Chapter 26
Jefferson
“Is that the last one?” I ask, looking over the hood of the truck at Reid.
“Yep.”
We’ve just finished the third trip to the donation center, dropping off the boxes we’d tossed everything we no longer needed into over the last week.
“How the heck did we accumulate so much stuff?” I drop into the passenger seat of Reid’s truck.
“I want to know how we ended up with three fake Christmas trees?” he asks, cranking the engine of the old truck. “Or the seventeen coolers, although that one makes a little more sense.”
“The bigger question,” I remind him, “is how the hell did we end up cleaning the whole damn house by ourselves?”
“Yeah, that was a hard lesson to learn. Never be the last person to move out of the house.”
The past few days have been long and hard. Seeing our best friends pack up their belongings and head out toward the future. I’ve just been dragging my feet a little since my plans changed. I was supposed to go down to Florida for the Foundation event, but now I’m not sure what to do.
My phone sits in the cup holder, and when I pick it up, the screen is dark, like it’s mocking me.
Her silence has weight, pressing down on me until it’s hard to breathe.
I tell myself to give her space, like Reese suggested, to not be the guy who hovers and smothers.
I scroll back through the thread like an idiot, rereading what I’ve already sent, as if maybe the words will land differently the fifth time around. They don’t. The silence stays the same.
But the longer I sit here, the harder it is not to reach for the phone. Not to try again.
“What are you doing, man?” Reid asks, breaking my spiral.
“Fuck if I know.” I exhale and prop my elbow on the window edge. “She’s done with me.”
The streets of Wittmore fly by, and it feels weird to know this won’t be my home anymore.
“Do you remember when Shelby went back to Texas?”
“Yeah.” I know about it vaguely. They’d been seeing each other secretly because Axel couldn’t handle the idea of his little sister having sex–especially with his best friend. “To break up with that dumbass of a fiance in person, right?”
“Kind of.” His eyes stay trained on the road. “She gave me the brush off before she left. Like, not a goodbye but more about how she had to handle her life before we could move on.”
“I don’t think that’s what Ingrid is doing.” I didn’t even get a goodbye. It was a solid click in the ear. A hard hangup. A fuck you.
“Maybe, but with Shelby I didn’t just sit back and let her deal with it on her own. I flew out there, showed up at the door and supported her. I let her know I had her back even though the idea of facing her parents was scary as hell.”
“Reese said I should give her some space.”
He barks out a laugh. “Reese is full of shit. Remember how hard he pursued Twyler? Dude was relentless.”
“True.” There was a whole scene when she went to a team event with another guy. And then how he wooed her back with tickets to see the New Kings. He even drove down to Tennessee to get her back. “He didn’t mess around.”
“Nope. Just do what feels right, man. I mean, don’t be a psycho, but also? She owes you the right to explain yourself.”
“Yeah, but how do I get to her? This isn’t as easy as showing up at her parents’ house and holding a boom box over my head.” Marv would have me face down in the dirt before I got past the gate.
“You gotta get creative, dude.” He turns into the neighborhood. “Figure out what’s your boom box and make it happen.”
Later, I’m sitting at a booth alone, half-slouched against the cracked vinyl seat, working through a Jefferson Parks Special. The burger is greasy in all the right ways, familiar, like a ritual I’ve repeated a hundred times before games, after wins, after losses.
After winning the Frozen Four, Mike, the owner, added a framed photo of the team to the wall. It’s an honor to be up there among the old Wittmore jerseys, scuffed helmets, sticks signed in fading Sharpie. Every inch of the place smells like beer and fryer oil, sweat and nostalgia.
I should feel comfortable. Home. But all I can think is: this might be the last time I eat here. The last time I hear the hum of the busted neon sign or feel the sticky table under my elbows.
I take another bite listening to Reid’s words that keep bouncing around in my skull: Find your version of the boom box.
This is the part I can’t wrap my head around. Ingrid’s rich, famous, untouchable. She can buy whatever she wants, go wherever she wants, be with whoever she wants. What the hell can I give her that she can’t already get with a snap of her fingers?
“Want another beer to go with that heartattack?”
I look up to find Josie, the waitress who’s served me since I was a freshman with a peeling fake ID. She’s holding a tray cocked on one hip, hair escaping the messy bun on top of her head.
“Nah, I’m good.”
She doesn’t move. Just stares at me like she’s trying to read the fine print on my forehead. Finally, she asks, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
I force a smirk. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because in the four years I’ve served you, every single time you flirt with me and check out my tits.”
“I checked them out,” I argue automatically.
And yeah, I did. Josie’s got a great rack.
She wears this tight little cut off shirt with a V that leaves every straight guy in the bar drooling.
But I know what she’s saying. I’ve had a crush on her since the day I walked in here.
She’s older. Sexy as fuck. And completely out of my reach.
Truthfully, I’m glad it never worked out. She’s a cool chick and a good friend.
She sets her tray on the next table and slides into the booth across from me. I blink. I’ve never seen her sit before–not once.
“There’s also a full table of Phi Nu’s over there,” she says, tipping her chin toward the group of girls in tight tank tops and even tighter shorts. “And you’ve completely ignored them.”
“I came here to eat. Not to hook up.” I shoot her a look. “Or get harassed.”
“Well, whatever’s going on, Parks, you need to get it together.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve put all my money on The Surge to take the cup next year,” she says, smirking as she leans back in the booth. “And they’re gonna need you to do it.”
That earns a real laugh out of me, short and rough. “You have a lot of faith in me.”
Josie just grins, unbothered, and slides out of the booth. “You’re right, I do. You’re consistent, Jefferson. Determined. You came in here week after week and gave me your best shot, even when the odds were trash.”
“Yeah, well, I took all those shots and never scored. Some people would call those the actions of a lunatic. What’s the point?”
“Because someone had to be the one to tell you no.” She shakes her head, amused. “I watched you charm your way into the pants of half this campus. Every girl walked away thinking she’d won the lottery.”
“To be fair, everybody did leave happy.” I wink.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mutter.
Her smile softens, just a fraction and she adds, “Jefferson, don’t be afraid to use that mix of determination and charm to get what you want outside of hockey and getting off.”
I watch her weave back through the tables, and for a second the noise of the bar hits me all at once–the clatter of pitchers on wood, the chant of some frat boys arguing over the game on TV, the low hum of everyone else just living. I’ve been part of this background noise for four years.
It’s time for me to make something on my own.
I’m halfway back to the Manor when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
For a split second, every time the phone rings, my heart leaps straight into my throat.
The screen lights up with an unfamiliar number. I swipe to answer anyway. “Hello?”
“Jefferson Parks?” A clipped, professional woman’s voice comes through, crisp like someone who has no patience for wasted time. “This is Lila Harris, player-manager for the Surge. I’m calling to go over logistics for your arrival in September.”
“Ms. Harris.” My back straightens like she can see my posture through the line. My pulse is hammering so hard it’s almost stupid. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“Good. Let’s start with your housing placement. As you know, the team often pairs rookies with an established veteran during their first season. You’re being placed with Grant Pierce.”
I sit forward so fast my knee knocks into the coffee table. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Grant is one of our most reliable players.”
Reliable. That’s one word for the guy. The man’s a machine–top scorer for the Surge, absolute beast on the ice.
He’s the reason the team made it to the finals last year.
I’d watched him through high school and college, tried to mimic his power play drills, studied how he found open ice like it was instinct.
The idea of not only sharing a rink with him but also living with him? Unreal.
“That’s–” I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “That’s awesome.”
“I thought you’d approve.” She doesn’t sound amused, just efficient, as if she checked a box confirming my enthusiasm.
She moves on, rattling off details like she’s reading from a prepared script.
My flight information. What time I’m expected at the training facility.
The schedule for my physical, and training appointments.
She’s covering so much I feel like I should be taking notes, but all I’ve got is the phone in my hand to try to keep myself grounded.
Because this is real. It’s happening.
Then she launches into PR obligations.
“It’s important for the team to maintain a good reputation within the community,” she says. “So you’ll be expected to attend certain events, like school or hospital visits, charity fundraisers, meet-and-greets. We have longstanding partnerships with several organizations throughout Florida.”
I shift the phone from one ear to the other. “Sure, that makes sense. Wittmore has us do the same thing.”
She doesn’t pause. Just keeps rolling, her voice even and clipped: media training sessions, paperwork for W-2s, direct deposit, housing arrangements.
Somewhere between the HR talk and a mention of pre-season press photos, my brain starts to fog.
It’s not that I don’t care–it’s just a lot, and the steady stream of business talk feels a little like being back in class with Professor Hawkins droning on about financial systems.
Then something sparks.
An idea. An opportunity.
“Lila,” I interrupt before I can stop myself. “What if there’s an event I’d like to attend before the season starts?”
“An event you want to go to?” she repeats with a hint of incredulousness. “Before the season starts?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It’s obvious no one has ever asked her this before, but no one has been me. No one has had, what did Josie call it? ‘Determination and charm.’
No one else has had everything on the line.