5. Jaxson
CHAPTER FIVE
JAXSON
The puck is a black blur, a frozen disk of rubber screaming toward my upper right corner at ninety miles per hour.
Ordinarily, I don't think. I react. My glove hand is an autonomous entity, a heat-seeking missile designed to snatch hope out of the air and crush it.
But as I track the projectile, the black circle morphs into a pair of sharp, hazel eyes narrowed in professional focus.
I see a flash of endless curves. I hear the warm smokiness of her voice.
The puck thuds into the netting behind me. The red light doesn't flash during practice, but the sound of it hitting the twine is an indictment. It’s the sound of a failure I don’t taste very often.
"Thorne!" Coach’s voice bellows from the bench, echoing off the empty rafters of the arena. "Are you meditating out there, or do you plan on stopping something today?"
I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the ice, staring at the gouges left by the skates of my teammates.
My injured hand is wrapped tight in a custom-molded guard inside my trapper.
It doesn't actually hurt. The local anesthetic wore off thirty-six hours ago, replaced by a dull, rhythmic thrum that feels less like an injury and more like a reminder. Every time I flex my palm, I feel the tug of the nylon thread, so I’ve learned how to hold my hand just right.
"Fine," I mutter, tapping my stick against the posts to reset. The sound is hollow, lacking its usual authority. I’m a mess. I am a highly paid, world-class athlete who is currently being dismantled by the memory of a woman’s touch.
Mick McLinden circles the net, spraying a fine mist of ice over my pads as he stops.
He leans on his stick, peering at me through the cage of his helmet.
His face is flushed, his breaths coming in ragged plumes of white.
He’s the only one who knows I didn't spend my night off at a club or a high-stakes poker game. He knows I spent it in an ER treatment bay, being scolded by Ryan Coleman’s sister.
"You’re off, Jax," Mick says, his voice low enough to stay between us. "You’ve let in four during this drill. Four. Usually, you’d be breaking your stick over the crossbar by now."
"I'm fine," I say, shifting my weight into a crouch. My knees ache, a familiar protest of age and impact, but the discomfort is a distant second to the mental static. "And focused."
"On what? Because it’s definitely not the puck." Mick nudges my pad with his stick. "Is it the hand? If you’re playing hurt, you need to tell Coach. We can’t afford you aggravating a tendon because you’re too stubborn to sit for a week."
"The hand is fine," I snap, and the edge in my voice finally sounds like me. It’s a sharp, jagged thing that warns people to back off. "The stitches are clean. I’m fine."
Mick raises an eyebrow, his grin widening in a way that makes me want to shove him into the boards. "You’re not fine. You’re a goddamn mess. Admit and get a hold of your shit."
I push off the post and skate a small circle, the blades biting deep into the scarred surface.
Mick is right, and that’s the problem. I’m a man of systems. I organize my life into legible blocks.
Training, nutrition, recovery, performance.
There is no block for a woman who occupies every goddamn molecule of my mind.
"Drop it, Mick," I say, sliding back into the crease. "I’m fine."
"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Mick laughs, a short, barking sound that gets cut off as Coach whistles for the next drill. "Just try to keep your head in the building, okay?"
The rest of practice is an exercise in frustration.
I stop the shots I should stop, but the fluidity is gone.
My movements are mechanical, calculated.
I’m thinking about the way the light in the ER caught the stray strands of hair escaping her ponytail.
I’m thinking about the way she shut me down cold when I tried to charm her, her expression remaining as cool and impenetrable as the ice beneath my skates.
It’s a physical itch I can't scratch, a distraction that has burrowed under my skin like an infection.
By the time I hit the locker room, the hollow in my gut has expanded.
It’s not loneliness, not exactly. It’s the realization that for the first time in years, the game isn't enough to fill the space. I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey, the fabric clinging to my skin like a shroud. The room is full of the usual sounds. There’s the thud of gear, the sharp smell of wintergreen, the banter of men who have lives waiting for them outside the arena.
I sit on my bench, staring at the taped guard on my hand.
I’m heading to the hospital to get it looked at.
It’s a routine check, something Dr. Stephens, the team doc, should do, but I decided to use it as an opportunity to see Harper.
I had to do a little snooping to make sure she’s there.
In fact, I had to give one of the ER secretaries tickets to next Saturday’s game to find out Harper’s work schedule.
Maybe I should feel guilty. But I don’t.
I drive to Seattle General in my Audi, the city blurring past in a gray haze of drizzle and traffic.
My hands are steady on the wheel, but my mind is a riot.
I should’ve had the team doctor do this.
Then I could go straight home and review films to get ready for the next game.
I should be icing my knees and eating a calculated meal of lean protein and complex carbs.
Instead, I’m hunting for a woman who has already told me, in no uncertain terms, that I am exactly the kind of person she avoids.
I find her near the nursing station, huddled over a chart with another nurse. There are faint shadows under her eyes, and her scrubs are wrinkled at the shoulders. She looks exhausted, and yet, she is the most vivid thing in the room. She’s a splash of color in a world of sterile whites and grays.
I wait a few feet away, leaning against a pillar.
I know the moment she notices me. Her shoulders stiffen, just a fraction of an inch, before she slowly closes the chart and hands it to the other woman.
She says something I can't hear, and the nurse looks over at me, her eyes widening before she offers a predatory sort of grin and scurries away.
Harper turns to face me. She doesn't smile. She doesn't look impressed. She just looks at me with those dark hazel eyes that seem to see right through the millions of dollars and the fame to the man who was too clumsy with a chef's knife.
"Mr. Thorne," she says, her voice level and professional. "To what do I owe this pleasure?”
"Hello, Harper," I say, pushing off the pillar.
I try for the smile that usually makes reporters forget their questions.
It feels heavy on my face, unnatural. "I’m here for my hand follow-up.
I have an appointment." I hold up my hand while crossing my other hand’s fingers behind my back as I mutter the little white lie.
She doesn't blink. "The sports clinic on the third floor will do the follow-up. Take the elevator up to the third floor and tell the front desk you’re here for a follow-up."
She turns and walks away, her pace brisk. I follow her, noting the way she navigates the chaos of the ED with a quiet, practiced grace. She moves like she owns the air around her. It’s a territorial confidence I usually only see in captains. “Wait,” I call behind her. Damn. I sound needy.
"What?" She turns and stares at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Would you just look at it really quickly so I can get out of here?” It’s a total bullshit excuse, but I’ll do anything at this point.
She stares at me for several seconds, and I’m waiting for her to refuse when she shocks me. “Follow me.” She takes me into a small, sterile room. “Sit.” She points at the exam table.
I sit. The paper crinkles under me, a cheap, disposable sound.
She puts on gloves, then pulls a rolling stool over and sits directly in front of me, her knees inches from mine.
The proximity is a jolt, a sudden spike in the room’s temperature.
She reaches out and takes my hand, her touch cool and efficient.
She begins to unwrap the protective guard Dr. Stephens fashioned, her fingers moving with a dexterity that makes my breath hitch.
"How’s the range of motion been?" she asks, not looking up. She’s focused on the wound, her thumb gently pressing against the skin near the stitches.
"Good. I practiced today," I say. I watch the way her lashes cast long shadows against her cheekbones. She’s so close I can see the tiny pulse in the hollow of her throat. "Coach wasn't thrilled with my performance, but the hand didn't complain."
"You shouldn't be pushing it yet," she murmurs, finally looking up.
Her eyes search mine, looking for signs of dishonesty.
"Dr. Patel told you to lay off using it for at least forty-eight hours. If you tear these stitches, you’re looking at possibly damaging the muscle beneath and a longer recovery. Do you always ignore medical advice?"
"Depends on the advice," I say, the words coming out lower than I intended. The banter is gone, replaced by something heavier. "I was careful. I just couldn’t miss practice."
She pauses, her fingers still resting against my palm.
For a second, the professional mask slips.
I see a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity maybe, or a reflection of the same heat radiating off my skin.
It’s a moment of shared awareness, a bridge forming across the distance between us.
Then, she blinks, and the nurse is back.
"Despite your best efforts, the wound is healing well," she says, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. "No signs of infection. I’ll re-dress it, but you need to keep it dry for another forty-eight hours. And wear a brace if you’re going to be practicing."
"Yes, ma’am." I smirk at her.
“And either have your team doctor look at it or make a real appointment at the sports clinic.” She begins to apply a new bandage, her movements swift and sure.
“How did you know I don’t have an appointment at the clinic today?” I have to know.
Her wicked little grin causes my cock to turn rock-hard. “Because they keep bankers’ hours up in the sports clinic. They closed at four pm.” She smirks, rolling her eyes.
“Then why did you tell me to go up there?” I laugh, totally enjoying myself.
“Because I wanted to see how far you were willing to take your little stunt.” I watch her work, the air in the bay growing thick.
"Oof. My bad.” I’m not at all embarrassed that I made shit up just to see her.
I’m a man who lives by strategy, and right now, every instinct I have is telling me to take a shot.
I’m supposed to have a heart of ice, but standing in this sterile little room, I feel too much.
I want to know everything there is to know about her.
And I want to break through this wall she’s built between us.
“Would you have dinner with me?" I ask, the words cutting through the quiet.
She stops, the roll of medical tape halfway to my hand. She doesn't look up immediately. She finishes the wrap, smoothing the edges with her thumb before she finally meets my gaze. "Excuse me?"
"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you have a free evening." I lean in slightly, closing the small gap between us. "I still want to get to know you."
Harper sighs, a soft sound of exasperation that deflates the tension. She stands up, pushing the stool back with the back of her legs. She crosses her arms over her chest, the professional mask firmly in place, but there’s a hardness in her eyes now that wasn't there before.
"No," she says simply.
I blink, the rejection stinging more than the original cut. "No? Just like that? No 'let me check my calendar' or 'I'm busy washing my hair'?"
"I don't need an excuse. And I don't need to check my calendar to know that dating a hockey player is a bad idea. Especially you." She steps toward the curtain, her hand gripping the fabric.
"Especially me? What’s that supposed to mean?" I stand up, hating the distance I feel growing between us.
"It means," she says, turning back to me. Her voice is tight, guarded. "You’re the last man on earth I should be dating. You’re my brother’s enemy on and off the ice. And I have one very simple rule I follow. No athletes. No matter what. Now, have a good evening, Mr. Thorne."
She walks away without looking back, her stride purposeful and unwavering. I stand in the middle of the small cubicle, feeling my hand pulsing in a dull, insistent rhythm that matches the thud of blood in my ears.
I walk out of the hospital, the cool Seattle air hitting my face like a slap. Damn it. That definitely didn’t go the way I’d planned.
I’m impenetrable. I’m the man who doesn't let anything through. But as I pull out of the parking lot, I realize I’ve got a big fucking problem. Harper Coleman not only got through. She’s already embedded herself deep in my soul.
And the gorgeous little firecracker doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Fucking hell.