78. Ryan
Ryan
Jackson stood by the front door, his gear bag heavy in his hand, that fucking cap on backward, but his eyes never left mine.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor.
I shook my head, my fingers still dug into the fabric of his hoodie.
“I can’t, Jackson. The noise… the people…
I can’t handle a crowd right now.” He dropped the bag and walked back to me, kneeling so we were eye level.
“It’s not a crowd, Ryan. It’s my rink. It’s my safe place, and the guys?
They’re my unit. If you’re with me, I know you’re safe.
” He held out his hand, a silent promise.
“Trust my unit.” I took a ragged breath and finally reached for him, letting him lead me out into the gray Seattle morning.
As we approached the massive, looming hockey stadium, the sensory assault began.
My hand tightened in Jackson’s, my knuckles white, but he didn’t pull away.
He threaded his fingers through mine, his grip firm and grounding.
As we crossed the threshold of the employee entrance, he didn’t let go.
Walking hand in hand into his world was the most terrifyingly public thing I’d ever done, but the heat of his palm against mine was a shield I hadn’t known I was allowed to carry.
The anxiety was a screaming siren in my head, but Jackson was the frequency that tuned it out.
We ran into the Coach near the tunnel. He was a mountain of a man with eyes that seemed to catalog everything in a single glance.
I braced for the reprimand, the military reflex to stand at attention coiling in my gut.
Instead, he just looked at our joined hands and then up at me, a brief, respectful nod acknowledging the man, not the rank.
“Glad to see you, Ryan,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.
“Jackson, get your ass on the ice. Ryan, the suite is all yours.” He clapped Jackson on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that made the air in the hallway feel a little easier to breathe.
The proper introduction was, predictably, at the private viewing suite above the rink at the Tidal Teals practice facility.
Jackson had warned me that Logan and Donovan were “a lot,” but I still wasn’t prepared for the sheer volume of Logan’s welcome.
“Splash, you absolute legend! Jackson’s been writing novels about you for what feels like years,” Logan roared, pulling me into another one of his signature, spine-crushing hugs.
Donovan, ever the Captain, approached with a respectful handshake.
“Ryan. Glad to finally meet you properly. I know how much you mean to him.” We talked for half an hour about everything but the war, the new uniforms, the team’s playoff chances, and whether Jackson’s cat, Puck, still held him hostage.
The final introduction came when Logan’s daughter, Willow, burst in, wearing a full-body pink unicorn tutu and holding a drawing.
She didn’t look at me like a soldier or a pen pal; she just saw the man Jackson loved.
“Did you bring me a duck?” she demanded, eyes wide, hand on her hip.
I knelt down and pulled out the crisp, watercolor drawing I’d packed, a tiny, perfect teal duck.
Her eyes lit up. “This one is the best one you’ve done!
You can sit next to me today.” Her simple, total acceptance of the man behind the armor was the most profound welcome I could have received.
Willow tilted her head, her eyes tracking from the watercolor duck in her hand up to mine.
I felt the familiar weight of my own gaze, sharp, guarded, the soldier still looking for a threat.
“Are you really a soldier?” she asked, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that cut through my tension.
“My daddy says soldiers are like superheroes, but they don’t wear capes because they’d get caught in the propellers. ”
A soft, huffed breath of a laugh escaped me, and I felt my shoulders drop just a fraction. “Something like that, Willow. No capes for us, though.”
“And Jackson says your name is Splash,” she continued, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “Is that because you’re really good at swimming, or because you like to jump in puddles?”
Jackson stepped forward, resting a hand on the back of the sofa.
His eyes found mine over her head, filled with a warmth that made the room feel smaller, safer.
“It’s a bit of both, Willow,” he interjected.
“But think of it like this: in hockey, sometimes a player has to take a dive to block a shot and protect the net, right? Ryan’s like the ultimate defenseman.
He took a big splash to make sure his whole team stayed safe. ”
She nodded slowly, as if Jackson had just explained a fundamental law of the universe.
“So you’re the goalie without the big pads?
That sounds scary.” She patted my knee with a sticky hand, a tiny, grounding touch.
“It’s ok. Jackson is really good at checking people who are mean.
” She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the seats.