Chapter 3
JACKSON
Coach's whistle cuts through the arena, sharp and grating, pulling me out of wherever the hell my head just went.
"Anderson! Are you planning on showing up today, or should I give the captaincy to someone who actually wants to be here?"
I'm standing at the blue line, stick in hand, watching the drill happen without me. I blink and realize I've lost track of where we are in practice. Chase is looking at me from center ice, concern written all over his face.
"Sorry, Coach."
"Sorry doesn't win games." He skates over, stopping hard enough to spray ice. "What's going on with you?"
"Nothing. I'm good."
"You're skating like your skates are backwards." He crosses his arms, and I can see the vein in his temple that only shows up when he's actually pissed. "Personal shit?"
"Something like that."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods toward the bench. "Take five. Get your head right."
I skate off, grateful. The rest of the team continues the drills without me. Chase catches my eye from across the ice and raises an eyebrow. I shake my head. Not now.
I grab my water bottle and sit. The arena's cold, even with all the bodies moving. Usually, this grounds me. The rink is where everything makes sense—lines on the ice, rules to follow, a goal to chase.
Right now, it feels like I'm playing a different game, and nobody told me the rules changed.
Maya's under the same roof as me. Sleeping in the guest room directly above mine. I could hear her moving around last night after everyone went to bed—footsteps pacing, the bathroom sink running for what felt like hours. I almost went upstairs to check on her. Almost knocked on her door.
But what would I say? I saw your face last night, and you're clearly drowning, and I want to help, but I also want to kiss you again, and I'm a piece of shit for thinking about that when you're obviously in pain?
Yeah. That would go over well.
"All right, ladies!" Coach's voice echoes across the ice. "Line drills. Let's see some hustle!"
I force myself back onto the ice. This time I focus. Block out everything except the feel of the puck on my stick, the sound of blades cutting ice, the rhythm of the drill. By the time practice ends an hour later, I'm drenched in sweat, and my head's clearer.
Chase corners me in the locker room while I'm unlacing my skates.
"So," he says, dropping onto the bench beside me. "You gonna tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit. You've been off all morning." He pulls his jersey over his head. I can tell he's not letting this go. "Does this have anything to do with Maya showing up yesterday?"
I focus on my laces. "Why would that matter?"
"Because you looked like someone punched you in the gut when you saw her."
"I was surprised, that's all."
"Uh-huh." Chase isn't buying it. "And the fact that you could barely look at her all night? That you practically ran to the basement the second Em finished making up her room?"
"I was tired."
"You're full of shit." He tosses his jersey into his bag and leans against the locker. "Look, I'm not trying to get all up in your business, but you're my captain. My friend. And you're playing like garbage."
I yank my skate off harder than necessary. "Drop it, Chase."
He holds up his hands. "Fine. But whatever's going on with you two, you might want to deal with it. She's staying for a while, and Emma's going to notice if you keep acting weird."
That's what I'm afraid of.
The drive home takes fifteen minutes, and both of us are lost in our own thoughts. I should probably apologize for snapping at him. Chase is my teammate, my friend, my family, and he's been nothing but supportive since I moved in.
But I can't talk about Maya. I can't explain that I've been in love with her for years, that I kissed her a year ago, and then rejected her because I'm a coward. That seeing her last night looking so broken made me want to pull her into my arms and never let go.
Chase would understand. Hell, he'd probably tell me to go for it.
But I can't. She's Emma's best friend. And right now, she needs support, not me making everything more complicated.
We pull into the driveway behind Maya's car. The house looks quiet.
Inside, the TV's playing some kids' show, but the volume's low. I hear Ethan's voice first, that toddler babble that's half words, half sounds.
"No, buddy, like this." Maya's voice. "Stack them up. See?"
I follow the sound to the living room and stop in the doorway.
Maya's sitting cross-legged on the floor with Ethan, showing him how to stack blocks. She's wearing leggings and an oversized sweater, her curls bouncing around her face. Ethan's concentrating hard on placing a blue block on top of a red one, his tongue sticking out.
"There you go!" Maya says when he gets it. "You did it!"
Ethan claps his hands, knocking the blocks over in the process. Then he laughs—that pure toddler joy that makes everything else disappear.
And Maya laughs too.
It's the first genuine sound I've heard from her since she arrived. Not forced, not performing. Real. The sound hits me square in the chest and reminds me of the girl who used to laugh at all my stupid jokes, who could find humor in anything.
She looks up and sees me standing here. The laugh dies, and the walls go back up so fast I almost miss the transition.
"Hey," she says. "How was practice?"
"Good." I step into the room, nodding at Chase when he heads upstairs to find Emma. "How long have you been up?"
"A while. Emma's napping. I told her I'd watch Ethan."
I sit on the couch, giving them space. Ethan immediately abandons the blocks and toddles over to me, arms up.
"Unca Jacky! Hockey!"
"Yeah, buddy. I was playing hockey." I lift him onto my lap. He's warm and solid, smelling like apple juice and graham crackers.
"Go, go, go!" He bounces on my legs, and I let him because the kid's energy is infectious even when I'm exhausted.
Maya watches us, and something flickers across her face. Something soft that's gone before I can name it.
"He missed you this morning," she says quietly. "Emma said he kept asking where you were."
"Morning practice. I'm usually gone before he wakes up." I ruffle Ethan's hair, and he giggles. "Did you sleep okay?"
It's a loaded question, and we both know it. I heard her up half the night.
"Fine." She turns back to the blocks, starts stacking them with deliberate focus.
"Maya."
"What?"
I don't know what to say. How do I ask if she's okay when the answer is obviously no? How do I offer help when she's already shut down?
Ethan wiggles off my lap and goes back to her, plopping down on the ground. She hands him a block without looking at me.
"You look tired.”
"Thanks. That's exactly what every woman wants to hear." She's deflecting with humor, but her voice has an edge.
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." She stacks another block. "I'm fine, Jackson. Just adjusting to being here."
She's not fine. I can see it in every line of her body—the way she's holding her shoulders too tight, the way her hands shake when she reaches for the blocks. She's thinner than two months ago. The shadows under her eyes are deeper, more pronounced against her brown skin.
"If you need anything…"
"I don't." She finally looks at me, and the shutters are down. "I appreciate you guys letting me crash here, but I'm good. Emma's been amazing. Chase too. I'll be out of your way soon."
"You're not in the way."
"Sure." She doesn't believe me. "Either way, I won't be here long. Just until I figure some things out."
Ethan knocks over the tower of blocks again, squealing with delight. Maya smiles at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
I want to push. Want to demand she tell me what happened, why she showed up with everything she owns in garbage bags, why she looks like she hasn't eaten a real meal in weeks.
I want to know who hurt her, because someone did. I can see it written in the careful way she moves, the hypervigilance in her eyes when doors open or close.
But I can't, and I don't have the right to demand answers.
"Well," I say, standing. "If you do need anything, I'm around."
"Noted." She builds another tower for Ethan to destroy.
I head toward the basement stairs, then pause at the threshold. "Maya?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're here. Emma missed you."
She doesn't respond. Just keeps stacking blocks while Ethan chatters in the background.
I take the stairs down to the basement two at a time.
My room is exactly how I left it this morning—unmade bed, spare hockey gear in the corner, the framed photo of Dad on the dresser.
The one with Emma as a baby and me at almost six, both of us in Dad's arms. Emma's got this huge gummy smile, and I'm grinning up at him like he hung the moon.
It was taken maybe two months before he died.
I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hands through my hair.
Something's wrong with Maya. Something more than just needing a place to stay. The weight loss, the exhaustion, the way she flinched last night when Chase moved too fast. The long sleeves in a heated house. The careful way she holds herself, like she's protecting something.
She's running from something. Or someone. That much is obvious.
And I have no idea how to help her when she won't even look me in the eye for more than five seconds.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: How are things going?
I type back: Good. The team's looking strong.
I don't mention Maya. Don't mention that the girl Mom took in when she was sixteen, the girl who became part of our family, turned up last night looking like a ghost.
Mom would know something was wrong immediately. She could always read Maya better than anyone. Used to say Maya wore her heart on her sleeve, that she felt everything too deeply. That's what made her such a good nurse—she cared about every single patient like they were family.
But caring that much also meant getting hurt that much harder.
I toss my phone on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
This is going to be tough. Living in the same house as Maya, watching her fall apart, not being able to do anything about it because she won't let me close enough to help.
And the worst part? The part that makes me a complete asshole?
Even with everything obviously wrong, even knowing she's in pain, I still want her.
I still think about that kiss. Still remember the way she looked at me a year ago, like I was everything she'd ever wanted. Still remember how she tasted, how she felt in my arms for those three seconds before I fucked it all up.
Still love her the way I've loved her since she was eighteen, and I was twenty-three and knew I should stay the fuck away.
I close my eyes and try to find some kind of center. Some way to be what she needs—a safe place, a friend, someone who doesn't make everything harder.
But lying here in the dark, knowing she's upstairs playing with my nephew and pretending everything's fine, all I can think is that I'd do anything to fix whatever broke her.
Even if it means breaking myself in the process.