Chapter 18
18
JONAS
I spot them during warm-up. Three figures in the family section—two tiny ones in Aftershocks gear and one trying very hard to look professional while wearing my jersey number.
For a second, I think I'm seeing things. Wouldn't be the first time pre-game adrenaline played tricks on my focus. But then Lukas stands up, holding what has to be the world's largest "GO DAD!" sign, definitely made with his signature combination of hockey sticks and glitter.
Jace bounces next to him in her own tiny jersey, waving what appears to be a princess wand. And between them...
I miss my next warm-up shot completely.
"Eyes on the ice, Knight," Coach barks, but he's grinning. Because of course he knows. Everyone knows. Except me.
My teammates zoom past me, smirking and slapping me on the back. One of my buddies actually winks as he goes by. "Nice support section, man."
I glance up again. Alexa's trying to wrangle the kids back into their seats while simultaneously pretending this is all very professional research. Her notepad's out, like she's actually here to write about hockey instead of making my heart stop in the middle of warm-ups.
Vince appears rinkside, tablet in hand. "PR's going to have a field day with this. The prodigal travel writer returns? Social media's blowing up."
"Focus, Knight!" Coach shouts as another shot goes wide.
But how do you focus when everything you've been missing is sitting in the family section, wearing your number and trying not to look like they never went missing to begin with?
The game starts rough. I'm distracted, off my rhythm, watching the stands instead of the puck. Coach is going to kill me if I don't get it together.
Then I hear it—Lukas's voice cutting through the crowd noise: "DAD! HOCKEY TIME!"
Just like he used to yell during practice. Before Paris. Before fear. Before running.
Something clicks.
The next play flows perfectly. The one after that even better. By third period, we're up by one and I'm playing like I've got something to prove.
Maybe I do.
Two minutes left. Tie game. The kind of moment that defines seasons.
I glance up one more time. Alexa's given up all pretense of professional distance, standing with the kids as they scream encouragement. She's even got Jace's princess wand.
The puck drops.
Time slows.
Everything narrows to this moment.
Perfect pass coming my way.
Clean breakaway.
Just me and the net and everything that matters.
The shot feels right before it even leaves my stick.
Top shelf.
Back of the net.
Game winner.
The arena erupts.
I point to the family section before my teammates mob me. Just long enough to see three huge smiles. Just long enough to know I’m not hallucinating. This shit is real. It happened and everyone in the arena and watching on TV is my witness.
I drop to my knees, my stick hitting the ice with a crack. The helmet’s off before I even think about it, skidding halfway across the rink. I don’t care.
I look up, and there she is. Alexa.
My chest tightens, the kind of pressure that no amount of deep breaths or adrenaline can fix. She’s here. She’s actually, finally here and with the game over, I can finally be fucking blown away by that.
The kids are bouncing next to her, losing their minds like we just won the Cup. But it’s her who I can’t stop staring at. Her eyes lock on mine, and everything else—the crowd, the noise, the thrill of the win—blurs.
I rub a hand down my face, trying to pull it together, but there’s no hiding what’s going on inside me. This isn’t just a game. This isn’t just a win.
This is everything.
I push to my feet, slow, deliberate, my legs somehow heavier now than they were after sixty minutes of hockey. I tap my chest twice and hold her gaze.
She nods, just barely, but it’s enough.
I skate to the bench, adrenaline still buzzing, knowing one thing for sure—whatever happens next, I’m not losing her again.
The post-game interview questions hit like slapshots, quick and relentless.
What was the key to shutting them down in the third?
You’ve been in a bit of a scoring slump lately. How’d it feel to break out of that tonight?
Jonas, was that celebration for someone special in the stands?
I answer automatically, giving them just enough to chew on without actually saying anything. The usual script.
But my focus isn’t on them. It’s on the family section, where Alexa’s trying to keep the kids from diving over the railing in their excitement. She looks like she’s laughing. Like she belongs there.
"Big win tonight," Coach says as I head for the locker room. "Something click out there?"
I glance back at them—at her—waiting by the tunnel. And for the first time, the answer’s easy.
"Yeah," I say. "Everything."
The PR team descends before I'm even out of my gear. Vince's vibrating with excitement, tablet in hand, already planning how to spin this.
"The social media response is massive," he tells me, scrolling through stats. "That point to the stands? Instant viral moment. We're talking serious engagement numbers. The team's Instagram followers doubled in the last hour."
"Glad my personal life's good for business." I focus on unlacing my skates, trying to maintain a little normalcy in the middle of a circus.
"Don't be cynical. This is gold. The prodigal travel writer returns, the family reunion, the game-winning goal—you couldn't script this better."
What people really love, based on the media scrum outside, is watching Alexa try to maintain her professional facade while Jace and Lukas systematically destroy it. She's got her notepad out like she's actually here to cover hockey, but Jace keeps stealing her pen to draw on her brother’s arm.
One of my teammates passes by my stall, grinning. "Nice support section, Knight. Travel writer's got good timing."
"Shut up and hit the showers."
"Hey, I set up that winning play. I'm basically Cupid."
The media wants statements, sound bites, anything they can use to build the story. Vince's already drafting headlines: Love Conquers Paris and Family Over Fashion Week.
I ignore them all, focusing on getting changed. But when I finally make it through the locker room gauntlet, the scene in the family room stops me cold.
"We made dinner!" Lukas announces, practically bouncing. "A welcome home dinner!"
"With significant help," Alexa adds quickly, hanging back because all eyes are on us. "Very professional help. Your mother-in-law is actually terrifying in a kitchen. Did you know she has a specific spatula just for folding? Not stirring. Folding."
Gloria. Should have known she'd be involved. Probably had this planned since Alexa's first hint about coming home.
"She brought dessert too," he pipes up. "The special kind that—" He stops, suddenly uncertain about mentioning Genny's favorite.
"The kind Mommy used to make," Alexa says smoothly.
"The team PR wants a statement," Vince interrupts, still glued to his blasted tablet. "Something about family and second chances and?—"
"Tomorrow." I take Jace's hand, watch Alexa automatically grab Lukas's. Some instincts don't need time in Paris to figure out. "Family dinner first."
"Very professional," Alexa murmurs.
"The most professional."
The ride home is a fast one, and while Alexa and I have not had the chance yet for a “proper” greeting, our hands keep brushing up against each other’s, generating more tension than either of us knows what to do with.
The kids march us through their surprise dinner like generals commanding an army. Several of the dishes are decorated with what appears to be edible glitter. Gloria's been busy.
"We helped cook!" Lukas announces proudly. "I made the sauce look like ice!"
"I supervised, but most of it is their brainchild," Gloria assures me, smiling. "Though their creativity with food coloring is... unique."
"Very professional," Alexa agrees, then catches herself using our word. Her cheeks pink up just enough to notice.
The dinner's pure pandemonium—kids too excited to eat, everyone talking over each other, Gloria orchestrating her subtle campaign of blending old memories with new moments, Bert drinking my whiskey. But it works. Like plays that shouldn't connect but somehow do.
Vince keeps texting about press opportunities and PR angles:
ESPN wants an exclusive
Team social media breaking records
City falling in love with the story
But those can wait. Some stories need to play out in their own time.
"I want you," I tell Alexa later, after the kids are finally asleep and Gloria and Bert have gone home. "Not as a replacement. Not as a substitute. Just you, exactly as you are."
"Pandemonium and commitment issues included?"
"Our kind of pandemonium." I pull her closer. "Our kind of story."
Her notebook's still out, covered in Jace’s doodles and what might be the start of her next article. Always the professional. Even when professional flew out the window somewhere between Paris and home.
Some stories write themselves.
Some plays connect without planning.
Some pandemonium makes perfect sense.
Even if the PR team has to work overtime to spin it.
The real estate market in San Francisco is brutal, but Alexa attacks it with the same efficiency she uses to analyze five-star hotels. Her spreadsheets are more detailed than my playbooks— school district rankings, commute times to the practice facility, distance to essential amenities. She's even got a column for "hockey practice feasibility" in each backyard.
"This one has potential," she says, pulling up a listing on her laptop. "Fifteen minutes from the arena, top-rated schools, and the yard's big enough for whatever setup you're planning. Plus, the previous owner already reinforced the garage floor."
"For a home gym?"
"For your shot practice setup. I called the agent. Apparently, he was a baseball player. Had a batting cage installed."
Of course she checked. Same attention to detail she uses in her articles, just applied to finding our... my... the um, new house.
I tell her about an offer from the team. "It’s a new contract with an increased budget for taking the family on some of our away-game trips. They're calling it family-friendly, but we both know they're capitalizing on their viral moment."
"The PR team still riding that wave?"
"Vince's got a five-year marketing plan based on it. Apparently, family-man hockey players sell tickets. Plus, my game stats since you came back..." I let that hang there.
"Pure coincidence."
"Tell that to the analytics team. They've got charts."
She tries to maintain her professional expression, but I catch her smile. "Statistical anomaly."
"They've got spreadsheets that say otherwise." I watch her add another property to her database. "The contract's good. Better than I expected."
"Because of your game-winning heroics?"
"Because merchandise sales doubled when a certain travel writer started showing up in my jersey."
Not that they have any say it in, but the team wants this to work. It wants their star center settled, focused, playing like he did the other night.
"You know," she says, studying the house's floor plan with the same intensity I use for game film, "we could modify this space. Make it work better for—" She stops, catching herself planning a future she hasn't committed to. Yet.
"For what?"
"Professional research purposes."
But she's already marking potential office spaces on the blueprint. One for her writing, one for me. A shared space for what looks suspiciously like family gatherings.
The real estate agent sends more listings, each one carefully filtered through Alexa's specific criteria. She's got a system for everything—ranking houses like she used to rank hotels, just with different standards.
"The team's investment in your contract is significant," my agent mentions during review. "They're betting on stability."
"They're betting on consistency," I correct him. On ice and off.
"Either way, the terms are solid. Though they did add an interesting clause about maintaining 'positive family engagement' during home games."
Vince's influence, no doubt. He's probably already got next season's PR campaign planned, and I have no doubt it includes having the beautiful Alexa onsite for as many games as possible.
Later, while Alexa finishes up her house-hunting, I realize something. Every address she’s toured, every number she’s crunched, every late-night email I’ve sent to iron out the details—it’s all us choosing. Not with grand gestures, but with small, deliberate steps toward building something together.
"That’s some professional planning," I tell her, watching her add yet another column to her spreadsheet.
"Always," she agrees, labeling the new column "Future Considerations."
Some plays look risky on paper but feel right on the ice. Some shots you take not because they're safe, but because they're worth the risk. Some futures you choose not because they're easy, but because they're right.
The next house we look at has a backyard perfect for practice and an office with built-in bookshelves. Alexa adds it to her spreadsheet, but we both know it's already at the top of the list.
Just like some plays, you know they're good before you even take the shot.
Moments later, with the house to ourselves, I have Alexa on her knees, completely nude, her fingers playing with her already hard nipples. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders, and I can smell her arousal.
My dick instantly goes hard.
“What are you doing?” I ask in a strangled voice.
Her laugh is sultry. “Isn’t it obvious? I want you, Jonas. Desperately. But if you don’t want me, I can take care of myself. You can watch if you want.”
One of her hands lowers, and I watch in rapt fascination as her fingers circle her clit, then dip lower as they delve into her pussy. Alexa moans as she works herself, and precum leaks from the head of my dick.
“Do you want to fuck me, Jonas?” Her voice is throaty with desire. “I want you to. And I’ll tell you a secret. I want your cock in my mouth, down my throat. I want to taste you. Do you want me to?”
Goddamn.Guess she’d bottled all this up in Paris.
My hands shoot to my belt, and I struggle to unbuckle it. After kicking off my shoes, I drag my jeans and boxers down, then rip off my sweater with one hand.
“Fuck, baby,” I growl.
I take a step forward, then stop as Alexa moves her fingers to her mouth, sucking them clean of her own juices. Holy shit. Then she crawls toward me, rising to her knees as she reaches my feet.
Her lips encase the head of my cock. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the sensation of her lips and tongue.
“Suck it, baby,” I whisper.
“I will,” Alexa mumbles, her mouth full of me.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“I forgot to say please.”
With a muffled giggle, she dives down my length, working me, making wet, slurping sounds.
After a few more seconds, she backs away and then points at the bed. “Lay down, please,” she whispers.
She wastes no time straddling my face, lowering herself to my waiting mouth. She leans forward, completing our sixty-nine position, and takes my cock back into her mouth.
I devour her, probing as far as my tongue can stretch. I can’t get enough of her addictive pussy.
Moments later, she climbs off me and turns around. She grabs my cock, holding it upright, and lowers herself onto it. Inch by inch, she accepts me until I am balls deep inside.
She rises until my dick nearly exits, then collapses back down on me again, slamming her body into mine. “You’re covered in me,” she says, kissing me, all while pistoning my cock. “I needed this, Jonas. I needed you to fuck me tonight.”
I meet her thrusts, hiking my hips while holding her firm ass.
“Yeah, baby,” I urge.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
“I want to see you come,” I growl.
The urge to take control, to pound her, overtakes me. I push her off, positioning her on hands and knees to enter her from behind.
She moans loudly as I pound her. Again and again, I slam myself balls-deep, holding her tits. I explode. Moments later, she joins me.
After, she lies in my arms and I feel myself dozing off, only to wake when she’s jerking my cock back to full hardness. Without a word, she climbs on and rides me, facing away and giving me a perfect view of her lovely ass.
She moans, tossing her head. “Fuck, fuck yes. It feels so good.”
Every stroke swallows me to my balls. Every lunge is more powerful than the last. Alexa’s body goes rigid as she tightens around my cock, her breaths come shorter and more urgent, her moans louder.
“Oh . . . God!” she moans. “Fuck!”
Just when I think she’s done, another wave sweeps over her and she comes again, over and over, and when she finally climbs off my dick, she drops down next to me, sweaty and exhausted.
“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “I won’t leave you unsatisfied. I have a special surprise.”
A minute later, she crosses the bedroom to the kitchen, where the refrigerator opens. When she returns, she takes me into her mouth, her lips and tongue freezing cold from the ice cubes in her mouth. I have to say, I’ve never had the desire for ice on my dick, but it feels kind of wild, and I go with it.
She works my dick steadily, her tongue working my cock and balls. The ice quickly melts and her mouth goes from cold to just cool, then slowly warms back up to normal. The sensation is pretty fucking sexy.
With little warning, I explode again, this time down her throat. “Baby,” I howl. “Goddamn.”
Afterward, we’re tangled together in the dark, her hair spilling over my arm, her breath warm against my chest. I should say something, but the words stick in my throat. I’m not good at this—at feelings, at naming what’s there.
But I don’t need to. She’s here. That’s all I need.
Her fingers trace lazy circles on my ribs, and for the first time in a long time, life feels still. Steady. I can breathe again.
"Miss me when I was away?" she teases.
I smirk, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You have no idea."
She laughs, and it’s the kind of sound that makes everything worth it.
Yeah, she’s back. And this time, I’m not letting her go.