2. Jaxon
Jaxon
I can’t believe this woman just parked her horse in my way.
She looks exactly the same as she did the day I left. Same sky-blue eyes, same blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. Judging by the fact that she just stopped her mare in front of my truck, the same stubborn streak too.
Normally, I know how to charm my way past a scowl like that. But not with her.
“Jaxon Chance.” Her drawl is as sweet as sorghum pie, but behind her eyes she’s holding a card she hasn’t played yet. “Just so we’re clear, this might be your property, but you don’t own my flowers. I grew them on that plot of land, with your mother’s permission.”
I glance at the stunning field of flowers by the farmhouse, filled with zinnias, sunflowers, cosmos, coneflowers, and bee balm. Technically, these flowers might not be mine, but I’m in no mood to argue over semantics.
“Mom never told me you were using the land,” I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. “You weren’t here to tell.”
It’s clear she’s judging me for that, even though I had contract obligations that didn’t pause for holidays, or basically anything else. That’s the price you pay as a pro hockey player. Home is wherever your suitcase is parked for the night.
“So, is this your new hobby?” I ask.
“Not a hobby,” she says in a cool tone. “I started a flower business. Which means you’re taking my best sunflowers.”
I think of the huge, golden blooms on the truck’s front seat and how they’d look on my parents’ gravestone. I haven’t seen Summer since Mom’s funeral, when she slipped out the back.
“Your mom said that plot was going to waste.” She squares her shoulders, towering over me like royalty on her mare. “That’s why she offered it.”
“You rent it?”
“No.” The horse shifts under her. “We had an understanding.”
“An understanding,” I mutter under my breath. Sounds like Mom.
Dad always put things in writing like a real business, while Mom would donate the shirt off her back if someone needed it.
I make a mental note to bring it up with our lawyer later. We can’t just let other people use our land for free. This is a business operation, not a charity, even if there are understandings involved.
“I have some questions about whatever you and Mom discussed, but I need to go into town for a meeting first.” I wave her off the road. “So, if you could move.”
“I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk,” she says. “Let’s go, Sally.” Then she turns her horse.
I look over my shoulder as she nudges the mare into a trot.
She still looks like a natural in the saddle.
So why do I feel like I just got kicked by a horse watching her leave?
Must be today’s meeting with the lawyer.
Can’t possibly be the proud set of her mouth, or the way her blue eyes nearly left me speechless.
The sooner I get through this reading of the will, the sooner I can leave Golden Springs and forget all about her.
Even though I’ve been trying to do that for fourteen years.
I slow down when the farmhouse comes into view. The traditional white farmhouse isn’t fancy, but it’s clean and cared for, with its big porch and swing. The grass has been mowed in neat diagonal lines, and the lush hanging baskets look like someone’s been watering them.
Who’s taking care of the place now?
I creep slow enough to let the memories catch up with me. Mom in the mare barn behind the house every morning. Wyatt on the fence of the boarding barn, talking horses with half the county. The foaling barn, Mom’s favorite place every spring.
Further back, barely visible from here, the stallion barn and breeding shed are just like I remember. Those were Dad’s territory because no one knew stallions like he did.
Closer to the house is the original barn, mostly a relic now, with its tired red and white paint and the Lucky Chance horseshoe logo on the side.
It’s the one my great-grandfather built with men from town the year he established this place.
Dad could never bring himself to take it down, saying the barn deserved to outlast all of us since it was part of Lucky Chance’s history.
The whole place looks like a freaking postcard for Kentucky. Folks in these parts might be stuck in the past, but the slower pace has its own sort of appeal, unlike the constant rush of hustling after a puck. Not that I had any control over when my career ended, only how it went out.
I knew it was all over the moment I took that hit to my bad knee. Don’t get me wrong, I’d do it again. My sacrifice gave my teammate the chance to score the game-winning goal that landed us in the playoffs.
But it’s funny what your mind does when you’re in pain.
Lying on the ice afterward, my thoughts went immediately to Summer—wondering whether she ever thought of me, whether she would even care that I was hurt.
A memory of her on horseback rolled through my mind, the sunlight catching her cheekbones, her smile when she beat me across the back pasture again.
I hadn’t let myself remember that day in years.
It was better that way, especially when I had my pick of women after every game.
I didn’t need to think of Summer Daniels, or what came next after hockey.
My sport was the perfect distraction, until I lost that too.
I should’ve known that the news about my knee wasn’t good when the doctor walked into the exam room. He sat across from me, brow pinched. “Jaxon, I can see from these scans that you’ve suffered another torn ACL. Surgery won’t be able to repair enough for you to return.”
I stared at him, not understanding. “Doc, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get better by next season.”
He folded his hands. “There won’t be a next season, Jaxon.”
Not coming back wasn’t an option.
“What else can we do? Rehab…physical therapy? How about some fancy robotic knee?”
He exhaled slowly. “You’ll never be the athlete you were.”
I gripped the side of the exam table. No. That was an answer I refused to accept. “I have to play again.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Jaxon, my job is to help athletes stay in the game for as long as possible. But the extent of this injury, along with past damage, means there is no coming back. The best I can offer is a normal life off the ice. You’ll be able to do the things you need to do.”
“Except hockey.”
He looked down at his hands. “Retire the jersey while you’re still a hero, Jaxon. Get married, have some kids, and be glad you can still chase them around. Not everyone gets a second chance.”
I shook my head. “Doc, I don’t want to go home to the farm. I don’t know how to take on something like that.”
He moved to the door, stopping to address me one last time. “Then maybe it’s time to learn.”
I shake off that memory as I pull past the house and drive down the lane until I reach the limestone pillars at the entrance with the words LUCKY CHANCE RANCH—EST. 1920 in wrought-iron letters arching overhead.
Elijah Chance named it a ranch because he liked being different.
Every other place in the area was a farm, and he wanted our name to stand out.
All these years later, people still call it that, even though it’s a thoroughbred farm like every other place around here.
The Chance family prides itself on being contrary.
The unpaved lane stretches out behind me, lined with oak trees and four-board fencing, the bluegrass growing thick and green around it.
Even though most horse farms in the state use black paint for their fencing now, Dad kept the classic white fences.
Four generations of Chances have lived here, and my father’s fingerprints are on every building.
A few horses graze in the pasture nearby, not bothering to look up as I pass.
Across the pasture, a dark brown thoroughbred trots toward me, her coat glossy in the light.
She stops on the other side of the fence and studies me before lifting her tail and giving me her own version of a welcome-home present.
Good to see you too.
I wave and pull out onto the country road toward town, and it takes me almost a mile to stop thinking about the look on Summer’s face.
The gas light comes on just outside of Golden Springs, which means I have to stop at Frank’s Fill and Go, the only gas station within a fifteen-mile radius.
The place looks the same: two pumps under a faded green awning, a hand-painted sign in the window advertising sweet tea and live bait, and a screen door that bangs shut behind every customer.
The air smells like gasoline, and cut hay, and the end of summer.
The pump doesn’t take cards outside, because nothing in this town has been updated since the Carter administration.
I top off the tank and head inside. The woman behind the counter looks up from her newspaper, then pushes her reading glasses onto her head. Next to her is a half-eaten slice of blueberry pie that I’d bet money is from Minnie’s Diner.
“Wait just a minute. You’re one of the Chance boys.”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re…hold on.” She squints at me. “The one in the NHL.”
“That’s Rhett.” It’s not the first time I’ve said this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. “I’m Jaxon. Played for the Carolina Crushers.”
“Jaxon.” She nods slowly. “That’s right.”
People have been mixing us up my whole life.
Rhett’s the one people recognize, the NHL darling who’s always in the news.
I’ve always been the other hockey brother—well-known around Sully’s Beach and with Crushers’ fans, but outside of that, I’m pretty much invisible.
I made it to the NHL but only stayed a season, then played in the AHL for most of my career.
Nobody thinks of me first when they hear the words Chance and hockey together. It’s always Rhett.
People ask what it’s like to be eclipsed by my younger brother, and publicly, I always say the same thing. I’m proud of him. But brothers don’t stop being competitive now that we’re older. We just learn to keep our mouths shut about it, even if it still stings.
“I’m Wanda Roy,” the cashier says in a Southern drawl. “Been running this station going on twenty-two years now.” She leans both elbows on the counter. “Your mama used to come in here every Friday afternoon to listen to me and Colleen Cromwell shoot the breeze.”
I smile at the image of my mother gossiping with Colleen and Wanda at the end of a long week. “Sounds like she enjoyed it.”
“She did. She’d have her slice of pie from Minnie’s. Said it was her one guilty pleasure.” She dips her head. “Don’t tell nobody.”
“She always was a big fan of Minnie’s peach cream pie.”
“Best around,” she says before her smile fades. “We’re all real sorry about Miriam. Miss her dearly every day.” Wanda lays a hand over mine on the counter. “And before that, your daddy too. Goodness, this town’s lost a lot in a short time.”
I look down at the counter instead of answering, my throat thick.
She straightens, changing the subject when I don’t respond. “Glad you’re back, hon. You here to take over the farm?”
“Just here to sort out the family affairs and meet with the lawyer,” I say, glad she’s not bringing up the question of what’s next for my career. Truth is, I don’t have a clue.
I slide a bottle of water onto the counter, and she punches something into the register. “Colleen Cromwell was in here this morning and figured one of you boys would step up.”
“Did she now? Well, you can tell Colleen that it won’t be me.”
“You’d look good on a horse, regardless, Jaxon Chance. I can tell you that much. Half the women in this town would drive out to that farm just to watch.”
I smirk. “I’ll make sure to warn Earl.” Then I lift two fingers to wave goodbye and turn for the exit.
The bell on the door rings, and a young woman makes it two steps inside and stops, cheeks blazing. “You’re…Jaxon Chance, aren’t you?”
“Sure am.” I lean against the doorframe. “You from around here?”
“I…yeah.” Her throat bobs. “My mom works at the school.”
My mouth quirks into the same grin I used on strangers back when that was part of the job. “Tell her Jaxon Chance says hello.”
She laughs under her breath as if she can barely believe her luck and ducks back toward the cold drinks without another word.
Wanda’s watching the whole thing, her eyes dancing. “I see some things don’t change.”
“What are you getting at, Wanda?”
“That you’ve still got it when it comes to charming women.”
I chuckle as I push through the screen door, thinking about how I ran through that routine without a second thought. But when it comes to Summer Daniels, that old habit fits about as well as a belt buckle two sizes too small.
The door smacks shut behind me, right on cue.
I look back and see Wanda already going for her phone. I give her four minutes before everyone in town knows I’m back.