Chapter 38
Jackson
Iwant to rage. I want to cry. I am crying—a little. “Your pillow talk needs fucking work. Were you hoping to soften the blow with an orgasm?”
“No.” He rinses the shampoo from his hair, his face tilted up into the spray. “I was going to wait until New York.”
I’m pissed off, but my cock still tries to rally at the sight of soapy water sluicing off his bulging muscles.
Then, realization hits me, and panic splinters in my chest, my hard-on forgotten. “Oh my fucking God. Are you staying in New York too?”
“No—” He releases a heavy sigh. “I don’t know.”
“What the fuck, Ethan?” My voice rises, and I glare at him. Not even the snake between his legs could distract me at this point. “What the hell am I supposed to do? Go to LA while everyone lives on the other side of the fucking country?”
A blush creeps across his face. “Shh, quiet. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I angrily wash my body, thinking of Ethan and Aurora and the entire family in New York while I’m traveling. Tears burn my eyes. “What are you doing?”
He moves aside to give me space to rinse. “I don’t know yet. Take a breath.”
“Take a breath?” I stare at him in disbelief. “You drop this bomb on me and tell me to take a breath? You planned this and didn’t even talk to me.”
He thrusts a hand toward me. “There is no talking to you about this.”
“So, what? You tried fucking me into submission instead?”
“We’re not fucking,” he dares to say with a straight face.
I give him a blank expression. “You’re joking, right? Is that your way of compartmentalizing? It’s okay as long as we’re not fucking?”
“You’re ridiculous. Are you listening to anything I’m saying?”
About to explode, I step out of the shower, and Ethan follows, shutting off the water.
“Why?” I yank a towel from the rack and wrap it around my waist. “Why are you doing this? Is it because I had a shitty game?”
I snatch another towel and toss it at him. I refuse to be sidetracked by his bare skin glistening with water and all that damn chest hair.
Thank fuck—he covers his dick.
“Your shitty game is the least of my worries—although it had to do with us, remember? You wanted a commitment, something solid. I’m making that possible.”
“By leaving me? Abandoning me in LA?”
“No…” He shakes his head. “You said you were okay with being traded if it meant you could have me.”
I throw my arms in the air. “That was before. I would’ve said anything to be with you. Now, I don’t want to be separated. I want this every day.” I gesture between us.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to achieve.”
He reaches for me, but I pull away. I’m too agitated and overwhelmed to be touched.
“How?” Before he can respond, I jump in. “Oh, I see.” I laugh incredulously. It sounds broken and pathetic, my throat tight with emotion. “Quitting is your way of giving me a commitment without anyone knowing. You’re hiding.”
“Fuck you.” He steps up to me, the vein in his neck pulsing, a deep scowl etched between his brows. “I’m sacrificing everything for you, for us to be a family. You’re married. You already have a very public commitment. What do I matter?”
I lean in, our noses nearly touching. “We’re not married—legally—we have a domestic partnership. Marrying her in New York would mean the baby was mine. He’d have my last name. I wasn’t taking that from you. Neither was Aurora.”
I storm out of the bathroom, leaving him standing there, staring after me.
The bedroom is empty, thankfully—Aurora and Reece must have gone downstairs. Reece. Damn him. He probably convinced Ethan to quit with his ‘you’re the father—it’s your responsibility’ speech.
Fuck him.
I pull on clothes with jerky movements, my mind racing. The fucking audacity. Ethan makes this life-altering decision, excluding me, and then casually mentions it after getting me off? The worst part is, I can’t even argue. This is what good men do—they take care of their families.
He’s such a good guy, it’s sickening. How am I supposed to live without him? He’s the reason I’m sober and functioning—he and Aurora.
My brain scrambles for a solution, a way to keep him from quitting. I come up with nothing.
Fuck it, I’ll quit too. We’ll quit together. If this is what he wants, then fuck hockey.
I’m dressed and heading out of the bedroom before Ethan finishes in the bathroom. I’m so consumed with my thoughts, I almost trip over Danny, who’s lying on the floor, peeking under the door.
I come to a halt, gripping the doorframe to stop from stepping on him. “What are you doing, little man?”
He leaps up and roars, hands out, fingers curled like claws.
Despite feeling hopeless and angry, I laugh. “Holy shi…znitzle, you scared me.” I feign a gasp and clutch my proverbial pearls. Is shiznitzle a word? Wienerschnitzel? I have no idea, but it’s better than the alternative.
He giggles, bounces on his toes, reaching for me, and I melt. He’s so damn cute, with his big blue eyes and chubby cheeks.
I scoop him up. He’s still in his pajamas, and I glance at his room. “Did you sneak out of your bed?”
He nods and smiles proudly. They need a gate to prevent him from tumbling down the stairs, but he’d probably climb that too.
Can four-year-olds go up and down the stairs without falling? I’ll have to ask Reece.
“Is Harper—your mom sleeping?”
He nods again, pointing to my forearm, where he’d drawn me a stick figure T-Rex. It looked more like a vertical, misshapen dog, but nobody is judging here.
“Sorry, buddy. It washed off in the shower. But you can color me another one. How about that?”
He beams as I descend the stairs.
“Have you had breakfast?”
He shakes his head, his blond hair falling across his forehead.
“Well, let’s make some. Do you like eggs? Pancakes? Waffles?”
“Pan-cakes,” he says quietly.
It’s the first full word I’ve heard him speak, other than Mama.
Aurora and Reece are sipping their coffees at the kitchen table when we enter.
“Morning.” Aurora smiles. “Someone made a friend.”
Danny points at Reece. “King.”
The Viking grins. “Good job, buddy,” he praises then asks me, “Harper sleeping? You want me to take him?”
Tiny arms tighten around my neck, nearly choking me. “No. Jax,” he pronounces clearly.
Reece rolls his eyes, and I chuckle.
“Uncle Reece is scary, isn’t he?” I gesture to my wife. “Can you say Aurora?” I articulate her name slowly.
Danny opens his mouth wide and unleashes a sound somewhere between a lion’s roar and a war cry, sending us into fits of laughter. I guess Aurora equals roar. Close enough.
After raiding the pantry for ingredients to make pancakes, I have Danny perched on the island beside me, his legs swinging as I whisk eggs and add them to the dry mix.
“Milk?” He lifts the full measuring cup.
It sounds like ‘miwk,’ but I understand him perfectly.
“Yes, Chef,” I reply with exaggerated seriousness, earning a giggle from both him and Aurora. “Go ahead, Chef.”
He pours the liquid with surprising precision. Not a drop spills over the edge of the bowl—a stark improvement on our earlier egg-cracking fiasco that left me fishing out shell fragments and cleaning yolk from the floor.
Reece sips his coffee, his posture relaxed for once. “Harper might murder you for stealing him and allowing him to make a mess.”
“He was outside our door. What was I supposed to do, leave him in the hallway? He could’ve fallen down the stairs. Besides, I’ll clean the mess.”
Reece shakes his head with amusement. “I’m having a hard time believing you didn’t sneak in and take him.”
Ethan breezes into the kitchen, wearing worn jeans and a light-gray Henley that matches his eyes, a manila envelope in hand. His hair is damp and extra wavy, his jaw tight with tension.
He takes a seat at the island across from me, his cologne filling my senses, and my stomach dips.
“What kind of pancakes do you want, little man?” I struggle to keep my voice light and unaffected.
“Chocwat!”
He grabs the package of semi-sweet morsels and, before I can stop him, dumps the bag into the batter. A good portion misses the bowl entirely and spills onto the counter. His small hands chase after the chocolate chips, stuffing handfuls into his mouth.
I chuckle and poke his belly. “Hey, save some for the pancakes.”
He lets out a melodic laugh that warms my chest.
Ethan’s gaze locks with mine, his eyes soft. “What conference has the fewest travel miles?”
I look away, unable to handle the emotion swimming in those stormy depths, and stir the chocolate-chip-laden batter with more force than necessary. “Eastern.” It’s common knowledge that the Eastern Conference travels much less.
I pour the first pancake onto the hot griddle, and Danny claps with excitement. “Now, we wait for bubbles,” I tell him after I finish pouring the rest of the batter.
Ethan sets the envelope on the counter. “What teams specifically?”
My hand freezes, spatula in the air. “Both of the New York teams, New Jersey, and Pittsburgh.” I eye the envelope with suspicion. “What is it?”
“An early Christmas gift.”
“What kind of gift?” The words come out harsh, my mind racing. Is he going to one team and sending me to another? “If you’re not coaching, I don’t want it.”
He leans in and raises a brow. “You’re a stubborn little—”
Before Ethan finishes, Danny squeals. “Bubbles! Bubbles!”
“Let me take over.” Reece appears at my side, nudges me out of the way, and steals the spatula. “I think I can manage pancakes.”
I hesitate until his mini-me is slapping his arm and chanting, “King! Bubbles!”
Aurora slips between Ethan’s legs, her back to his chest. “What’s going on? What is it?”
His arms wrap around her, a hand splayed protectively over her belly. “Just open it, Jax.”
I unfold the envelope and slide out a stack of documents. The top one bears the New York Stars letterhead.
The kitchen becomes too small, too hot. I glance from the papers to Ethan and back again. “How? Why do you have this?”
Players usually learn about a trade only after it’s finalized and they’re en route to their new team. Sometimes they find out on social media—not from their coach, over Christmas break, with no one else present. If it were a done deal, my agent would’ve called.
The corner of his lip twitches. “Read it.”
The first few pages are a standard trade proposal. My heart skips a beat when I see my name and a decent offer. “You’re trading me to New York?”
“I’m not trading you.” The twitch stretches into a full-blown smirk.
Quickly, I scan the document, my thoughts a whirlwind of questions. Who will be my coach? I’m still holding out hope it’s Ethan, although he made his decision clear.
There’s no way he’s just staying home. Ethan, a stay-at-home dad? Nope. He’d go crazy.
I flip to the signature page, and my breath catches in my lungs. His name is there: Ethan Blackwood, in fresh black ink.
But it’s not as the coach, and it’s not on the Huskies’ side.
“You’d…” I stare at him, completely dumbfounded, “own me?”