Chapter 12
MAYA
Therapy for the next couple of weeks is brutal.
Dr. Mills doesn't sugarcoat anything, doesn't let me deflect with humor or change the subject when it gets uncomfortable. She just sits there with her kind eyes and patient voice and makes me talk about things I'd rather forget.
But it's working. Slowly. The nightmares are still there, but less frequent. I can go a full day without the urge to cut becoming overwhelming. I'm sleeping more than three hours a night.
Progress. Small, painful progress.
"Maya!" Emma appears in the guest room doorway, Ethan on her hip. "We're going to the game tonight. You should come."
I haven't been to one of Jackson's games since I got here, haven't wanted to be in crowds, haven't wanted the noise and chaos.
But Dr. Mills said I need to push myself, start doing normal things again, even when they're uncomfortable.
"Sure. Why not?"
Emma's face lights up. "Really? Oh good. Ethan loves watching them."
"Hockey!" Ethan yells, pumping his fist.
She sits on the edge of my bed, adjusting Ethan on her lap. "How's therapy going, by the way? I know losing Lily was traumatic. I'm glad you're getting help to process it."
My stomach twists. She thinks that's what therapy is for. Jackson and I agreed not to tell anyone the real reason: the rape, the cutting, all of it.
"It's helping," I say carefully. "Dr. Mills is good. We're working through a lot."
"Good. You've seemed lighter lately. More present." Emma smiles. "I'm proud of you for going."
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, but I push it down. "Thanks, Em."
Three hours later, I'm sitting in the family section of the Hartford Wolves arena, surrounded by wives, girlfriends, and kids. The energy is electric, twelve thousand people packed into this space, all of them buzzing with pre-game excitement.
Emma's beside me with Ethan in her lap. She's wearing Chase's jersey, number eighteen. Ethan's wearing a tiny Wolves shirt that says "Future Captain" on the back.
"You okay?" Emma asks, reading my face.
"Yeah. It’s just loud in here."
"It is. But it's a good kind of loud." She bounces Ethan. "See daddy? And Uncle Jackson?"
The teams are warming up on the ice. I spot Chase immediately: number eighteen, dark hair visible under his helmet. Then Jackson, number twenty-five, the C on his chest catching the light.
Captain.
He's doing drills with the other forwards, moving with mesmerizing precision. Quick turns, perfect passes, shots that hit the net with satisfying thuds. Even in warm-ups, he's commanding, the other players orbiting him like he's the sun.
"He's good, isn't he?" Emma says, following my gaze.
"Yeah. He is."
The anthem plays, and both teams line up at their blue lines. Jackson's at center ice, helmet off, hand over his heart. His blond hair is swept back, jaw set in concentration.
He looks like he was built for this, like the ice is where he belongs.
The puck drops, and the game explodes into motion.
I've watched hockey before, grown up with it, spent years in this sport's orbit. But watching Jackson as captain is different. He's everywhere, calling plays, directing traffic, fighting for every inch of ice. When he has the puck, the arena holds its breath.
Five minutes in, one of the opposing players takes a run at Chase in the corner. The hit is late, dirty, and sends Chase crashing into the boards. The whistle blows, but Jackson's already dropping his gloves.
"Oh shit," Emma mutters.
Jackson goes after the guy who hit Chase, doesn't even hesitate. Grabs him by the jersey and throws a punch that connects with his jaw. The other player fights back, and suddenly they're both throwing punches, the refs trying to separate them while the crowd roars.
Jackson gets in three solid hits before the refs pull them apart. He's bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, but he's grinning, shouting something at the other player as he skates to the penalty box.
"Five minutes for fighting," the announcer says, and the crowd boos.
"That's my brother," Emma says proudly. "Defending his teammate."
Chase is back on his feet and gives Jackson a nod as he skates past the penalty box. The message is clear: they're a team, they protect each other.
Jackson serves his penalty, comes back out flying. First shift after the box, he wins a face-off, threads the puck through two defenders like it's nothing. Chase picks it up at the blue line, carries it into the zone, and buries it in the top corner.
The arena erupts.
Emma's screaming, Ethan's clapping, and I'm on my feet without realizing it.
"That's my boys!" Emma yells.
The game gets rougher as the first period goes on. Bodies flying, hits that echo through the arena, the kind of physical play that makes you wince. Jackson takes a hit along the boards that looks like it hurts, but he pops right back up, barking orders at his linemates.
The second period starts, and the other team comes out aggressively. They tie it up three minutes in on a power play goal. The momentum shifts, and suddenly the Wolves are on their heels, defending more than attacking.
Jackson changes that.
He steals the puck at center ice, breaks toward the net with a defenseman draped all over him. The guy's hooking, holding, doing everything he can to slow Jackson down, but it doesn't matter. Jackson somehow gets the shot off between his legs, a move so quick I almost miss it.
The puck goes five-hole, and the goal horn blares.
The crowd is deafening. Jackson's teammates mob him at the bench, gloves hitting helmets, everyone celebrating. He's grinning, that rare, genuine smile that makes my chest tight.
"Uncle Jacky!" Ethan's bouncing in Emma's arms. "Goal! Goal!"
The game stays tight through the rest of the second period. Chippy, physical, the kind of hockey where every shift matters. Jackson takes another hit, this one from behind into the boards, and stays down for a second too long.
My heart stops.
But he gets up, shakes it off, and keeps playing. The cut above his eye is still bleeding, dripping down the side of his face, but he doesn't leave the ice.
The third period is a battle. The other team ties it up again with ten minutes left, and the arena's tense, everyone on edge. The teams trade chances, both goalies making highlight-reel saves.
Five minutes left, and Jackson wins a face-off, sending the puck back to their defenseman. They work it around, patient, looking for the opening. Jackson's calling for it, stick on the ice, positioned perfectly at the hash marks.
The defenseman sends it his way. Jackson shoots, but the goalie saves it. The puck comes back out, and Jackson goes after it, battling through a hard shove to his back to stay in position.
Chase breaks free on the other side. Jackson sees it, fires a pass across two zones through three sticks. Chase is alone in front of the net.
He scores.
Game over. Wolves win.
The building shakes with noise. I'm screaming along with everyone else, caught up in the moment, the energy infectious. Emma's crying happy tears, hugging me and Ethan both.
"That's my husband!" she yells.
Post-game, we wait by the family entrance. Other wives and girlfriends filter past, kids running around. Ethan's asleep in Emma's arms, exhausted from the excitement.
The players start coming out. Chase first, hair still damp, grinning ear to ear. He kisses Emma, ruffles Ethan's hair, and high-fives me.
"Did you see that pass?" he's saying. "Jackson threaded it perfectly."
Jackson emerges five minutes later, still in his suit. The players always dress up for home games. Dark gray, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair's damp, pushed back from his face. The cut above his eyebrow has been cleaned up, but there's a butterfly bandage holding it together.
His eyes find mine.
"You came," he says.
"Emma dragged me. But yeah. You were good."
"Good?" Chase laughs. "Cap was on fire tonight. That assist was disgusting."
"It was a pass," Jackson says, but he's smiling.
We drive home in two cars: Emma and Chase with a sleeping Ethan in one, Jackson and me in the other.
The silence is comfortable. Jackson's still riding the high from the win, fingers tapping the steering wheel to some internal rhythm.
"You really were good tonight," I say. "Watching you, captain… It's impressive. The way you fought for Chase, the way the team responds to you."
"Thanks." He glances at me. "I'm glad you came. It means a lot that you pushed yourself to be there."
"Dr. Mills says I need to start doing normal things again."
"How's that going? The therapy."
"Hard. But good." I watch Hartford pass by the window. "She's helping me understand the trauma responses, why I freeze, why I cut, all of it."
"That's good."
"Yeah."
We pull into the driveway. Emma and Chase still aren't back, probably stopped for food or to let Ethan wake up properly.
Jackson kills the engine. Neither of us moves.
"Can I ask you something?" The words come out before I can second-guess them.
"Anything."
"When you're on the ice, when you're in control, commanding the game, does it feel good? Like everything makes sense?"
He thinks about that. "Yeah. It does. Out there, I know my role, know what I'm supposed to do. It's clear."
"I want that." I turn to face him. "I want to feel in control."
"You will. It takes time, but—"
"No, I mean now. Tonight." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "I want to try something. With you."
His eyes narrow. "Maya—"
"Let me finish." I take a breath. "What happened to me, the rape, it took my choice away, took my control. My body hasn't felt like mine since. And I need to take it back."
"Okay. How can I help?"
"I want to have sex with you."
The silence is deafening.
Jackson's staring at me like I just suggested we rob a bank.
"Hear me out," I say quickly. "I trust you. Completely. You saw me at my lowest and didn't run. You got me help. You've been steady and patient and safe. And I need… I need to choose pleasure, choose intimacy, on my terms."
"Maya, I don't think—"
"I've been thinking about this all week, and talked about it with Dr. Mills. She said reclaiming my sexuality is part of healing, that choosing when and how is important. And I choose you. I choose this."
He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't want to take advantage of you."
"You're not. I'm asking. I'm choosing. That's the whole point." I shift in my seat to face him fully. "It would be friends with benefits. Physical. Safe. We set boundaries and rules. We can stop anytime I need to. But I need to do this, Jackson. I need to prove to myself that I can."
"This is a bad idea."
"Maybe. But it's my bad idea." I watch his face carefully. "If you don't want to, that's fine. I'll understand. But if you do, if you trust me to know what I need, then I'm asking."
The war on his face is obvious. Want versus worry. Desire versus protection.
"Rules," he says finally. "If we do this, we have rules. Clear boundaries."
Relief floods through me. "Yes. Absolutely."
"Okay. What do you want the rules to be?"
I've been thinking about this for days. "No sleeping in the same bed after. We do this, then we go back to our separate spaces."
"Agreed. What else?"
"No kissing outside of sex. Keep it contained."
He nods. "No dates or romantic gestures. This stays physical."
"And no falling in love," I add. "That's the important one. We both know this can't be more than what it is."
Something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. But he nods. "No falling in love."
"And we can stop anytime. Either of us. No questions asked."
"Anytime," he agrees.
We sit in the car, rules laid out between us.
"So," I say. "Do we have a deal?"
Jackson looks at me for a long moment. "You're sure about this? Really sure?"
"I'm terrified. But yes. I'm sure."
"Okay." He unbuckles his seatbelt. "But we're doing this right. You set the pace. You tell me what you need. We stop the second you're uncomfortable."
"That sounds reasonable."
"And Maya?" His voice drops. "This doesn't fix everything. Sex isn't therapy."
"I know. I'm not looking for a fix. I'm looking for a choice."
He studies my face like he's memorizing it. "Okay. We can try this."
The relief is overwhelming, followed immediately by terror. I just propositioned Jackson Anderson, Emma's brother, the man I've been in love with for years. And he said yes.
"Not tonight," he says, reading my face. "You're exhausted, and I'm wired from the game. We do this when we're both ready. When it's right."
"Okay. When?"
"Soon." He reaches over and squeezes my hand. "And Maya? We can stop anytime you need to. That's the most important rule."
I squeeze back. "I know."
We head inside. Emma and Chase still aren't back. Jackson goes to the basement. I go upstairs to my room.
Max is on the bed, waiting. He meows his judgment.
"I know," I tell him. "This is probably a terrible idea."
He purrs anyway.
I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling. My heart's pounding, hands shaking, but not from panic, from anticipation.
I just asked Jackson to have sex with me. And he said yes.