3. Jaxson
CHAPTER THREE
JAXSON
The chandelier light in the Fairmont ballroom is aggressive, shattering against thousands of crystal droplets and raining down on a sea of people I mostly want to avoid.
I adjust my tie for the tenth time, the silk feeling like a noose.
Usually, I can play the part of the 'Ice Wall' without cracking, but tonight, the air is too thin, crowded with the scent of expensive perfume and the desperate hum of social climbing.
Mick McLinden, my captain and the only person who can tolerate me for more than five minutes, nudges my elbow with a champagne flute. "Stop looking like you're calculating the fastest exit route to the parking garage, Jax. It's a charity gala. Smile for the sick kids."
"I am smiling," I say, my face remaining a mask of granite. "Internally. It’s a very deep, meaningful expression of joy."
"That look on your face reminds me of the clown hiding in the sewer trying to lure small children in," Mick mutters, taking a sip of his drink. He scans the room, his eyes bright with the kind of social ease I’ve never managed to replicate.
"But hey, look on the bright side. At least your favorite person isn't here yet.
I haven't seen Ryan Coleman’s smug face anywhere. "
The mention of Coleman makes my jaw tighten instinctively.
The rivalry isn't just a media narrative; it's a physical weight that settles behind my ribs every time we're in the same zip code.
I scan the perimeter, expecting to see the New York star forward soaking up the limelight, but instead, my gaze snags on something else. Or, rather, someone.
She’s standing near the stage, partially obscured by a massive floral arrangement.
She isn't wearing the standard black or silver that seems to be the uniform of the evening. She’s in a deep, vibrant emerald that makes everything else in the room look washed out.
The silk of her dress clings to her curves with a quiet confidence, and her hair is pinned up, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
I feel a strange, sharp pull in my chest. It isn't the usual thrum of adrenaline I get before a puck drops.
This is slower, heavier. It's a spiral I can't seem to break.
I notice the delicate but firm way she holds her glass.
And the way she isn't scanning the room for celebrities, but seems focused on the notes in her hand.
She looks like a calm center in the middle of a hurricane.
"Who is that?" I ask, the words out before I can censor them.
Mick follows my line of sight and whistles low. "She’s a nurse at Seattle General. She's the one giving the keynote for the pediatric wing tonight." He pauses, his grin widening into something dangerous. “She's also Harper Coleman, your bestie’s little sister.”
The information should be a bucket of ice water.
It should send me walking in the opposite direction.
A Coleman. The sister of the man who spent the last three seasons trying to take my head off with slap shots.
But the logic doesn't reach my mind or my heart.
I find myself moving forward, drawn toward the stage as the lights dim and the master of ceremonies introduces her.
The stunning brunette steps up to the microphone. She doesn't look nervous. She looks like someone who deals with life and death every day and finds a room full of donors relatively manageable. Her voice is clear and carries a melodic strength that cuts through the remnants of the room's chatter.
"We don't just see patients in the emergency department," she says, her eyes sweeping across the crowd. "We see families at their breaking points. We see the moment hope wavers."
I'm standing near the edge of the shadows, close enough to see the way her eyes catch the light. They’re dark, intelligent, and filled with a fierce compassion that makes my own carefully constructed isolation feel suddenly, painfully small.
She talks about the children, about the new wing, but all I can see is the way her hands gesture.
Steady. Certain. Those are hands that heal.
Hands that hold things together when they fall apart.
I’d fucking give my left nut to feel those hands moving across my body.
When she finishes, the room erupts in applause.
She offers a modest smile, the kind that doesn't reach for attention but earns it anyway. As she steps off the stage, our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. It’s a collision of worlds.
I see the flicker of recognition in her gaze. No doubt, she knows who I am.
I want to look away first, but her stare is impossible to resist. She doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t do the fawning, hair-twirling thing every other woman in this damn room seems to have mastered.
Harper sweeps right over me with that steady hazel gaze, sizes me up in one cold second, and moves the fuck on.
Not a single flicker of interest. Hell, it should piss me off, but I actually find it kinda… refreshing. My interest radar just went through the roof. Hell, it went up the moment I laid eyes on this gorgeous woman.
She’s halfway to the back of the ballroom when I catch her and block her path with my body.
She stops. Looks up. She’s gotta crane her neck just to meet my eyes, but she does it like she’s bored. Like I’m just another annoyance.
“Nice speech,” I manage, and fuck if my voice doesn’t sound rougher than I intend. “Jaxson Thorne.” I hold out a hand, because I do know how to play nice when the occasion requires it.
Her gaze drops to my hand and stays there for the count of ten before she slowly takes my hand. “I know who you are.” Electricity. Heat. And something else I can’t put a name to flows through me as our palms meet.
My cock turns to stone in my dress pants, and I can only hope my jacket hides it. I can already picture the headline splashed across the morning feeds: “The Ice Wall’s frozen stick on full display at charity gala.”
“And I’m pretty sure you already know who I am.” She swallows and pulls her hand back like she’s been zapped. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Thorne.” Then she steps around me. Like I’m already fucking forgotten.
Goddamn.
I stand there for a beat, watching her walk away. That emerald dress sways with every step, taunting me. Most women would be begging for a photo, an autograph, another moment of my time. But not Harper Coleman. To her, I’m an annoying gnat to be swatted away.
The rest of the night is a blur of forced handshakes and empty conversations.
My mind is a repetitive loop of emerald silk and her bored, steady gaze.
I leave as soon as it’s professionally acceptable, the 'Ice Wall' persona intact but feeling strangely brittle around the edges. But a little before midnight, I’m heading out without getting a chance to talk to my new obsession again.
The next night, I’m pacing my floors. The penthouse feels cavernous, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Seattle that feels more like a prison than a kingdom.
I need a distraction. I need to do something with my hands. Something to get my mind off of the stunning brunette who’s now living rent-free in my goddamn skull.
So, I decide to cook something complex that requires focus.
I pull a chef's knife from the magnetic rack, the steel cold and familiar. I’m chopping onions, the rhythm a poor substitute for the thud of a puck, when my mind drifts back to that moment in the ballroom.
The way she looked at me, not with awe, but with a quiet, analytical scrutiny.
The knife slips, and my dumbass tries to catch it. With my goddamn right hand.
It’s a clean, sharp bite across my palm.
For a heartbeat, there’s no pain, just the sight of the skin parting.
Then the red wells up, thick and fast, staining the white cutting board.
I hiss through my teeth, dropping the knife and grabbing a kitchen towel.
I wrap it tight, but the blood seeps through the fabric almost instantly.
It’s deep. Deeper than a simple bandage can handle. Damn it. Motherfucker.
I look at the towel, the pulse in my hand a rhythmic throb that echoes the hollow ache in my gut.
I could call the team doctor, but the thought of the questions, the reports, the lecture on being more careful with my 'million-dollar assets' makes my stomach turn, and I decide to try my luck at the ER right up the road.
I grab my keys, my hand wrapped in a fresh but already blood-soaked cloth. The drive to Seattle General is a test of focus, the steering wheel slick beneath my grip. My palm throbs as I drive through the busy downtown streets.
The emergency department is a chaotic symphony of sirens and shouting.
It smells of antiseptic and old coffee. I walk up to the triage desk, my tall frame casting a shadow over the paperwork.
The nurse behind the counter doesn't look up immediately. She’s busy with a chart, her movements efficient and tired.
"I have a laceration," I say, my voice sounding more like a growl than I intended. "I cut myself with a kitchen knife, and it won't stop bleeding."
She looks up then, her eyes widening as she recognizes the face from the billboards and the sports highlights. But before she can speak, a familiar voice cuts through the noise of the waiting room.
"I'll take him to bay four," Harper says, appearing from the hallway. She isn't in the emerald dress anymore. She’s in blue scrubs, her hair pulled into a practical ponytail, a stethoscope draped around her neck. God. She’s goddamn stunning. She looks at me, and there’s no warmth in her expression. There’s only a professional, guarded edge that reminds me exactly whose sister she is.
At least I’m losing less blood right now since all the blood flow has redirected straight to my cock. I follow her, the 'Ice Wall' finally coming face to face with the one person who seems to spread heat through all the iciness. Fuck. I haven’t felt this alive in… forever.