt you in any way?” My knee bounces, and I gnaw at my bottom lip.
He leans back against the bench, his arm still draped over my shoulders.
“I doubt it. But if I have to be a silent owner, then so be it. I have two goals: for the four of us to live under one roof, safe and happy, and for you to play. You have God-given talent. You’re in your prime, and if I can rein you in, you’ll be a legend. ” He smiles proudly.
I turn away and watch the crowd. Silence stretches between us, becoming awkward on my end. My breath shudders, my eyes well up. My chest constricts, and everything comes crashing down around me.
I’ll never be a legend. I’m not the NHL’s golden boy, not by a long shot. Even though everyone knows my father was an abusive piece of shit, I still fucked up. Athletes like me don’t succeed; we’re forever tainted by the stigma of mental illness and addiction. We’re quietly snubbed.
I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “You know that’s never going to happen, right?
I’m never going to the Olympics.” Kill is going to the Olympics, and he deserves it.
He’s worked his ass off his entire life.
“They’re never going to select me for the Four Nations or All Stars or anything else special.
I’ll be lucky to be nominated for the Hall of Fame, no matter how much I score or how many playoffs we win.
I’m an addict. I’ll carry that label for the rest of my life. ”
Ethan grasps my chin, tilting my face to his. “Do you care about those things? Do you want them?”
If I say yes, he’ll find a way to make it happen. He’ll fight tooth and nail for me. But the truth is, “I care that you want them. I worry they matter to you.” I hate disappointing him, and I have to blink away the tears to stop them from falling.
“You matter to me. That’s all.” His thumb caresses my bottom lip, then my cheek. “I’m sorry if I’m pushing too hard, but I believe in you. I’ve always believed in you.”
I nod. “I know.” Night after night, under the guise of practicing slap shots, he sat with me through sobriety, while the rest of the team celebrated wins or other stupid shit.
Even when I didn’t deserve it, even after I fucked up and relapsed, he was there for me.
I wouldn’t be sober and breathing without him.
His brows pinch. “Is this too much? Are you anxious today?”
Am I? “Maybe. I’m on a date with the hottest man I know, and I’m a little worried I’m not good enough and I’ll ruin his reputation.” I smile through the tears.
“Don’t be. I love you in a way that’s unfathomable. We’ll be okay.” He drops his hand and zips up his coat. “Let’s get this over with so we can go eat.”
I release a long exhale, loosening my tight chest, and rise to my feet.
He catches the front of my hoodie and tugs me to him. “I really want to kiss you right now.”
“Do it.”
His lips are on mine as soon as the words are out of my mouth. The kiss is quick but fierce, and when we pull apart, we’re both breathing heavy, white clouds fogging the air between us.
I glance around, catching a few curious stares, and a teenager frantically typing on his phone. “I’m pretty sure we achieved our goal.”
“Good.” His voice is rough, possessive, final.
This is us. We’re together. Let the chaos begin.
“I’ll be the most hated guy in the locker room after this.” I head toward the rink. “They’ll call me the owner’s boy toy.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“Wear it on a T-shirt?” I shrug. “I’m not ashamed, and I’m still better than anyone on that team.”
“That’s my boy.”
He takes my hand, and we glide onto the ice.