Chapter 3 – Jaxon
THREE
JAXON
Someone needs to nominate me for a Grammy. The rendition of Celine Dion I just belted in the shower would sweep the award show, I know it.
She’s my favorite artist. Positions two through one hundred changes daily, but no one comes close to dismantling the queen.
Towel wrapped lazily around my waist, I stretch an arm out to wipe the condensation off the mirror around the doodle I created.
My roommates get pissed at me for turning on the exhaust fan after the shower is off, but it ruins the acoustics, and those obviously are very important when you have a golden voice like mine.
I brush my teeth, finally shaving off the mustache we grew out for the Frozen Four last season. Everyone else has since shaved theirs off or grown out a beard, but I liked it and kept it for the summer. Gave me a Dylan Efron vibe, and who wouldn’t want to resemble him?
I clean up the trimmings, wiping down the basin, and flushing the toilet paper.
Returning to the sink, I stand straight.
My towel falls to the ground, but I don’t care.
I puff out my chest, the nipple ring I was required to get from a lost bet glinting in the light.
With hands on my waist, I recite my morning affirmations: “You are strong. You are capable. You are the greatest hockey player ever. You are smart. You are handsome—don’t listen to that. You are the sexiest man alive.”
Giving myself a nod, I scoop up my towel. When I open the door, Chase and Dawson shout scores up from the living room.
“Seven.” That’s from Chase.
“Seven? Hands down a nine, Jaxy!” Dawson’s always been my biggest fan.
Chase Jones and Dawson Karlsson are two of my four roommates. We also play hockey together; they’re both defenseman.
I’m not sure where our other roommates are—Beckett St. James, goalie and resident grumpy pants, lives in the room catty-corner from mine. Cooper Carmichael, team captain and my bestest friend, is in the primary across the hall—but they owe me their scores too.
In my bedroom, I slip into a pair of shorts and find a boxy, cropped tee—one of my dad’s old Cincinnati Fire Department shirts.
There’s a hole in the armpit from years he loved it before me.
I mutilated the hem when he still had four inches and fifty pounds on me, and I swam in the shirt.
Now, I have two inches on him, and if I stretch my arms barely above my head, my belly button is exposed.
Most, if the word is a synonym for all, of my shirts are like this.
I grab my phone and water glass before popping into Cooper’s room.
There’s a brief second of pause, my hand hovering over the doorknob, ear pressed slightly against his door.
After walking in on him and his girlfriend, he reminded me for the three-hundredth time that knocking is a bare minimum courtesy.
They make locks for a reason, but I guess he hasn’t discovered them yet.
No sound echoes from his room. I twist the handle, peeling the door open to find no one there. Cooper has a bathroom attached to his room; the door is ajar, and the lights are off. I shoot off a text to him asking if he wants to hang out.
Skipping down the stairs, Chase and Dawson are heading out the front door.
“Oh.” I land on the last step, deflating with disappointment. “You two out for the morning? I was going to make pancakes.”
“Working,” Chase tells me. He’s worked at the marina over the summer with Cooper.
“And you?” I turn to Dawson.
“Study group. I have my biomedical instrumental exam tomorrow.”
“Yikes.” I cringe, brows scrunching. I already thought he was crazy double-majoring and taking summer classes, but biomedical instru—I can’t even remember the title—is wild.
He shrugs. “Eh. It’s not that bad, and there’s a curve.”
“When you are a world-famous rehabilitation engineer with a cookbook, please remember us small people.”
“Remember all my NHL friends? Might be hard,” he teases.
Cooper and Beck have already signed with teams. I missed the draft deadline and am too old now to enter.
Chase, on the other hand, entered the draft and wasn’t selected.
We both plan to take a shot at free agency if all goes well this upcoming season.
“When will you be back? The Pond reopens today.”
“Thought you were making breakfast.” Chase snickers. We all know it might take me all morning to make food. “I’m off at two. I’ll text ya after.”
Dawson shakes his head. “Promised Jake I’d meet him at the library to study.” That’s his boyfriend. “There are yogurt parfaits in the fridge.”
We aren’t back in season yet, which means I will be enjoying my final days of indulging. Chocolate chip pancakes and a fat bowl of Fruit Loops sound far better than yogurt.
As they disappear, I head into the kitchen. The only sounds coming from my feet hitting the hardwood. It’s too quiet, and I don’t like quiet.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker and turn on a playlist. The first floor starts to fill, and I can feel myself instantly relax till my stomach growls. Loud.
Dawson is the chef in the group, and I definitely hoped he’d be sticking around to make pancakes, but at least he’s Jaxon-proofed the kitchen. I find a binder full of recipes, propping it up against a stack of plastic cups.
Cooking and Greene men don’t go together, and all my roommates know that.
If it weren’t for Gran, Dad and I would have starved or lived off frozen pizzas and McDonald’s. She’d make freezer meals, leaving them whenever she watched me during Dad’s twenty-four-hour shifts, and prepping my lunches for school until she moved in with us.
Cereal, I can do. The pancakes take a bit more work. Burnt the first two, but the next four? Call IHOP and tell them there’s a new perfect pancake in town.
One pancake left, I can’t be the only one to see my masterpiece. I FaceTime our roommate group chat.
Cooper answers mid-run with Sutton.
“Hi, Jax.” Her curly ponytail swings into frame.
“Hi, Soot. I’ve missed you.” She recently returned from her internship with Team USA in Colorado. Cooper’s been glued to her since picking her up from the airport.
“Missed you too.”
“What about me?” Cooper gripes. Sutton pushes at his shoulder playfully, saying something I can’t make out.
“What are you up to?” she asks, taking the phone from him. The video is trippy from the bounce in her stride.
“If your boyfriend wasn’t holding you hostage, you could have had these.” I flip the camera around to show off the golden brown stack of pancakes.
“See. If you weren’t so needy, we could have had pancakes.” Cooper mimics Sutton, then they look at each other, smiling. It’s hard to believe earlier this year she considered him as her rival. “If I promise I’ll come over later, can you remake them?”
“It’s a date.” I wink, egging on an irrationally jealous Cooper.
The call drops, my chuckle drowning out the music restarting. I finish eating and do the dishes, returning a little sticky note love letter to Beck on the Scrub Daddy before deciding to go to the arena.
I pop in Coach’s office before heading to The Pond. It was closed the majority of the summer for remodeling—updated paint, new LED lights, and an upgraded energy-efficient cooling system.
Besides the paint and new metal benches, replacing the splintering wooden ones, it all feels a tad unnecessary.
The Pond is our practice rink; the original rink Lakeland used for games when the hockey program was initiated in the early eighties.
Everyone loved the history ingrained in the space.
Tattered banners hanging from the banisters and an embedded smell of sweat, rubber, and chemicals from the ice.
The rest of the Maynard Center was added on in the late 2000s.
Sleek and modern, upgraded concession stands and sick locker rooms.
Coming down the hallway from Coach’s office, I hip check the locker room door that leads to the ice, not entirely caught off guard to find someone already out on the ice.
But I am surprised to find Jordan Carmichael figure skating.
There’s no music playing. The only sounds come from her skates cutting against the ice and her focused breathing. Not wanting to disturb or draw attention, I gently close the door behind me and flatten against it.
Her focus is unwavering. Jordan’s skating with a fierceness that’s present whenever she’s out on the ice, but there’s an unfamiliar edge. She moves with the same intensity you’d experience if interacting with her—but I’ve found her bark is worse than her bite.
Jordan’s not like other girls. She doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, but keeps it locked away in a tower. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights. Who am I kidding? I totally am, but for her, I’d risk it.
I can’t name a single jump or spin or move she completes. I think one was a loop and now she’s in a sit. Whatever she’s doing, it’s fucking impressive.
I love watching her skate. It leaves me breathless—she leaves me breathless.
If I knew she’d be here, I wouldn’t have come. That’s debatable, my reckless inner voice sings. Being around Jordan is dangerous for me. She’s a magnet I can’t seem to not gravitate toward which is unfortunate because she’s also my best friend’s little sister.
At some point, I sat down on the bench. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes have easily passed, and she hasn’t noticed, or at least acknowledged, my presence.
She comes to a harsh stop, back to me. Her shoulders, strong and drawn back, move with each heavy breath. I can’t tell if she’s wrapping up or just getting started, but when her hips start to turn, I slide off the bench and back through the locker room door.
I don’t make it far, I still want to skate.
Besides the hockey camp I assisted with and our week-long intensive, I didn’t skate much this summer—unless you consider rollerblading.
Cooper and I got into rollerblading, which rocked and helped even out my farmer’s tan.
Sayonara, hot boy walk, and hello, hot boy blading.
An ear pressed to the door, listening for any sign that she’s gone…which is ridiculous. I’ve never been scared of Jordan or the frosty bite that comes with her. Why am I now?
Digging my headphones out of my bag, I slip them into my ears and head back out there. Immediately, I spot her braid whipping back and forth as she weaves through a series of unevenly spaced cones.
She pivots, quickly changing directions to go back through them when her attention flings my way. Gray-ish, maybe brown—I’ve never been able to pinpoint the exact color—eyes dip into slits, deciphering who I am.
Her gaze starts on my backward hat, jersey number stitched into the back. I absolutely flex my thighs as her eyes rake over my body, heating when they land on exposed muscle. My shorts are on the shorter side.
It takes Jordan a whole six drawn-out, more like supercalifragilisticexpialidious instead of Mississippi, seconds to reach my face before dropping back to the ice, a split second before missing a cone.
I let out a low chuckle, fully understanding that I have no room to judge.
I’m the one who sat and watched her skate like she was a painting in the Louvre.
The laugh dies on my tongue when she throws out her arms to steady herself.
All I can see is her face-planting into the ice, and it’s enough to have me one leg over the boards about to rush to her.
Jordan catches herself, shoulders dropping with relief. She finishes moving through the last two cones before skating toward me.