Chapter 12 – Jaxon
TWELVE
JAXON
Coach
My office. One hour.
There’s a handful of texts waiting for me when I check my phone as Jordan and I finish up our run—a pace my body was not anticipating this early in the morning, she’s as quick off the ice as she is on the ice.
I ignore the texts in You’re Pucking Awesome and definitely bypass the ones from Birth Giver, opening only Coach’s.
I thumbs up his message.
Cooper warned Chase and me yesterday that Coach was planning to meet with the guys who were eligible for the draft or interested in free agency. And I guess this is his version of a calendar invite, four words in two blunt sentences.
But that shouldn’t surprise me. He’s always coveted words, a man of intentional usage—even with his favorite word: fuck. Or maybe that’s his favorite to use toward me. I’ve been on the receiving end of countless muffled fucking Greene, my prized term of endearment, while playing for him.
Checking the time, I have twenty minutes before I need to be in his office.
I planned to meet my roommates for breakfast at Anderson Hall, the dining hall reserved for athletes.
It’s an unofficial-official tradition (and Coach requirement) for the team that we all go once it opens for the semester, help the freshmen and transfers get acquainted.
Texting the group, I let them know I’ll be late and to save me a good seat. The people watching is always superb, but this first week back? It’s like animals in heat meeting at the watering hole.
Jordan and I slow our jog to a walk, crossing the block that connects downtown Bensen to campus.
The road transitions from concrete to red brick.
Lakeland’s main gate, ivy crawling up the trellis, comes into view with the rising sun behind it.
A ray perfectly scores the triangle portion of the second A, casting Jordan in a warm glow.
She cranes her slender neck side-to-side, the morning light catching on her stack of earrings. A series of studs and small hoops that line both ears. Her left hand grates at the side, massaging into the curve.
“Your neck okay?”
“I think I slept on it wrong.” Jordan lets out a muffled groan as she presses the tips of her fingers into the top of her shoulder, the strap of her tank top falling—she didn’t wear the halter, but I still like this top all the same.
Put her in a potato sack and I’d still love it.
Her words are muffled too, but I catch them. “For what I did sleep.”
“Someone keeping you up?”
“No.” I didn’t realize one word could punch so much sass in it while also being a relief. “And don’t get any ideas.” Too late. “Cooper’s already trying to set me up.”
“Surprised he’s letting you date.”
“Truly.” A slight laugh punctuates the word. “After my last relationship? What an ass.” Sharp eyes scan my direction, dropping to the belt around her waist. Pulling out her phone, Jordan’s body shudders with annoyance at the dimly lit screen before zipping it back away.
I don’t expect her to tell me what that was about, so I don’t ask. Jordan’s like Coach, coveting words, not an open book. For a majority of our run, I do all the talking. Explaining how I think our training could work, areas of opportunity I noticed in her playing, and about our class schedules.
So it takes me back when she releases a resigned breath and asks, “Out of curiosity…if I needed you to leave me alone, would it be better to use a billboard or staple it to your forehead to get the message across?”
I choke on a laugh, coughing as I glance over at her. “Um, what?”
“Never mind.”
“No, no, no.” She struts in front of me, and I don’t mind it for a second. “Come back, please.” I stretch out my arm, fingers grazing her elbow. Jordan falls back to my side. “Did you tell me to leave you alone?”
“Yes, and very politely, if I must say.”
“You? Polite?” She gives me a pointed look. “I like to think my ears work, I do clean them.”
“Greene—”
I toss her an apologetic smile. “Then I would leave you alone.”
“And if you don’t catch the memo?”
“Billboard, definitely. My bone structure is too good for a staple.” Jordan groans. “Who’s not leaving you alone?”
“My ex.”
“Why don’t you block him?”
“Because when we beat his team, I want to rub it in his face,” she gets out in one breath.
“Your ex plays hockey?” I should probably know this, and it’s probably been mentioned when I’m around, but I sort of blocked out anything that had to do with Jordan’s boyfriend. It wasn’t me, so why should I care?
“Unfortunately.” She stops, spinning to face me. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Always.”
“It’s going to sound redundant because you’ve already agreed to help me, but do you think I can make the men’s team?”
“Without a doubt.”
“He didn’t, and made it extremely clear.
” This vulnerable side of Jordan is rare, but I’m enjoying every second of it.
She repeats what he said to her as if she has it tattooed on the back of her eyelids.
It pisses me off, and her body language doesn’t help.
The way she grabs at her elbows and chews on the inside of her cheek.
“He’s wrong about you,” I tell her in earnest.
“At least about hockey.” I want to explore her comment, but we reach her dorm, and I’m going to be late to meet Coach. Jordan scans her ID, using her backside to hold the door open, a look of longing washing over her. “Cooper’s lucky to have you as a friend.”
“I’m your friend too, Little Carmichael.” The hint of a smile on her face has me adding, “Come to Anderson’s for breakfast. The team will be there. Your brother and the guys will be there. I’ll be there.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Nice glasses,” I compliment, a light teasing smirk on my face as he pushes away his keyboard.
“I’ll pass along the compliment to my wife; she picked them out.”
“Does she also pick out your outfits or—”
“Would you like to continue on the first line or finish carving your initials into a heart on the bench?” I love it when Coach jokes with me.
“Are yours in the heart with mine?”
“Thought you already added Carmichaels’.”
I chuckle, stretching my legs out in front of me. Muscles are screaming at me for not opting more into the summer conditioning. “What’s up, Coach?”
We do a mental health check, before he asks about my plans for post-grad. Coach goes over free agency steps, and what I can expect closer to the spring. Levels with me that it’ll probably mean a minor league team, but anything is better than nothing.
I bolt across campus. My stomach rumbling like propellers on a plane.
“Hi, Jaxon.” Liv, a blonde soccer player, passes me coming out of Anderson Hall.
I skip a step to hold open the large mahogany doors for her teammates following behind her, each with a similar greeting.
They’re dressed in practice uniforms, a growling grizzly bear printed on the front of dri-fit tees, rolled drawstring shorts, and socks bunched at their ankles.
“Meg and I will be at the Sigma party tonight.” Liv twirls the end of her ponytail. “Are you and Beck coming?”
A melancholy laugh trickles behind me. “That would be up to you.” Elliot loops an arm across my shoulders, lowering her voice—still above a whisper—saying to me, “I think she wants a repeat of last fall.” She’s on the step below me and gives the three girls, her former teammates, a haughty smile with a shoulder pop. “Am I right?”
Elliot was recruited to play soccer here, retiring sophomore year to pursue teaching fitness classes. She’s now the most popular instructor on campus and lined up a gig post-grad with a new stationary cycling brand to teach virtual classes.
The girl is harmless. Her humor and sass, like mine, are part of Elliot’s charm. We both also don’t have a filter or know when to shut up.
“Don’t think I’m making it tonight,” I tell them before they disappear down the stairs, disappointment only marring their expression briefly before they’re already in talks about who else will be there.
Last week, last semester, last year, the last decade, their quick rejection would’ve stung.
I would’ve rearranged plans or chased after them.
Nothing is innately different about me now except being caught in her magnetic pull.
Following behind Elliot, I slap on the happy-go-lucky smile everyone loves, the one that earns me a smile in return and usually lets me get away with whatever.
I flick up my hat and comb my fingers through sweaty, light brown strands in an attempt to style them before flipping the hat around and fixing it backward on my head in preparation to sweet-talk my student ID-less way into breakfast is unnecessary.
I was running late to meet Jordan, contemplating my entire outfit before I saw the clock and rushed out of the house without my wallet or house keys.
Leaning over the check-in counter, playing with her hair, and definitely flirting with the student attendant, is Elliot. The poor sophomore, maybe freshman, is putty in her hands. Eyes bigger than saucers staring up at her. I catch a wink from Elliot just as he gestures for her to go on in.
Thank you, she mouths, passing through with a finger wave.
“Um.” I point in the direction she’s striding. “I’m with her.”
“You’re so lucky,” he mutters, a green light beeping with access granted.
Inside, I immediately bolt to the wall of cereal dispensers. It’s like heaven on Earth 2.0—kissing Jordan is how I imagine heaven to be—with twenty options to pick from. I always go for a bowl of Fruit Loops, but rotate my second bowl.
I slide into the empty chair next to Cooper; Dawson examines my tray with a side eye. Besides cereal, there’s a banana and egg bites.
I pick up the banana and pretend to dial. “Ring, ring. Hello, Captain Nutrition? Yeah, fuck off.” Making a scene of hanging up my banana phone, I flash a cheeky grin at my beloved roommate.
“Wasn’t going to say anything.” Dawson put his hands up in front of his chest, innocently, while the rest of the table laughs.