Chapter 27
JACKSON
It's been three weeks since I gave Maya the pendant, and everything feels different. Better, lighter, like we're finally on solid ground.
Maya wears it every day, hidden under her clothes. I catch glimpses of it sometimes. When she leans over and her shirt shifts, when she's getting dressed in my room after spending the night. The wolf is resting against her skin, right over her heart.
Mine. She's mine, and everyone knows it except the one person who matters most.
Playoffs start next week. We're the second seed in the division, facing off against a wild-card team that's hungry and dangerous. The pressure's insane—media constantly in our faces, fans expecting us to go deep, the weight of an entire city on our shoulders.
But I'm playing the best hockey of my life. Two goals in our last game, three assists in the game before that. Coach pulled me aside yesterday and said whatever I'm doing differently this season, keep doing it.
If he only knew.
Next week isn't just playoffs, though. It's also when Maya and I tell Emma. The timeline we agreed on. One week until everything changes, until we stop hiding, until Emma knows her best friend and her brother are together. The thought makes my stomach tight, but I'm ready. We're ready.
Tonight's the last game before the playoffs officially begin. Home ice, packed arena, Maya in the family section, wearing my number under her jacket.
The energy in the locker room is different, electric in a way that only comes before the postseason. Everyone's focused, dialed in, going through their pre-game rituals with extra intensity.
"Alright, listen up!" Coach barks, clipboard in hand. "This is our last tune-up before the playoffs. Marchetti's been on fire for them this season, so someone needs to shut him down. Cap, that's on you."
"Got it, Coach."
"And their goalie Dubois? Low shots are getting through on him. Exploit that." He looks around the room. "Now get out there and show me you're ready for what's coming."
We take the ice for warm-ups, and the arena's already deafening. I do my usual routine: figure eights, wrist shots, and stretch out the legs. Chase skates over and taps my shin pads with his stick.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"Always."
"Maya's here. Family section, row three."
"I know."
He grins. "You're so fucked, Cap. In the best way."
The puck drops at seven, and we come out flying. I win the opening faceoff, knocking it back to our defenseman, who sends it into their zone. Chase and I go after it hard, pressuring before they know what’s hit them.
Marchetti grabs the puck behind their net and tries to skate it out. I'm on him immediately, using my body to pin him against the boards. He tries to muscle past me, but I've got position. The puck comes loose. Chase scoops it up and fires it toward the net.
Their goalie, Dubois, makes the save, but the puck bounces back out. Our winger crashes in and buries it.
One-nothing. Thirty seconds in.
The bench goes wild. I skate past, and the guys slam their gloves against mine as we line up for the next faceoff.
"That's how we fucking start!" Chase yells.
The game settles after that. They push back, trying to establish their own pressure. Marchetti's dangerous—quick and creative. I shadow him every shift, making sure he doesn't get comfortable.
Halfway through the first period, he gets a step on me at center ice. I backcheck hard, catching up just as he enters our zone. He cuts toward the middle and tries to wrap the puck around the net. I get my stick in there and knock it away. Suddenly, we're heading the other way.
I carry it through the center with Marchetti chasing me now. Chase flies down the left side, calling for it. I wait until the last second, then thread a pass between two defenders right onto his stick.
Chase rips it.
Dubois gets a piece, but it trickles through.
Two-nothing.
The arena loses it. I skate to Chase, and we crash into the boards together, the rest of the line piling on.
"Beauty pass, Cap!" Chase shouts.
We're controlling the game now. Every line's clicking; our defense is shutting them down. Dubois is facing shot after shot, and even though he's keeping them in, you can see the pressure building.
The second period starts, and they come out desperate. Their coach must have ripped into them because they're playing more dangerously now, finishing every hit, trying to get under our skin.
Marchetti catches me with an elbow in the corner. Not dirty, just hard. I give it right back, pinning him against the glass.
"You're done, Anderson," he says. "We're coming back."
"Not tonight."
The play moves up ice. I push off and join the rush. Our defenseman fires a shot from the blue line. It hits bodies in front and deflects high. I track it, time my jump, and swat it out of the air.
The puck rockets past Dubois.
Three-nothing.
My teammates are on me before I can even process it, crushing me against the boards. The noise is deafening—just the impact of bodies and sticks and pure adrenaline.
"That was insane!"
"Playoff form right there!"
They score one back before the period ends—a lucky bounce that squeaks through Reeves' pads—but we still head into the third up by two.
Coach keeps it simple between periods. "Don't sit back. Keep attacking. Make them chase."
The third period is about closing it out. They're pressing hard, throwing everything at our net, but we're shutting them down at center ice. Every time they try to build something, we're there breaking up plays.
With five minutes left, Chase draws a penalty. Power play.
I line up for the face-off in their zone. Win it clean and knock it back to our defenseman. The puck moves fast: blue line to the half wall to me in the slot.
I one-time it.
Dubois makes a desperate save, but the rebound pops right to Chase. He roofs it top shelf.
Four-one.
Game over.
We kill the last five minutes, and when the horn sounds, the arena explodes. We mob Reeves, everyone piling on, sticks in the air, already thinking about what comes next.
Playoffs. It's all about the playoffs now.
The locker room's electric afterward. Everyone's hyped, talking about our chances, about how we're going to destroy our first-round opponent. I soak it in: the brotherhood, the confidence, the joy of winning.
But all I can think about is getting home to her.
Chase catches my eye across the room and raises an eyebrow. He knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Go," he mouths.
I shower fast, dress faster. By the time I'm heading out, most of the team's still celebrating.
Maya's waiting by my truck, leaning against the passenger door, phone in hand. She's in jeans and my jersey—number twenty-five visible under her unzipped jacket. Her curls are pulled back, pendant hidden beneath the jersey.
"Hey, superstar," she says when I reach her.
"Hey, yourself."
I kiss her right here in the parking lot where anyone could see.
"You were incredible tonight," she says against my mouth. "That second goal was perfection."
"Team effort."
"Jackson Anderson is being modest. Shocking."
I grin and open her door. "Get in. I want to get home."
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Emma mentioned earlier that she and Chase are taking Ethan to visit Mom for the weekend before the playoffs get crazy.
Which means the house is empty, just me, Maya, and an entire weekend.
We barely make it inside before I'm on her, backing her against the door, kissing her like I've been starving for it. Her hands are in my hair, legs wrapping around my waist as I lift her.
"Bedroom," she gasps. "Now."
We stumble down the stairs to my room. I kick the door closed behind us and set her on the bed.
"Wait," she says. "I want... give me a second."
She strips off her jacket, then the jersey. Then she's shedding the rest of her clothes until she's standing there wearing nothing but the pendant.
"Fuck, Maya."
"Just the pendant," she says. "I want to wear just this."
I'm out of my clothes in record time, before I pull her back onto the bed, covering her body with mine.
"I love you," I say, settling between her legs. "So fucking much."
"I love you too."
I kiss her deep and slow and full of everything I feel. My hand slides between us, finding her wet and ready.
"Always ready for me," I murmur against her mouth.
"Always."
I work her with my fingers, watching her face as pleasure builds. The pendant shifts with her breathing, the wolf catching the light with every rise of her chest.
"Jackson. Please."
"Please, what?"
"Inside me. I need you inside me."
I position myself at her entrance and push in slowly, watching her eyes go dark as I fill her.
"I love you," I say again, because I can't stop saying it. "You're everything, Stardust."
"I love you." She's already moving, hips rolling to take me deeper. "God, I love you so much."
We move together, not desperate or rushed but slow and steady and full of love. Every thrust is a promise, every kiss is a confession.
"You feel so perfect," I say, buried deep inside her. "Like you were made for me."
"I am."
I slide my hand between our bodies, find her clit, and work it in rhythm with my thrusts.
"Come for me," I say. "I want to feel you fall apart."
"Jackson—"
"I've got you. I've always got you."
She comes with my name on her lips, clenching around me. The sensation sends me over the edge right behind her.
We collapse together, both breathing hard, both shaking.
I don't pull out, just stay buried inside her, the pendant pressed between our chests.
"That was..." she starts.
"Perfect. That was perfect."
Eventually, I pull out carefully, and we clean up. Then we're back in bed, her curled against my chest, my arms wrapped around her.
I trace the outline of the wolf with my finger.
"We're telling Emma soon."
"Yeah. I know."
"Are you ready?"
She's quiet for a moment. "I'm scared. But yeah, I'm ready. We can't keep hiding this."
"No, we can't." I kiss the top of her head. "Next weekend. Before the playoffs start."
"Next weekend," she echoes.
We drift off like this, tangled together, the pendant between us.
For now, lying here in the dark with Maya, both of us having just said "I love you" a dozen times, everything's perfect.
And we have no idea it's all about to fall apart.