Chapter 2
JACKSON
The puck hits the back of the net, and the crowd explodes.
I don't celebrate. Not yet. I skate back to center ice, tap Chase's glove as he passes, and lock eyes with our goalie. Fifteen seconds left on the clock, and we're up by one, but that means nothing until the buzzer sounds.
The face-off is mine. I win it clean, send the puck to the boards where our defenseman pins it. The other team scrambles as the clock ticks down.
Five. Four. Three.
The buzzer blares through the arena.
Now I celebrate.
Chase slams into me first, then the rest of the team piles on. Gloves hit the ice. Someone's yelling about the bar. The energy is electric: pure adrenaline and victory, and the kind of high that makes you forget how much your body hurts.
"Captain!" Our rookie forward, Jenkins, is grinning like an idiot. "That setup was fucking beautiful."
"Chase made the goal," I remind him, but I'm smiling too. I can't help it.
We won. Home game, divisional rival, and we shut them down. As captain, this is what I live for: leading my team to victory, hearing the Hartford crowd chant our names. The roar of twelve thousand people never gets old. Neither does the weight of the C on my chest.
I've been captain for five years now. Some days it feels like a few minutes, others like thirty years. Tonight, it feels right like everything clicked the way it was supposed to.
The locker room is chaotic. There's music blasting, guys stripping from their gear, and talking shit. Jenkins is dancing in his compression shorts, and our goalie, Reeves, is rating everyone's performance on a scale of one to ten. He gives himself a twelve.
"Fuck off, Reeves," someone yells, and everyone laughs.
I strip down, peeling off my compression shirt. My shoulder's already starting to ache where I took a check in the second period. Nothing serious, just the usual bumps and bruises that come with the job. I've played through worse.
Coach gives a quick speech about maintaining momentum, about the upcoming road trip to Montreal, about not getting cocky. I listen while unlacing my skates. We've got three games this week. Two away, one home. The schedule's brutal this time of year, but that's October for you.
The shower's hot enough to scald when I manage to get in. I stand under the spray and let it work the tension from my muscles. The high from the win is already fading, replaced by the familiar ache of a body that's been playing professional hockey for a decade.
I'm thirty-one. Not old by normal standards, but in hockey years? I'm getting there.
My phone's buzzing when I get out of the shower. Three texts from Emma.
Emma
THAT WAS AMAZING.
Ethan keeps saying "Unca Jacky!" and pointing at the ice.
We're waiting by the family entrance.
I smile at that. My nephew is seventeen months old and already obsessed with hockey. Kid's got good taste. Emma brings him to every home game she can, which means I get to see his face light up every time I step on the ice.
Being an uncle is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Better than the captaincy, better than any goal I've ever scored. Watching Ethan grow up, being part of his life—it's the kind of thing that makes all the other bullshit worth it.
I take my time getting dressed: shirt, tie, suit jacket pulled on over muscles that are already protesting.
The win feels good, but my body’s quick to remind me I’m not twenty-two anymore.
My shoulder aches, and my jaw’s sore from clenching my mouthguard for sixty minutes.
I pop two ibuprofen and cram my gear into my bag.
Chase finds me in the hallway outside the locker room.
"Em texted," he says. "Said she's got Ethan and she's ready to go."
"Yeah, I know." I swing my bag over my shoulder. "Good goal tonight."
"Good assist." He grins. "Though you could've passed it sooner. I was wide open for like three seconds."
"Three seconds in hockey time is half a second in real time."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Cap."
We head out through the family entrance. The air bites at my damp hair, but it feels good after the heat of the arena. The parking lot's mostly empty now, just a few stragglers loading gear into their cars, and a handful of fans hoping for autographs.
Emma's leaning against Chase's truck with Ethan on her hip. She's bundled in a Wolves hoodie, looking tired but happy. Nine weeks pregnant and already exhausted. She won't admit it, but I can see it in the way she's holding herself.
"There's my boys," she says when we approach.
"Unca Jacky!" Ethan reaches for me with both hands, and I take him easily. He's getting heavier every week, solid muscle and determination packed into a tiny body.
"Hey, buddy. Did you enjoy the game?"
"Hockey!" He smacks my chest with his little hand, eyes bright. "Go, go, go!"
Emma laughs. "That's all he's been saying since the second period. I think he's got your competitive streak."
"Poor kid." I ruffle his brown hair. He's got Chase's stubborn chin, but Emma's green eyes. "How're you feeling, Em?"
"Tired. Nauseous. The usual." She climbs into the passenger seat while Chase loads our gear into the truck bed. "But I wouldn't miss your games."
"You don't have to come to every one. You're pregnant."
"Nine weeks is nothing. I'll be fine." She buckles in, waving off my concern.
I slide into the back seat beside Ethan's car seat and buckle him in. The kid immediately starts babbling about the game, or what he thinks was the game. Most of it's unintelligible. Puck sounds like duck, goal comes out as go, but he's enthusiastic as hell.
Chase pulls out of the parking lot, and we fall into easy conversation. He asks about my shoulder. I ask about Emma's day. She complains about how some of her clothes don't fit anymore, even though she's not showing yet.
I've been staying in their renovated basement bedroom for about a month now.
They've got another spare room upstairs, but I chose the basement.
More privacy, my own space. I'm supposed to be looking for my own place, but I'm not in a rush.
Plus, Emma likes having me around, and with her pregnant and Ethan being a handful most days, I can help out. It's a good setup.
The drive home takes twenty minutes because of some traffic. Ethan's half asleep by the time we turn onto our street, his head lolling against the car seat. I'm already thinking about my bed when Chase pulls up outside.
Then I see the car parked there.
My stomach drops.
It's a beat-up Honda Civic, silver paint faded on the hood, a crack in the rear windshield that's been there for years. I know that car.
Maya.
"Why is Maya here?" Emma's voice cuts through my thoughts, surprised and confused. "I didn't know she was coming to visit."
My heart's pounding. The post-game adrenaline is nothing compared to this: the sharp spike of panic mixed with something else. Something I've been trying to ignore for a year.
Chase kills the engine, already unbuckling. "Maybe she wanted to surprise you?"
Emma's out of the truck before I can process what's happening. She's moving toward the front door, keys already in hand. Chase follows, carefully extracting a sleeping Ethan from his car seat.
I grab my gear and take my time walking up the driveway. My pulse is too fast, and my hands feel unsteady on the strap of my bag. This is stupid. I'm a grown man, a professional athlete, and a team captain. I shouldn't be nervous about seeing a woman I've known for a decade.
A woman I've been in love with for eight years.
A woman I kissed and then walked away from a year ago.
The last time I saw Maya was two months ago.
Ethan went on the ice for the first time, and she helped me shop for new gear for him.
We spent an hour in a sporting goods store picking out tiny skates and a jumper.
It should've been easy. We used to be able to talk about anything. Instead, it was awkward as hell.
We haven't really spoken since.
The front door's already open when I reach the porch. I can hear Emma's voice inside, high and excited. Then another voice. Lower, familiar.
Maya.
I step inside, and there she is.
She's standing in the living room, and she looks… wrong. That's the first thing I notice. Not wrong like she doesn't belong here, because she's always belonged. But wrong like something's broken.
She's thinner than I remember. Her jeans hang loose on her hips. Her brown eyes look tired. Her black curly hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she's wearing an oversized sweater that swallows her frame.
But she's smiling at Emma, and for a second it's like nothing's changed. Like we're still kids, and she's the girl my mom took in after her mother died. Still the bright, loud, wild girl who made our house feel fuller.
Then her eyes slide past Emma and land on me.
The smile falters.
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or panic—before she rebuilds the mask. And it is a mask. I can see the edges of it now, the construction of someone pretending to be okay.
"Why are you here?" She says it like an accusation, and Emma frowns.
"I've been staying here for about a month now," I say, keeping my voice even. "Didn't Em tell you?"
Maya's eyes widen. She shakes her head, turning back to Emma. "You didn't mention—"
"I didn't think to mention it. Honestly, I didn't even know you were coming."
"It was last-minute," Maya says quickly. I catch the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands are shaking just. "I should have called first. I just… I needed to get out of Pinewood for a bit."
"You're always welcome here, you know that." Emma hugs her, and Maya returns it, but something's off. I can see it in the way she holds herself, like she's barely keeping it together.
Chase shifts Ethan in his arms. He's fully asleep now, drooling on Chase's shoulder. "I'm gonna put this guy to bed." He glances at Maya. "Good to see you."
"You too."
Emma follows him toward the stairs, already talking about making up the guest room.
That leaves Maya and me alone in the living room.
I should say something. Anything. But all I can think about is the last time we were alone together. Not two months ago in that sporting goods store, but a year ago. Her mouth on mine, the taste of tequila on her lips, the way she looked at me when I pulled away.
"Long game?" she asks finally.
"We won."
"Congratulations."
This is torture. We used to be able to talk for hours. She'd sit on the counter in my mom's kitchen and tell me about nursing school while I made terrible jokes. She'd come to my games in Calgary and yell at the refs louder than anyone. We were friends before anything else.
Now we can barely string two sentences together without the weight of everything unsaid crushing the air between us.
"How long are you staying?" The question comes out rougher than I intended.
She meets my eyes, and for just a second, I see past the mask. See the exhaustion, the pain, the fear she's trying so hard to hide.
"I don't know," she says quietly. "Is that okay?"
No. Yes. I don't fucking know.
What I do know is that having Maya Rivera under the same roof is either going to save me or destroy me.
And right now, looking at her standing in my sister's living room like a ghost of the girl I used to know, I can't tell which one I'm hoping for.