30. Jolie
30
JOLIE
A s soon as I walk through the door to the apartment, Delilah’s already yelling, “You’re home in time to catch the last period!”
She ushers me into the living room, taking my bag and discarding it by the wall before she pats the couch. I almost hesitate, Jax’s letter is still on my mind, but Delilah’s enthusiasm draws me to her. It’s not like the note is going anywhere. I hustle over and grab some Twizzler popcorn before tossing it in my mouth. I almost forgot it was the playoffs.
Delilah has been beside herself since her team made it. “The Redhots are up by two. Really hoping they’ll score a couple more goals before the end of the game.”
“How was your day?” I ask Lark, my hand fighting hers in the bowl as we both go for a big scoop of popcorn.
“Great!” Lark says between bites. “The Institute finally sent out the list for the Summit.”
“And?”
“Looks like you’ll have time to get sick of me in a whole other country!”
We both squeal, and Delilah ignores us, eyes glued to the television, her entire body is tense.
I loop an arm around Lark’s shoulder. “Love that for us.”
It’ll be so amazing to see her dance again and have a buddy for the trip since my closest friends from the corps weren’t invited. Plus, I’m always down for another Blake buffer. “Do you know what you’re dancing yet?”
“Nope. I’m thinking of maybe the Emerald’s first variation from Jewels . You know I love me some Balanchine choreography.”
“Oh, you’d do amazing with that!” I’m already imagining her beautifully long legs sweeping with her tulle, moving gracefully through the fluid arm movements, spinning across the stage. Lark’s body is naturally long, whereas I’m built more petite. Working for those impeccable lines took me years.
“Plus, there’s a green corset-and-tutu ensemble I’ve had my eye on in the costume department.”
“Of course there is.” Leave it to Lark to pick her piece based on the costume.
“Well, if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it in style. Right?” She nudges me with her elbow.
“Right—”
“Steal that!” Delilah shouts, and our heads snap back up to her. She’s standing and jumping in place. “Go, go, go!”
Myles crosses the blue line on a breakaway. The defensemen speed toward him, trying to catch up, but they are not fast enough. Approaching the net, Myles dekes to the right and strikes it past the goalie’s glove.
“Myles puts it top shelf, extending the lead to three!” the announcer shouts.
Delilah and the crowd roar as a crimson banner pops up on the screen with a close-up of Winston’s face.
My blood runs cold.
That face. If you shifted the olive skin and green eyes and grew out his blond hair, he’s the spitting image of…Jax. They could nearly be twins, minus Winston’s crooked nose and the severeness of Jax’s bone structure. It’s so eerily familiar that on instinct I reach for my phone and pull up the search engine, typing in his name to learn more about him.
Winston Myles is from outside Boston, has played for the Richmond Redhots for six seasons, and is one of their best wingers. When I reach the part about a childhood hockey tragedy, my pulse skyrockets. The ice cracked under both of their skates, but his older brother shoved him out of the way, falling in before he could save himself. Winston was eight at the time, his older brother had just turned fourteen. When I read the name, the confirmation knocks the wind from my lungs.
Jaxon Myles.
Frantically, I type the name into the search bar, clicking on anything I can find to tell me more. A few youth hockey league clippings pop up, along with four articles about the accident and a local obituary. I read each one, on the verge of tears as I stare over and over again at the grainy photographs of a young boy with wayward blond hair and pale-green eyes.
Jax.
I rush to my room, heart pounding at the revelation of his story. He never told me how he died, and now I know why. He’d drowned in an icy lake, not unlike my own death.
My mind spins back to the fear I had of going into the ice baths at the studio. The idea of submerging myself beneath its frosted surface terrified me. Yes, Jax is dead. Yes, his memories have faded. But the courage he must have felt to get to me…then watch me die. The moment the light was snuffed from my mother’s eyes, her lips parted, never to inhale or kiss my forehead again… It was still a memory I had to recall from a distance, otherwise I’d shatter. Watching his mate die in such a familiar way must have struck some deep part of him.
I wish I could hug him. Tell him about his brother. Talk to him about what I’d learned about his past.
My heart aches for the nearness of him.
I glance over at the peonies decorating my desk, and smile. Remembering the card, I grab my bag and pull it out, flipping it over and squinting to read his squiggled words.
Tempest,
I miss you so much. Can’t stop thinking about the last time I saw you.
My mind flits back to the night at the studio, and my chest flushes with heat. Finally seeing Jax and his otherworldly glory would be ingrained in me forever. The chill of his fingertips grazing my skin. The texture of his captivating marks pressed to my back. The desperation of his kiss as we fought against Fate’s constantly ticking clock.
If you’re reading this, then Briar was able to get my message to you—hopefully he wasn’t too grumpy about it. He’s been working overtime after our little solstice stunt. I’m not allowed to leave Nivea until hopefully next season, after I hibernate. Until I’m allowed out, I’ll be unreachable.
In the meantime, don’t stop believing, Tempest. I am counting down the days until you see me again. Remember: Even though the seasons keep us apart, I’m still here.
Always here and always yours.
Love your favorite Frost,
Jax
I chuckle at that last part. Even when he’s hidden away in hibernation, it’s like he knew I’d need these words. This reminder.
Him.
Maybe we can’t be together right now, but he’s no less with me. No less devoted. The least I can do is continue to believe in him. In us. If he’s out next season, during our summer, there’s a chance that I could be seeing him sooner rather than later…
I fold up the note and tuck it into my blank journal. Its pages have yet to be filled, every single one pristine. Empty until tonight.
I print off the articles about his life and, piece by piece, I begin to bring our story to life. Starting with his.