Chapter 36 – Jaxon
THIRTY-SIX
JAXON
Jordan slips into the booth, the weathered material creaks when she leans in to sneak a kiss. Now this is a form of coffee I could get used to. Bitter with hints of sweet, fruity from the… I try to guess what flavor she had today.
“Blueberry?”
“Try again.” She kisses me, tongue dipping into my mouth.
And all I can think about is kissing her.
“Figure it out?” I shake my head no, finger under her chin, drawing her back in for another kiss. “Lavender honey,” she tells me between kisses.
“Tastes good.” She thumbs at the corner of my mouth. “Leave it. Saving it for later. How’s your shift been?”
I should know, I’ve been sitting here for a majority of it. But my head, like Jordan with how busy the cafe is, is being pulled in different directions. I came here to flesh out lesson plans for next week, but instead have ten different tabs open on my laptop, all unrelated to water cycles.
“I never want to see another coffee again.” She sinks back. “What’s this?”
“Ideas for helping Grant. I’ve been researching new techniques for teaching students with dyscalculia. He plays soccer and hockey, and loves Legos, so I’ve been trying to see how to utilize those.”
“I meant this.” Jordan tugs a notebook from under my laptop. “Are these—” She eyes the paper closer, flipping through the pages, words trailing off.
“Hockey plays.”
“There are pages of them.”
“You should see the full notebook,” I accidentally expose. “I mean…I write down the ones Coach gives us.”
My backtracking fails.
Jordan shakes her head, a single blue braid shifts across her crewneck. “These aren’t Bears’ plays. Are they Ohio State’s? Were you watching their film?”
“I—They’re mine. I came up with them.”
“For our team?” She flips through them again, glancing up at me every few pages. “They’re great. This one”—Jordan points to a more complex play—“would easily help us against Michigan when we play them in December. Or this one against Minnesota.”
We hear her name called from the kitchen.
“They’re fine, and my break is five more minutes.” She waves them off. “When did you come up with these?”
“Whenever. Wherever.” I shrug, cheeks warm with embarrassment. “They sort of just come to me.”
“Have you thought about showing these to Coach?”
“Nah.” And not because I think he’d tell me to fuck off. Coach would probably hear me out and consider them—that’s what’s scary. “There’s a reason he’s the coach and I’m the player.” I take back the notebook, closing it. “They’re basically doodles. Help me focus during class.”
“They aren’t. They’re good, Greene.”
“Maybe for middle schoolers,” I doubt.
Jordan touches my forehead with the back of her hand. “Are you feeling okay? Where’s Mister Confidence?”
The directions my head’s being pulled in? Here it is.
I’ve spent the better part of two hours coming up with plays, watching film clips, and taking notes on areas of opportunity—mainly for my roommates and Jordan. I didn’t think once about student teaching or the email in my inbox from Coach about scouts interested in me coming to our next game.
For a split second, I envisioned myself making it to the league a different way…and I liked it. Maybe loved it.
Playing is one thing, but coaching? I don’t know, I can’t pinpoint it.
Since helping lead sports week at camp over the summer and working with Jordan, the idea has been simmering in the back of my mind.
When I think about the way the kids and Jordan lit up when they mastered a skill, it boils.
There was a satisfaction in those moments I’ve never gotten on the ice while playing.
“Do you think I’d make a good coach?”
“You’re joking, right?” A dark brow arches, and Jordan pulls her braid over the other shoulder. “You’d make an incredible coach. Have you been thinking about picking up a coaching gig? The youth program is hiring, or I could set you up with my cousins. They have a skating non-profit in Chicago.”
“A little bit.” I break off a chunk of muffin and crumble it between my fingers. “Maybe during the off-season.”
“Or?”
“I’m trying to figure that out,” I admit.
Her name gets called again, and Jordan groans. A line out the door has formed since we’ve entered our bubble.
“I should get back to work.” Jordan starts to slide out of the booth. “Show these to Coach, or save them for when you’re a coach. If that’s what you want.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Wanna think about dinner later too?”
“No need. I’m already looking at what I want to eat.”
Third week of the season and Beck is playing out of his mind. We didn’t know if he’d be in the net tonight. Earlier this week, he tweaked his back. Took it easy at practices and spent quality time with our athletic trainers.
Coach pulled him yesterday after the first period. We lost by one; unfortunately, the only goal given up was while he was on the ice. It was apparent he blamed himself, even though we played like shit on offense.
Tonight is a different story.
You wouldn’t know he was nursing a bruised ego or back.
He’s blocked every shot on net. Controlling the ice from the goal line, a commanding presence out here and in the locker room.
I take a bottle of water, my line coming off the ice, and spray a healthy amount in my mouth. Gassed, I sink into the bench, working to bring my breathing back to a normal range.
Besides Beck, the only person out there who’s playing well is Jordan. Her endurance is easily keeping up with our opponents. The fast-paced game is taking it out of all of us. Yet she’s skating circles around everyone.
I watch as the clock ticks down, a minute left in the third. We need to maintain possession and will sneak out of here with a win, which will make the hour bus ride home more bearable.
All the air in my lungs dissipates as Jordan receives a pass, taking off on a breakaway. A defender crosses the ice from the right to stop her. She spins, passing the puck between his legs and going one-on-one with the goalie.
Next to me, Cooper is on the edge of his seat, stick tapping against the ground, a growing chant of “go, Jordan.”
Jordan hasn’t scored yet this season. She won’t admit it, but it’s eating at her. All of her other stats are impeccable, something to be proud of, but I know she wants a goal. She wants to score. She wants to—because for whatever reason she doesn’t believe she already has—prove herself.
She brings back her stick, head following its line of motion as it connects with the puck. Flying forward off the blade and toward the goalie. It sneaks between his helmet and blocker.
Yes, yes, yes. The chant reverberates throughout my entire body. She’s going to score.
Instead of hearing the buzzer go off, a heartbreaking, echoing ring of the puck hitting the side of the goal sounds. It shoots off in an unwanted angle in the opposite direction of the goal, one of their defenders collects the rebound and clears the puck down the ice right as the clock hits zero.
Her head falls back.
She skates back to the boards, defeated. I hold a spot for her in front of me to skate and shake the other teams’ hands.
I lean forward. “You were the best one out there tonight.”
I don’t need to see her face to know the disregard for my compliment, an eye roll of extreme proportion. “I shouldn’t have missed that shot.”
“It happens. We all miss shots. Don’t let it distract from everything else you did tonight. An assist, eight shots on net, which was double any of us, five blocks, and your time on ice is increasing. Coach bumped you up a line mid-game.”
Jordan turns over a shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be paying attention to your own playing?”
“Rather pay attention to you,” I flirt. “You’re going to score.”
“I know.” She nods, and there’s a glint to her gaze that tells me she’s not just saying that. “Hopefully, before the Wisconsin game.”
It’s the first time she’s brought up a specific game. I almost ask her about it, curiosity getting the better of me, but she spins back around, reaching out her hand when we’re parallel to the opposing team.
“Good game.” I force the words out.
“You know the rules.” Beck’s hulking body looms over me. We’re both six four, but I swear his broad shoulders make him feel taller, larger.
“Yeah, yeah.” I set down the bottle of liquor I was pouring into a Gatorade container. The contents what I’m calling Jaxon Juice—one part bold, one teensy bit spicy, and one part fun. “Clean the bathrooms before partying.” My impression of him is lacking tonight.
I’ll be the first to admit, I’m not the most organized person. But what college boy is?
Beck. He should come with a certified clean freak label.
After the chaos that was Cooper and my freshman year dorm, I was threatened with a chore chart when we all moved in together. Then again after responsibilities were divided up and I bailed for parties.
Now I can’t enjoy my weekends without cleaning the shared bathrooms first.
I pick up the cleaning caddy off the counter next to Beck. Hopefully he doesn’t know that Chase already took care of the bathrooms earlier.
“Don’t touch my Jaxon Juice,” I threaten with a faux menacing glare over a shoulder.
“Jungle juice?”
“Jaxon Juice. Try some.” Beck stares at the jug, apprehension molds his face after he takes a whiff. “Come on, Becky. It’s not poisonous.”
“Doesn’t mean it won’t kill me.”
“Death by juice.” I think on it for a second. “Not my style. I think—”
“Bathrooms.” Beck points in the direction of the stairs.
“You’re no fun.”
Beck shrugs and moves on, unplugging the vacuum hanging on the back of the pantry door.
I’m halfway up the stairs when my phone buzzes. I fish it out of the pocket of my cargo shorts and almost send the caddy tumbling down the stairs.
“Mom?”