Chapter 56 Jax
Chapter Fifty-Six: Jax
I’m standing in the hallway of my house, watching my mom scream at Grant.
Grant Winchester. The man who’s been my hockey coach for four years. The man who taught me how to skate backward. The man who showed up to every single one of my games. The man my mom has been dating since I was ten.
The man whom I call dad because, legally, he’s my stepdad.
“You’ve been lying to me for four years!” My mom’s voice cracks. Raw. Broken. “Four fucking years, Grant!”
“Rebecca, please—”
“Don’t you dare.” She’s crying now. Mascara running down her face. “You have a whole other family you never told me about. You have a fucking daughter, Grant! And you kept us on the side like we’re some dirty secret!”
I should look away, should give them privacy, but I can’t move.
Grant runs his hand through his hair. The same way he does when he’s stressed during games. “She’s my ex-wife. I told you—”
“Ex?” My mom laughs. Hollow. “You took off our wedding ring! The one I gave to you! I checked your phone. I know you’ve been texting her, calling her. You’re meeting with her every time you leave here!”
“It’s not like that—”
“Then what is it like? Explain it to me. Explain why you’ve never let me meet your daughter. Why you’ve never brought her around. Why you keep us in separate worlds.”
Grant’s shoulders slump. “I can’t explain it, Bec––”
“What can’t you explain!” my mom snaps. Her face is bright red.
“Her husband is dangerous, Rebecca. He’s violent. I didn’t want him anywhere near you or Jax.”
My mom shakes her head. “That’s bullshit. That’s fucking bullshit, Grant!”
“It’s not. I’m trying to help her. I’m trying to help my daughter before things go south.”
“And in the meantime, what? You just keep fucking both of us?”
The word makes me flinch.
Grant reaches for her. She steps back. “Don’t touch me.”
“Rebecca—”
“Get out.” Her voice is steel now. “Get out of my house. Go back to your ex. Your daughter. Your real family.”
“You are my—”
“Get. Out.”
Grant looks at me then. His eyes are red. Tired. “Jax—”
I don’t say anything as I stare at him. His shoulders are slumped. He shakes his head at me. “It’s not what you think––”
“Don’t tell my son lies!” my mom snaps, standing in front of me.
I watch over her shoulder as he nods and walks out the front door.
My mom walks to the front window and watches him get in his car. Then she wipes her face and straightens her shoulders.
“We’re following him,” she says.
“Mom—” I try to argue.
“Get in the car right fucking now, Jax.”
I sprint out to the car right after her. I climb into the passenger seat, and she gets behind the wheel.
And then she starts driving like a maniac.
We follow him.
“Mom, what are we doing?”
She doesn’t answer. She just keeps her eyes on Grant’s car three vehicles ahead.
“Mom?”
“He’s a liar.” Her voice is flat. Emotionless. “And I want to see it. I want to see her.” She turns to me. “He has a daughter, Jax. She’s your age, and not once did he mention her. You’ll never understand how it feels, Jax. He’s a fucking liar!”
We follow him for twenty minutes, through neighborhoods I don’t recognize and past strip malls and gas stations.
Then he pulls into a parking lot of a… bar? I think it’s a bar.
My mom parks across the street and turns off the headlights.
“Are we just going to sit here?” I ask.
“We’re just going to sit here,” she says flatly.
Grant gets out of his car and walks into the bar. My mom’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
A minute passes. Two.
Then Grant walks back out.
But he’s not alone.
There’s a woman with him. She’s beautiful. Dark hair. Laughing at something he said.
My mom makes a sound. Something between a sob and a laugh. “There she is.”
“That’s her?”
“Ex-wife,” she corrects. Voice bitter. “Allegedly.”
They’re standing close. Grant keeps his distance from her, but I can tell they’re comfortable with each other.
Then a car screeches into the parking lot. The driver’s door flies open, and a man jumps out. He’s big, angry, and charging toward them.
“What the fuck—” my mom breathes.
The man grabs the woman and yanks her away from Grant. They’re yelling. I can’t hear the words, but I can see the violence in the man’s movements.
Grant steps between them and tries to calm the situation.
The man shoves him. Hard.
“We should help,” I say. “We should call—”
“Look.” My mom points.
I see them then. In the backseat of the man’s car.
Two girls. One my age. One much younger.
The older girl is staring out the window. Face pale. Terrified.
“There’s his daughter,” my mom says. “Just like he said.”
“Both of them?” I ask. “I have two stepsisters?”
She turns to me. Her face is hard. “They are not your sisters. Understand me? It’s just his daughter. God knows if the four-year-old is his too.”
I don’t respond, swallowing the lump in my throat. I watch as the man drags the woman toward the car. Grant follows, trying to help, still trying to fix it.
The woman gets in the car. Grant races into his car and pounds on the glass, trying to open the door.
The man gets back in the driver’s seat and peels out of the parking lot.
My heart’s racing so fast as I watch his daughter in the backseat. Her head sways with the car’s motion.
My mom starts the car. “Hold on.”
“Mom, what are you—”
“I said hold on.”
She takes off, flying after Grant’s car. She follows them, not keeping her distance.
We drive for ten minutes through residential streets. It’s a quiet neighborhood.
When the car in front of us stops, my mom drives around the block and parks facing the opposite direction.
“He’s a cheating son of a bitch. And it looks like she is too, and her husband isn’t happy about it.”
We sit there, staring at a house I’ve never seen before.
The man gets out first. Then the woman. Then Grant. The man drags the woman into the house, leaving the kids in the car.
The older girl climbs out of the backseat, reaches back in, and pulls out the little one.
I would look at my mom to see if she’s okay, but I’m too concerned with this girl. She’s my age, and oddly enough, I feel a tightness in my chest. She’s pretty.
I watch the girl struggle with the child. I watch as she carries the child toward the front door.
When the door opens, my mom rolls down the window to listen.
Cold air rushes in. It feels like the ice rink. Sharp. Biting.
“Should we help them?” I ask.
My mom shakes her head and whispers, “No. They want to cheat, so this is the consequence.”
Through the window, I see movement. Shadows. Bodies colliding.
Someone’s fighting. Then I hear the voices and loud banging.
“Mom,” I say.
My mom grabs my hand. Hard. “No. We just wait.”
“Should we call the police?”
“No!” She snaps. “The neighbors will do that. Nobody can know we were here. Do you understand me? No one.”
Then a sound echoes through the neighborhood.
My mom gasps.
Was that a gunshot?
The noise has stopped for a moment. It’s dead quiet, the echo ringing through the air. Then a muffled scream. A child crying.
All the anger drains out of her. “Did you hear that?”
I can only stare at the house. I can’t breathe. I can’t speak.
My mom panics and starts the car. When she drives onto the road, she rolls past the house slowly without her headlights on.
That’s when I hear the screaming. A woman’s loud scream.
Inside the window, I see the man standing with the gun in front of him. I see the girl my age standing right there too.
My heart races out of control like the guy’s going to spot us and point the gun in our direction.
“Mom! He shot him. Mom!” The panic in my voice rings in my ears.
I start to open the door to save my stepdad, the only father figure in my life.
The dad that I love. The dad that taught me everything I know about hockey… he’s…
“We’re leaving!” my mom says, her voice full of shock.
“Mom!” I wail.
She leans over and slams my door shut. The car swerves. “We’re fucking leaving!”
I close it.
She drives. Fast. Too fast.
I look back through the rear window. I see lights flicking on in neighboring houses.
But we’re already gone.
My mom doesn’t speak the whole way home. She just grips the steering wheel and stares straight ahead.
When we pull into our driveway, she finally looks at me.
“You didn’t see anything tonight. Understand?”
“Mom—” I argue.
“Nothing. We weren’t there. We were home. All night.”
“Mom, he—”
“I know.” Her voice breaks. “I know. But we can’t say anything. Ever. Do you understand me?”
I don’t understand. Don’t understand any of it.
But I nod.
That night, Grant doesn’t come home.
My mom gets the call at two in the morning.
I’m awake, sitting on my bedroom floor, and staring at nothing.
I hear her answer. I hear her voice change at the confirmation.
I go to her doorway. She’s on the floor. Phone still pressed to her ear.
“Ma’am? “ someone says through the speaker. I can hear it from across the room. “I’m so sorry for your loss. We will need to take your statement. Ma’am?”
My mom looks at me. Eyes wide. Broken.
And I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
We were there. We watched it happen. And we did nothing.
18 years old
I fit into Grant’s gloves perfectly now.
His hockey equipment has been in the garage for four years. My mom couldn’t get rid of it. Couldn’t bear to touch it.
But I could.
I wear his jersey number. Use his sticks. Skate in his shadow.
Practice ends and I’m sweating. Exhausted. Zephyr skates over. Taps my helmet.
“Good session,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He looks up into the stands. “Who’s the new guy your mom’s with?”
I glance up to see her sitting next to a man I don’t recognize. She’s smiling. Really smiling. For the first time in four years.
“She needs it,” I say. “It’s been long enough.”
Zephyr just stares up at them and pats my shoulder. “Grant was the best coach we ever had. You good, brother?”
I turn to him. “I found her.”
“Who?”
“My stepsister.”
Zephyr’s eyes widen. “What? Where is she?”