Chapter 2 Jax
Chapter Two: Jax
California plates. Black Honda Pilot. The dealership frame says Costa Mesa Honda, but I can barely make it out from here, taillights already swallowing into the dark.
I’m burning it into my head.
My hand’s throbbing. Blood on my knuckles, some of it dried, some of it fresh from where the skin split when I hit the old man. My face hurts worse—that’s from the game, from Theo’s elbow to my jaw. But my hand, that’s from her dad.
And I’m still pissed.
Not the kind of pissed that fades when you take a breath. The kind that sits in your chest like a hot coal, the kind that makes your teeth clench and your vision narrow and your whole body vibrate.
I want to get in my car and follow them. I want to drag him out of that Honda and break every bone in his hand so he can’t grab her like that again.
But I don’t move.
Because she stopped me. Put her hands on my chest and shoved me back, hard, and demanded that I stop. And there was something in her eyes that wasn’t fear of me.
It was fear of what I’d do to him.
Fear that I’d go too far and then she’d be stuck cleaning up the mess. Dealing with the cops. Dealing with the fallout. Dealing with him after I was gone.
So I let her push me back. Watched him throw her in the backseat like a ragdoll. Watched the younger girl in the front seat stare straight ahead, pretending none of this was happening.
And now it’s quiet.
The parking lot’s empty. The game’s still going. I can hear the crowd through the walls, muffled and distant.
I flex my hand. The knuckle’s already swelling. I want it to hurt. I want to remember this.
The way he grabbed her under the armpit and twisted. The way she screamed. The way her lip was bleeding, and she wiped it with the back of her hand, casual, like it was normal. Like she’d done it a hundred times before.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out.
My agent. Three texts.
Call me.
Now Jax.
The league is watching. Do NOT make this worse.
The Theo situation. Right.
I shove the phone back without answering.
The arena door opens behind me, and Poulton, the assistant coach, says, “What the hell, Jax.”
Poulton is the only one on staff who bothers to check if I’m still breathing these days. Others think I’m a lost cause.
I don’t turn around, still staring at where the Honda SUV disappeared.
“You gonna tell me what you’re doing out here?”
“Getting air.”
He walks around to face me and looks at my hand. “That from Theo?”
“Yeah.”
He stares at me. “You’re a shit liar.”
I shrug.
He shakes his head. “You fucked yourself tonight. You know that, right? For starting shit with Theo and threatening him.”
“I know.”
“You might be looking at a suspension. Three games, minimum.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He steps closer. “That’s it? Just okay?”
I look at him. He’s tired. Always tired when it comes to me.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me you’re not about to blow up this entire season over some petty bullshit.”
Petty bullshit.
Right.
“I’m not,” I say.
“You’re not what?”
“Blowing anything.” I scowl.
He shakes his head. “Get inside. Clean up. And stay the hell away from Theo.”
I nod and start walking.
“Jax.”
I stop.
“Whatever happened out here—let it go.”
I keep walking, hating that he knows what happened. At the very least, I wanted privacy. I don’t want to be painted as a fucking villain.
The locker room’s empty, and I can hear the game through the walls.
I head to the bathroom.
I let cold water run over my knuckles until they go numb. Pink swirls down the drain.
I splash my face. The cut on my lip stings and opens again. I press a towel against it.
When I look up, there I am in the mirror. Swollen cheek. Split lip. Bruise forming under my eye.
I look like my old man.
The thought comes out of nowhere, and I shove it down fast. Grab my phone. Open the notes app.
7KDL921. CA. Black Honda Pilot. Costa Mesa Honda.
Pink labubu on her purse.
I stare at the screen. Add another line.
I asked if he was her boyfriend.
Seeing her reaction was priceless. I’ll be keeping that shocked, disturbed expression in my pocket for a rainy day.
I close the app and pull up my contacts. I scroll to a name I haven’t used in months.
Danny. Ex-cop. Runs private security now.
Me: Need a favor.
Danny: Shoot.
Me: Can you run a plate? CA 7KDL921.
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Danny: You in some shit?
Me: Same shit
He knows what I mean, so he won’t question it.
I set the phone on the counter and grab the medical tape from the cabinet. I wrap my knuckles and pull it tight.
The locker room door slams and voices flood in. The game must be over now. I walk out of the bathroom.
“We won,” Melrose says. “Three-two.”
“Good.”
“You leaving?”
“Yeah.”
My phone buzzes, so I pull it out.
Danny: Registered to Jeffrey Clayton. 2847 Orangewood Ave, Anaheim.
The name doesn’t ring a bell, so I stare down at it for a moment too long. Jeffrey Clayton, huh?
I could drive there right now. It’s not far. Maybe thirty minutes.
I could knock on the door. Tell her she doesn’t have to live like this. That there are shelters, lawyers, and people who help with this kind of thing.
But I won’t.
Because showing up at her house in the middle of the night after I just punched her dad is not the move. That’s how you make things worse. That’s how people end up dead.
I know that because I grew up in a house where men showed up in the middle of the night. Where doors got kicked in and voices got loud, and my mom locked me in the bathroom and told me not to come out no matter what I heard.
I know that because I was fourteen the first time I put my fist through a wall. Sixteen the first time I hit someone who wasn’t hitting me back. Eighteen the first time someone looked at me the way that girl looked at her dad tonight.
Scared.
But also resigned. Like this was just how things were. Like there was no point fighting it.
I’m not my old man.
I’m not the guy who kicks in doors and makes things worse.
But I’m also not the guy who walks away.
So I’ll wait. I’ll figure out the right way to do this. I’ll find her, and I’ll tell her what nobody ever told me.
That you can leave.
That it doesn’t have to be this way.
That the person you’re protecting is the one doing the damage.
Me: Thanks.
Danny: Be smart, Jax.
I save the address and delete the conversation.
Melrose’s watching me as I grab my jacket.
“Zeff,” I call out.
He ties his shoes, glancing up at me.
I don’t need to say anything because he knows by the look in my eyes.
He nods, finishing up, and I walk outside before anyone else.
My phone lights up, but I silence it. Right now, I don’t give a shit about the league or suspensions or my career.
Right now, all I care about is the girl with blood on her lip and a pink labubu on her purse who looked at me like I was the first person who ever gave a damn.
And I’m going to make sure I’m not the last.
I halt in the parking lot, staring at where the scene unfolded. My blood is on fucking fire.
Fuck it.
The punch her dad threw at her face gnaws deep in my memory. I can’t just sit around knowing that she’s at home right now with that abusive fuck.
Fuck this. I’m going straight to her.
Zephyr walks out. “Are we hitting up the party?”
I look at him, answering his question with my eyes. “No.”