Chapter 50 – Jaxon
FIFTY
JAXON
Jordan slides on her stomach into the boards. On collision, her helmet comes off, rolling to her left. A blue braid lies limp like her. Fear strikes me when she doesn’t immediately get up, driving me to her, disregarding the play that’s going on around me.
I speed past where Sutton and Elliot are sitting—or were—behind the net. They’re on their feet, pounding on the boards and cursing at the refs, demanding a penalty to be called.
They aren’t alone. Most Lakeland fans are standing with them.
In my peripherals, Cooper has Luka pinned to the boards with his stick. Chase and the other defenseman on the ice are skating for backup.
“Jordan.” My voice croaks. “Blue, get up. Please, Blue—”
“Don’t touch her.” I think that’s our athletic trainers, maybe the refs who fucking finally blew their whistles.
“Greene, back up.” That’s Coach. “She needs space.”
I can’t bring myself to skate away till Jordan’s face lolls to one side, eyelids fighting to open. There’s a cut along her hairline. Droplets of blood splatter onto the ice, turning the crisp ice crimson and her blue hair a shade it shouldn’t be.
Spinning, shavings of ice fling up as I hurl my body in Luka’s direction. Shoving Cooper out of the way, I throw the first punch. My gloved hand collides with the side of Luka’s jaw, perfectly in the space below his visor.
“Look what you did to her.” I shake off my left glove, then right, as he grabs my jersey, trying to flip our positions. “Feel like the big man now?”
I twist my body, breaking away from him, but not before sneaking in a jab. I catch his lip, cracking it. Luka flicks his gloves off, spitting blood.
“She wanted to play with the boys,” he says way too casually, as if that hit was anywhere near legal. Everyone in the arena knows it’s not.
“Fuck you.” I practically spit at my stepbrother. God, I hate labeling him as that. He isn’t my brother. He’s barely an acquaintance, a bully and narcissistic asshole that I was court-mandated to claim as family and see a handful of times a year.
But he isn’t my brother, and never will be.
Cooper is my brother. Chase, Dawson, and Beckett. Those guys are my family, the ones who are more like brothers than he has ever been.
“Might be pretty hard when you’re sleeping with her.” The glint in his eye is menacing. Luka knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing. “How long did it take her to go from me to you? Jordan’s a lot of things, but I didn’t take her for a slut.”
“What did you just call her?”
“Oh come on, Jaxy.” His skates scrape the ice.
“Don’t tell me you have hearing issues like your pathetic daddy.
” Luka’s head tilts, the smirk curling up the right side of his face haunts me.
“Maybe it would be best, then you wouldn’t have to hear her call out my name when she wishes you were me.
” His laugh is methodical. “Father like son.”
“We both know your name never left her lips,” I snarl.
I got after him again. Years of pent-up frustration, jealousy, and resentment are exploding in a fury of fists. I block his first punch, tugging him down by the collar of his jersey, but he lands a solid upper cut.
Holding on to each other with our left hands, we use our dominant ones to pummel into each other. Stomach, shoulder, jaw, chin, rinse and repeat. A hit to my helmet knocks it off, but Luka’s is off shortly after mine.
A stream of blood runs down his face from an eyebrow. I can sense my lip already swelling, the taste of iron coating my tongue.
Eventually, we tumble onto the ice.
I’m surprised our fight is being allowed to continue for this long, but the referees and coaches are more concerned about Jordan. I catch from the corner of my eyes a stretcher being rushed out, and it fuels me to keep going. Repercussions be damned.
I throw one leg around his waist and manage to snake my other under him. Tightening my hold, I roll all of my body weight to the right. Luka’s pinned under me, and I start pummeling him again.
Not sure who it is, but gloves curl into the back of my jersey, hurling me off of Luka.
A rip fissures in the collar as I try to break free.
From the size and strength of the arm, I’m assuming Beckett, wrapped around my shoulders, caging me to their chest, starts to skate backward away from Luka. His teammates swarm him.
“Let go of me.”
“No.” It’s Beckett. His voice is even-keeled and steadying. “Breathe.”
“Look what he did to her.” I think my heart fractures, fragments scattered on the ice. “Jordan’s—”
“Going to be okay,” I try to interject, but he repeats himself more assertively. “Jordan is going to be okay.”
“She has to be. I can-I can’t lose her, Becky,” I think I say. My throat hoarse, the words scraping their way up my throat. “I love her.”
The refs eject me from the game as anticipated. Coach follows me down the corridor and into the locker room, a firm hand on my shoulder and a trail of blood on the ground.
Inside, he turns, pacing as I find a seat on one of the benches.
Elbows resting on my knees, I drop my head into my hands, taking a slow, harsh inhale.
The exhaustion of the game mixed with my fight is catching up to me, blending with the worry about Jordan that’s eating at me, has me seconds away from collapsing.
I take one more deep breath before raising my chin to find Coach glaring at me. His emotions are unreadable.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can say, even though I don’t think I am. I know I’m out for the remainder of the game, and if I’m lucky, only the next game or two.
“Don’t be.” He stalks toward me, finding a seat next to me. “He had it coming. Valentini’s always been a dirty player.”
“Tell me about it.” I let out a humorless laugh, head hurting from the fight. “I shouldn’t have started that fight, though. Trip or cross-check him, maybe.”
“You believe what you just said?”
“No.” I can’t lie to Coach. I think I knew going into tonight’s game that I was going to fight him. Accepted every outcome. “Are you disappointed?”
“Does it make me a bad coach if I say no? I’m angry that I’m losing my best wingman, but you defended our family. I won’t ever be disappointed about that.” He claps my shoulder. “You’ve got a nasty punch, Greene.”
The broken nose and blood on the ice are proof of that.
One of the assistant coaches peeks their head in the door, letting us know that the blood is cleared and play will resume in three minutes.
Coach stands, facing me. “Shower up and head out.”
I lean back into the stall, closing my eyes and stare up at nothing.