Chapter 51
fifty-one
Jackson
The ice feels different under my skates tonight.
Not unfamiliar.
Not wrong.
Just… heavier.
Like I’m stepping back into something that kept moving while I was gone, something that didn’t wait for me to catch up, something that expects me to slot back into place like nothing happened.
The arena is loud.
Too loud.
The kind of noise that used to light me up, that used to settle into my bones and make everything feel sharp and alive and easy, but tonight it hits me in waves, like I’m slightly out of sync with it, like my body remembers how to respond but my head is still somewhere else.
Still back in that apartment. Still with her.
I adjust my grip on my stick, rolling my shoulders as I glide into position, forcing myself to focus, to lock in, to do what I’ve done a thousand times before.
This is mine.
This is what I do.
The puck drops. Everything narrows instantly. Instinct takes over. Movement replaces thought.
I push off hard, cutting across the ice, reading the play before it fully forms, anticipating the pass before it leaves the blade. My body falls into rhythm before my mind catches up, muscle memory pulling me into place, into speed, into the game.
And for a few seconds, I forget.
Not completely. Not in a way that erases her.
But enough that something loosens in my chest, enough that the tight, constant tension I’ve been carrying eases just slightly.
I take the pass clean, pivot, drive forward. The defense closes in.
I slip past one, shoulder checking just enough to create space, pulling the puck across my body before snapping it toward the net.
The goalie blocks. Rebound kicks wide, and the crowd reacts, loud, immediate, alive.
I skate through it, breath steady, pulse elevated in a way that feels familiar again.
And that’s when it hits me. I still love this. Not in the same careless way I used to. Not in the way where it was everything, where it defined me, where it was the only thing I needed.
But it’s still there.
The pull.
The rhythm.
The satisfaction of moving with purpose, of knowing exactly where I fit in a moment, of being part of something bigger than just my own head.
Lia was right.
The thought lands quietly but firmly. She told me not to give this up. Told me not to throw away something I built because everything else feels too big right now.
And standing here, skating this ice, feeling my body respond the way it always has, I get it. I can have both. I can want this, and still want her more.
The period pushes on. The game stays tight.
Back and forth. Every goal matched. Every push answered.
I catch flashes of the crowd between shifts, flashes of signs held up against the glass, names scrawled in bold letters, bright colors catching the light.
“Marry me, Jackson.”
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s so far from where I am now that it feels unreal.
They have no idea. They’re still looking at me like I’m the same guy I was months ago.
Single.
Untouchable.
Available.
They don’t see her in the background of everything yet.
They don’t understand what that post meant. They think it’s a hint. A tease. A maybe. Not a statement. Not a claim. Not the truth.
My jaw tightens slightly as I push off the bench again, jumping back onto the ice, chasing the puck down the boards.
That’s going to change.
Soon.
The second period bleeds into the third. The score stays close. Too close. One mistake. That’s all it takes and we make it. They capitalise. The puck hits the back of the net with a sharp, final sound that seems to echo louder than it should. The crowd surges.
We don’t. We push back. Hard. But not enough. The clock runs out with us down by one.
And the loss settles in that quiet, frustrating way that close games always do, heavy, but not devastating, the kind that lingers under your skin instead of ripping through you.
I pull my helmet off as we skate off, dragging in a breath that feels like it should mean more than it does.
Because part of me is disappointed.
Of course it is.
We should have had that. We could have had that. But another part of me, a quieter part, just feels… steady.
Like something has settled into place. Like I’ve proven something to myself without needing to say it out loud.
I can still do this. I can still be here. And it doesn’t take anything away from what I have with her.
In the locker room, the energy is mixed. Muted frustration. Low voices. Gear hitting the floor.
Zach sits across from me, pulling his gloves off slowly, and when he glances up, I catch it.
Relief.
Not obvious. Not something anyone else would notice.
But I see it. The looseness in his shoulders. The way his expression isn’t tight with loss. He doesn’t want this anymore.
Not the way I still do.
And I get that too.
I grab my phone from my bag, flipping it over without thinking.
A notification sits there. From her.
Good luck. I love you.
My chest tightens.
I stare at it for a second longer, thumb hovering over the screen before I open it, reading it again like the words might change if I look at them long enough.
They don’t.
They just settle deeper.
Everything in me softens. Because this, this is what matters. Not the signs. Not the noise. Not the pressure.
Her.
Us.
I flick over to my post. The photo of our hands. Simple. Intentional. Mine wrapped around hers. Captioned exactly how I meant it.
My one and only.
The comments are exactly what I expected.
Shock.
Denial.
People arguing in threads like they’ve been personally wronged.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No way he’s actually taken.”
“Who is she???”
“Delete this.”
I exhale slowly. They don’t get it. Not yet. But they will. Because this is just the beginning. A tap on my shoulder pulls me back.
“Media wants you.”
Of course they do. I nod once, pushing to my feet, grabbing a clean shirt and dragging it over my head as I move. Zach falls into step beside me.
“You good?” he asks quietly.
I huff out a breath.
“They want me to be the show pony again.”
He gives a small, knowing look.
“Yeah.”
I run a hand through my hair, jaw tight.
“I don’t want to stand up there and pretend I’m still that guy,” I mutter. “I’m not.”
He doesn’t argue.
He doesn’t need to.
I glance at him, something else forming, something that’s been sitting in the back of my mind since this morning, since that moment at the table.
“I need more, Zach.”
He looks at me properly now.
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t marry her,” I say quietly, the words sitting heavier than I expected. “Not legally. Not the way I want to.”
His expression shifts slightly, understanding already there.
“But I need something,” I continue, pushing through it. “I need something that’s mine. Something that shows it. Something that makes it clear, to everyone.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I want a commitment ceremony,” I say. “Something for us. For her. Where I get to stand there and claim her properly. Where I get to wear a ring too.”
The idea lands fully as I say it.
Solid.
Right.
“I want people to see that I’m taken,” I add, quieter now. “Not just hear it. Not just guess. Know it.”
Zach watches me for a second, then nods slowly.
“I don’t hate that.”
Relief hits sharper than I expected.
“You don’t?”
“No,” he says, thoughtful. “I think… I think it makes sense. For all of us.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“When we get back,” he continues, “we talk about it properly. With her. With Elijah.”
I nod once.
“Yeah.”
Because that’s the next step. Not just telling the world. Building something real. Something visible. Something that anchors this in a way that can’t be questioned.
We reach the hallway leading to media. The noise shifts again. Different kind of pressure. Different kind of expectation.
I roll my shoulders back, straightening slightly, forcing myself into place. Because this is part of it too.
The spotlight.
The questions.
The performance.
But this time, I’m not stepping into it as the same guy.
I’ve got something behind me now.
Something real.
Something worth it.
I glance down at my phone one last time before I pocket it. Her message still open. Her words still sitting there.
And for the first time since I walked into this arena, I feel steady. Grounded. Ready.
I step forward and face the cameras.