Chapter 8 – Jaxon
EIGHT
JAXON
Halfway home from campus, I slip my Bears short sleeve shirt over my head and stuff it into the gym bag haphazardly hanging from one shoulder.
My chest like a canvas for the sun, warmth stretches across the expanse, putting the finishing touches on my summer tan.
Beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck.
I flick the bill of my hat, flipping it around to push the grown out hair, ends curling, from my face.
I’m in my own world, listening to a new Celine Dion remix, as I pass the campus-owned housing.
I lift a finger to twirl the cord of my headphones—I wonder if the end of her braids would be as pliable?
Would they be as smooth or what’s the texture?
Does she like to have her hair brushed or played with?
Blue overwhelms my senses—her hair, her tight outfit she was skating in earlier, her nails against my skin in the moonlight when she let me hold her hand if only for a handful of seconds last night, her—causing me to miss the uneven concrete. I catch myself before tumbling across the sidewalk.
There’s plenty of friendly faces in the front lawns—upperclassmen throwing a football, some sunbathing while others read or study—that catch my mishap.
That’s just Jaxon, probably crosses their mind.
I indulge in their laughter, plucking out one headphone while waving with the opposite hand.
The corners of my mouth slip into a familiar, cheeky grin when catcalled.
Whistles mix in with Greene, you okay? and Come over here and I can check you out.
Several flirty Hi, Greenes comes from a group of girls in tiny, brightly colored bikinis.
I used to love the sound.
Used to. The thought catches me off guard and I almost trip again.
I used to love the sound. Treat it like a spotlight. Pocket it as if it were a four-leaf clover. Wear it like an emotional support sweatshirt. I used to love the sound; love the way it made me—still does—feel.
Noticed. Accepted. Wanted…even if it is for something in return.
But as I hear them continue to call my name, my body puckers like I’ve accidentally poured spoiled milk into my cereal.
It’s why as I waltz through the front door of my house, I plaster a vintage Jaxon smile onto my face and loudly greet, “Honey, I’m home,” only to be welcomed by an empty living room.
I slip my shirt back on, toeing off my shoes before following the scent of butter and garlic. The first floor smells like the inside of an Italian restaurant.
Dawson is folded over the counter lathering a halved loaf of French bread, the tip of his tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth with concentration. I watch for a second before slipping onto a barstool opposite him.
“Smells good.” My inhale is audible, spooking him.
He startles upright. “Hey.” Dawson huffs a breath to blow back the strand of hair that fell into his face. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s surprising.” I raise a brow jokingly. I’ve never seen someone as focused as Dawson is when he’s cooking…except Jordan skating. “What are you whipping up?”
Focus returned to the bread, he transfers the pan into the oven. “Spaghetti.”
“Fuck, yeah,” I say as he adds, “But I’m trying a new recipe. Added Calabrian chiles to the sauce.”
My stomach grows three sizes. Then again when he offers me a taste of the sauce simmering in the stock pot on the stove. Dawson could’ve said there was grass in the sauce, and I’d probably eat it.
“How’d your advisor meeting go?” he asks, switching gears to prep a salad.
I toss my head back-and-forth. “Better than expected.”
My advisor agreed to meet with me ahead of the semester starting to figure out my student teaching schedule.
Because of our rigorous preseason and shifting into a game schedule mid-fall, we wanted to have a clear-cut plan for the teacher I’m working with.
Where my classmates will be doing a full immersive week, mine will be spread out differently to accommodate all responsibilities.
“I’m dropping a class to open up additional time to be at the school,” I add.
“Will you still have enough credits to graduate?”
“Yes, Dad.” I mockingly pretend to turn my tassel. “Need any help?”
Dawson gestures at the plates and cutlery next to me. While he finishes dinner, I set the table, doing my best to stay engaged in our debate on the best Superman, but my mind keeps drifting to a sea of blue.
I stab my fork into the mountain on my plate, twisting it and watching as noodles climb up the metal prongs like ivy.
Once it’s heavy, I shovel the bite into my mouth.
The end of a long noodle dangles from my mouth as Dawson sets down a bowl of meatballs and a platter of garlic bread.
I couldn’t wait, and someone had to make sure he wasn’t poisoning us.
Chase is right behind him with the salad.
“Thought you were grabbing drinks?”
“Sor-wy,” I garble, slurping up the end of the pasta.
I push back in my chair; the legs scrape and screech against the floor. From the fridge, I grab a collection of options—sparkling water, sports drinks, and beer. Delicately stacked in my arms, I make room to snag the grated parmesan.
Back at the table, Elliot tilts the bowl of pasta to gather extra sauce on her spoon, then pours it over her garlic bread.
Dawson’s plate is exemplary of those you’d see on one of those diagrams in school when they taught you about portions, but Chase’s plate mirrors mine.
Except for a perfectly placed meatball at the summit.
Beck in his all black getup is leaning against the entry way into the kitchen, phone pressed between his ear and broad, meaty shoulder. And if I close one eye, squint the other, I might just make out a smile…which means he’s talking to his little sister, Madeline.
“You’ll have to show me tomorrow.” We all listen, unintentionally, to his conversation. “Of course, I’ll pick you up after school. I’ve gotta go, but I love you.” Beck pulls the phone away from his ear, placing it on the table and tapping speakerphone. “You’re on, Mads.”
“HiChaseandElliotandDawsonandJaxon,” she gets out in one breath, and as fast as possible. We each take a turn to say hello. Beck picks up the phone and tells his sister goodbye again, promising to call later.
The front door flies open, slamming against the wall. A frustrated groan bounces off the walls, followed by stomping.
“Coop, they’re going to figure it out.” That’s Sutton.
She trails an aggravated Cooper. Jaw tense, he keeps running a hand through his hair, other movements fragmented. Even so, he pulls back a chair for Sutton next to Elliot and makes her a plate of food before shoveling pasta onto his.
“One or two pieces of garlic bread?”
“Two.” We all stare at her, a silent inquiry about Coop which is reciprocated with a placating head bobble, using her hands to express for us to drop it.
An awkward silence falls amongst us. No one speaks; our movements light except for Cooper’s. His frustration is currently being taken out on his favorite meal by knife and fork.
“If no one’s gonna ask, I’ll just tell you.”
“Coop—” Sutton tries to calm him, but it’s no use.
“They cut the women’s team.” Every eye jumps to Cooper. Forks clatter to the table. Chase spits out a bite of food. “We were talking about the open tryouts, and I finally asked Coach why we were having them. The announcement is going out tomorrow morning.”
“Happy Monday,” I joke. It earns me a boink on the back of the head from Elliot. Ouch, I mouth in her direction.
“He wasn’t going to tell us?” Chase asks. Dawson leans back in his chair while Beck keeps eating, his broody expression perfectly setting the mood.
“We’re having a full student-athlete meeting tomorrow morning with the Athletic Director.
The email went out while I was picking up Sutton.
” He takes a too-large bite, continuing to speak around it.
“Can’t wait to hear him give the bullshit excuse about money and donors and…
” He lets out a complicated sigh, tapping his fork on the table.
“It’s not fucking fair. It’s not right.”
Sutton places her hand over his on the table, rubbing her thumb against his. Her eyes soften as Cooper’s focus slides to her. The bottom of his welling up. “She’s going to be okay.”
“I can’t believe Jordan didn’t tell me.” Disappointment pulls at Cooper’s typically smiling face. Dimples disappear with the formation of a frown.
“She barely wanted to tell us.” Sutton thumbs at a trickling tear.
“And made us promise not to tell any of you,” Elliot adds, shocking Cooper that she already knew too.
I guess Sutton told him she knew on the car ride from her apartment.
Based on their reserved body language, they know more than what they are sharing.
Although Elliot always has more to say, the only person I know who can outtalk me, their gazes keep pinging to each other, speaking a silent language.
Shoulders rolled back, tension a gradual crescendo since Sutton and Cooper arrived.
Elliot sips her sparkling water at convenient times.
I pick at a piece of garlic bread, my appetite waning.
Puzzle pieces start to fit together. Jordan’s always had a dedicated routine—mornings spent doing crosswords over coffee before skating, weekly Pilates to enhance her stability, and an occasional figure skating clinic—but I’ve never seen her train like this.
Training as if she has something to prove.
A ferocity in her that I can’t seem to shake or stop thinking about.
“We—I have to do something to help her,” Cooper speaks what I’m thinking.
Sutton opens and closes her mouth. Elliot coughs to get her attention, muttering, “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” Cooper and I say at the same time.
“Elliot, what do you know?” Chase nudges her.
There’s their silent language again. Elliot shrugs her shoulders. Sutton wobbles her head left and right. One of them exhales, then they both nod. I think there was a version of Morse code in blinks somewhere in the mix.
“You know Spencer Carlisle? On the women’s figure skating team?”
“Flexible as fuck. One time—” I stop myself. “Never mind.”
“Failed a drug test and was kicked off the team. They weren’t going to backfill her spot this close to the semester starting, but they offered Jordan a spot.”
Relief crashes over Cooper. “That’s why Mom was digging through her old skating boxes the other day on the phone. Jordan must need them.” He pushes a hand through his hair, knocking his hat off his head. “Though they are old, she should probably get new ones.”
A replay, as vivid and large as an IMAX movie, plays. Jordan gliding fast, digging her skates into the ice, pushing off and her arms thrown out wide to propel her into a jump. Wobbly landing, but still a landing all the same. A satisfied smirk and confused brows battling for control.
I shovel down the remainder of my plate, foregoing seconds. Gathering my plate, utensils, and cup, I rush to the sink and drop them in, an idea formulating.
“Thanks for dinner.” It comes out garbled, my mouth full of my final bite.
“Jax!” Beck raises his voice. “You can’t just leave. It’s your turn to do the dishes.”
Yeah, yeah. I roll my eyes from the fourth stair. “Trade you. Do them tonight for me and I’ll take your day next week.”
“For the next three weeks,” he grumbles.
“Deal.”
I sprint up the remainder of the stairs and throw myself onto my bed. My body flops, bouncing in the center of my queen-sized mattress. I pluck out the laptop I tucked under a pillow and get to work.
By the morning, I’ve watched every single video of her playing I could find. Some games, I started and stopped so many times I’m surprised my space bar isn’t broken.
It took twelve tabs at three in the morning for my computer to finally start running slowly. A colorful spinning wheel of death popped up on my screen every time I went to search for another clip of Jordan, videos of her in middle and high school.
I was able to sleep for an hour at six. Fifty-five minutes more than I anticipated getting. Bolting from my bed when my alarm goes off at seven, I trip over myself getting dressed. Before the rest of the house is awake, I head to the student recreation center.
“Elliot Jones.” I waltz into a multipurpose room. The studio space is set up for mat Pilates. She’s walking around placing the smallest dumbbells I’ve ever seen in my life next to a resistance band and ball. “Do those dumbbells even do anything?”
“Come take a class and find out.” Elliot’s been teaching cycling and Pilates for the past two years on campus. “Jaxon Greene,” she enunciates my name as I did hers. “What can I do for you?”
“You have your personal training certification, right?”
“Correct.” She leans a hip against the wall of equipment, facing in my direction counting looped bands.
I pull out the rolled-up stapled paper in the back pocket of my cargos. It’s our summer training plan. The first section is generic, lifting, and a nutrition plan. Suggested cardio. Then the second section is personalized with hockey-specific things to work on.
I started one for Jordan.
But need help with the lifting portion.
That’s where Elliot comes in. I hand her my packet.
“Would you be able to update the lifting and cardio plan for a female?” I push out my mouth, kind of like a duck, after I ask.
Elliot flips through the pages. Eyes skimming the schedules and movements. “Yeah, don’t see why not. When do you need it by?”
“Tomorrow? Two days?”
“That should work. Can I keep this?”
“That’s your copy.” I printed an extra for her.
“Cool.” People start filing into the room. “I’ll text you if I have any questions. Want to stay for class? I have an open spot.”
I snicker. “Absolutely not.”
She snaps a band at my butt, and I zoom out of the room.