Chapter 13
Jaxon
After running upstairs to grab a condom, I’m back in the kitchen. I turn the water on to boil and start seasoning the scallops, the kitchen filling with the buttery scent of garlic and lemon. Just as I finish, the garage door creaks open. I glance toward it, already knowing what she found in there.
“I was starting to think you got lost,” I tease, wiping my hands on a towel.
She steps into the kitchen, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips and a bottle in her hand. “Nope. Just took a minute to decide. Sauvignon Blanc,” she declares proudly, holding the bottle.
“Excellent choice.” I reach for two glasses, and she sets the bottle down on the counter, watching as I work the corkscrew. Her gaze lingers a little too long, curious and warm, and I can’t stop my own grin.
“What?” I ask.
She bursts out laughing. “Jaxon, I knew you were good in the kitchen, but I had no idea you knew how to use tools.”
My brows shoot up. “Tools, huh?”
She pauses mid-laugh, eyes widening. “Wait, did that come out wrong?”
I can’t help it. I laugh, the sound rolling out of me. “It definitely did.”
She groans, covering her face. “Oh my God.”
“Hey, no need to be embarrassed,” I tease. “I can work a tool or two.”
Her blush climbs deliciously up her neck. She swats my arm. “I meant the ones in your garage.”
“Me too,” I say, feigning innocence but failing miserably.
She shakes her head, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
“But charming,” I counter.
“Debatable,” she mutters, but there’s laughter in her voice.
I pour two glasses of wine and hand her one, our fingers brushing, just enough to make my pulse skip. “What are we toasting to?” she asks.
“To you getting your guy,” I say, holding up my glass.
I catch it, her briefest hint of hesitation before she nods. Is she worried about not getting her guy, or is it something else entirely? “Sounds good to me.”
Our glasses clink softly, and I’m about to set mine down when she stops me.
“Uh-uh,” she says, wagging a finger. “You have to drink or it’s bad luck.”
“Here I thought hockey players were the superstitious ones,” I say taking a sip. “Can’t risk bad luck with scallops on the line.”
She laughs again, the sound easy and bright, before her expression softens. She goes quiet, thoughtful for a moment, before asking softly, “Is it okay if I ask who Coleson is?”
The question hits me like a body check I didn’t see coming. My chest tightens, and I turn away for a second, pretending to fuss with the pasta box.
“You know how we visit the children’s hospital, right?” I start, my voice quieter now. I drop the linguine into the pot, needing something to do with my hands. “Coleson was one of the kids I spent time with.”
I pause, remembering his grin—too big for his tiny face—and the way he’d light up the whole ward when I walked in wearing my jersey. “He was… incredible. Brave. Way tougher than me.” My throat thickens, and I swallow hard. “He didn’t make it.”
“Oh, Jaxon…”
She sets her glass down and steps closer, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I turn toward her, and before I can even think, she’s in my arms, warm, soft, real. I hold her tight, breathing her in.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the soft boil of water and the quiet beat of her heart against my chest. I don’t share much about those hospital visits.
The kids, their families—it’s heavy stuff, too personal, too raw.
But standing here with her, her arms around me, it doesn’t feel so heavy.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes glisten. “You’ve got a big heart, you know that?”
I try for a grin, but it comes out crooked. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my tough guy rep.”
She smiles, her fingers brushing my cheek. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I know it is, which is why I let her into my garage in the first place.
I press my mouth to her neck and breathe in the faint trace of shampoo and something sweet, like vanilla and heat.
“I make them all ornaments,” I murmur against her skin, my voice rougher than I intend.
A low, broken laugh shakes free from my chest. “Little Emily wasn’t too impressed last year, however.
She wanted a doll.” I pull back, meeting her curious eyes.
“Problem was, I didn’t know how to make a doll.
So I called up Gabby, you know, Roman’s wife who designs clothes for all the teams. She gathered all her friends, and they stayed up late, sewing dolls by hand.
Gabby donated all the fabric and they made tiny dresses with sequins and lace.
You should’ve seen the girls’ faces when they opened those boxes. ”
“I’ve seen the clothes she makes. They’re incredible,” she says softly, her gaze fixed on mine, full of warmth and something that feels a lot like awe. “That was… unbelievably sweet of you.”
I shrug. “Sometimes, I don’t get to hand them out in person.
Life gets in the way. Games, travel…sickness.
Sometimes…” I choke on my words as I force them out.
“Sometimes, they don’t make it to Christmas.
So I bring the ornaments home, hang them on the town’s Christmas tree.
” My throat tightens. “That way, they’re not forgotten. ”
Tears pool in her eyes. “You’re the one who does that?” she asks, her voice wavering.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I had no idea,” she whispers. “You’ve never said anything.”
“It’s just something I like to keep private,” I admit. “It’s not about the credit. It’s about the quiet part of it…” I tap my heart. “…the part that belongs only to me. To them. You know?”
Her expression softens, that empathy of hers shining like light through glass. “I get it,” she says, and her hand comes up to my cheek. “Some things are meant to stay close to the heart.”
She leans in and kisses me, a soft press of lips that carries more weight than words ever could. When she pulls back, her cheek brushes mine. “You are a man of many surprises.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers lingering just long enough to feel her shiver.
My heart gives a strange little flip, an ache wrapped in something tender and new.
Part of me knows I should turn down the boiling water before it spills over, but another part doesn’t want to move.
Not when her warmth is pressed against me. Not when she’s looking at me like that.
“I did see some very nice wooden fire truck ornaments. What are they for? You have a side gig I don’t know about?”
I chuckle. “Last year I was working in the garage, and my small grinder ignited dust and set off the fire alarm. The next thing I knew, sirens were sounding and the fire department arrived. Then a few weeks later, I ran into Owen, one of the firefighters. He was visiting a young patient, and we got to talking. Now we’re friends and I make ornaments for their department. ”
“You are something else, Jaxon.”
The pot hisses behind her, and she glances over her shoulder. I give her a playful tap on the hip, knowing I have to break the moment, even though I don’t want to. “Why don’t you sit, sip your wine, and let me give you another surprise?”
Her brow arches, lips curving. “Another one?”
“Food,” I clarify quickly, grinning. “What did you think I meant?”
She laughs, tilting her chin in that teasing way that kills me. “That’s what I thought you meant.”
Laughing and feeling lighter, I turn back to the stove, drop the pasta into the bubbling water, and set the timer. Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of salt and heat and everything I don’t say out loud.
“I feel like I should be doing something,” she murmurs.
“You are,” I tell her, glancing over my shoulder. “You’re drinking your wine. That’s your only job.”
She sips, eyes dancing. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
I chuckle. “Not even close.”
“I’ll warn you now,” she says, smirking. “I’m already a sure thing.”
That does me in. I brace my hands on the counter and lean toward her, closing the space between us until the air tightens. My voice drops low. “Babe, I want you relaxed, not drunk, because I want you to remember everything I do to you.”
She swallows, a slow, visible movement that makes my pulse stutter. Her lips part. “Relaxing,” she mumbles, taking another sip just to steady herself.
I grin, slow and sure, watching her over the rim of my glass. “That’s my girl.”
I turn back to the stove, the sauce bubbling softly. “So, do you do any other kinds of woodworking?”
I glance over my shoulder. She takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of her glass.
“Yeah, I make beds and nightstands sometimes. Mostly for family or friends. It started as a hobby, something to do in the off-season. There’s just something grounding about it, you know?
Using your hands to make something solid. Permanent.”
“Wow. You’re kind of impressive, you know that?”
“Actually, I do.”
I can’t help it, I laugh, and she does too, shaking her head.
“Hockey players and their egos,” she teases.
“Okay, tell me this. What’s your superstition?
Do you wear the same socks or underwear all season?
” Before I can even answer, she laughs again.
“Wait. Don’t tell me, you still knock three times on the boards before stepping onto the ice. I remember that from high school.”
I turn, surprised. “You saw that?”
She gives me a pointed look. “Reporter, remember? Not much gets by me.”
“Except the ornaments,” I remind her with a grin.
She lifts a shoulder, pretending to look offended. “Yeah, okay, fair. So what other secrets are you keeping from me? You don’t have a secret family somewhere, do you?”
“Nope. No secret family,” I say, stirring the sauce and turning down the heat. “Still knock three times before I skate out though.” She nods approvingly, and I add casually, “Oh, and I also have full-blown conversations with one of Aunt Elaine’s feral ferrets. You know who Aunt Elaine is, right?”
“Yeah, Penn’s aunt. A little eccentric, but lovable.”
“Right.”
She blinks once. Twice. “You… talk to her feral ferret?”
“Yup,” I say, keeping a perfectly straight face as I grab a clean pan for the scallops. “It’s not like that crazy cat Muffin—the one who’s supposedly the reincarnation of her sixth husband, Earl. That would be crazy.”
Her lips twitch. “Yeah… crazy,” she echoes softly, though her tone says she’s genuinely wondering if she should be concerned.
I bite back a grin, pretending to focus on the pan. “You’re learning all kinds of things about me tonight, huh?”
She narrows her eyes. “Like what exactly do you say to this ferret?”
“Oh, you know, he just gives me pep talks. Boosts my confidence before games.”
“Uh-huh.” She stares at me, speechless for a long beat and I’m unable to hide my smirk. “Jaxon…” Her eyes dart toward the counter, like she’s searching for something to throw. “You had me going for a minute there.”
Her laugh bursts free, and I can’t help but join in. I lean across the counter and catch her lips in a quick, soft kiss.
“For a hard-hitting journalist,” I murmur, still close enough to feel her breath against my skin, “You’re pretty gullible.”
She smacks my shoulder lightly. “I am not. That could’ve been totally believable. You athletes are a strange bunch.”
“Maybe,” I say, backing up to grab placemats and utensils, still smiling. “But at least we’re entertaining.”
“Entertaining, yes,” she says with a grin. “Sane? Jury’s still out.”
I gesture toward the table. “You want to eat at the island or set up over there?”
She glances at the small round table tucked by the window. The glow from the hanging light turns her hair gold, her expression is softer now, less teasing. “Table’s good,” she says quietly.
Something in the way she says it—gentle, sure—hits me right in the chest. I nod, reaching for the plates, and as the scent of garlic and scallops fills the air, I realize this easy laughter, this warmth in my home, the easy conversation with an incredible woman is exactly what I’ve been missing.
But I’m not looking for anything more and neither is she.