71. Jackson
Jackson
Standing by the grill on the deck, my Tidal Teals hat pulled backward, I was feeling more relaxed than I had in years.
Ryan was perched on the edge of the couch in the living room, wrapped in one of my old hoodies, staring out at the Seattle fog.
His stillness was unnerving, a stark contrast to the explosive energy I was used to on the ice.
I checked my phone, practice skating started in forty minutes.
I grabbed my gear bag, the heavy, comforting scent of the rink already clinging to the nylon, and paused in the archway.
Leaving him alone felt like leaving my goalie hung out to dry, but I knew he needed the quiet.
I walked over, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head.
“I’ve left a note,” I murmured. “I’ll be back after the morning skate.
The cookies are in the pantry. Ryan, remember to breathe.
” He nodded once, acknowledging the instruction without looking away from the window, his focus as sharp.
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken concern.
The air outside was crisp. I pulled into the practice facility parking lot, my mind still half anchored to the man on my couch, and spotted Logan and Donovan leaning against the hood of Donovan’s SUV.
They looked like the same guys I’d known for years, but everything about my world had shifted.
“He’s at my house,” I said before Logan could even open his mouth.
Logan’s grin was uncharacteristically soft.
“He’s safe, Hayes. Now get your head in practice.
Coach is on a warpath today.” Donovan nodded toward the entrance, his expression steady.
“One step at a time, Jackson. He’s here, that’s the main thing.
” I grabbed my bag, the weight of the jersey finally feeling like a choice rather than a mask.