7. Jaxson
CHAPTER SEVEN
JAXSON
Another practice. Another day thinking about Harper when I should be concentrating on what’s happening on the ice.
I track the puck with a mechanical precision that should be effortless, but today, my timing is off by a fraction of a heartbeat.
The rubber thuds against my stick and deflects across the ice instead of being smothered in my trapper.
It’s a sloppy save, the kind that makes my goalie coach rattle his stick against the boards in a rhythmic, disapproving cadence.
Fuck. Another day of screwing up at practice because my mind is elsewhere.
"Thorne! Keep your eyes on the prize, not the rafters!" Coach shouts, his voice echoing through the chilled air of the practice facility. I don't look at him. I can't. If I do, he might see that my 'Ice Wall' persona has a hairline fracture running straight through the center.
Thirty-six hours. That’s how long it’s been since Harper Coleman met me in the hallway. Every time I blink, I see the hungry flash of her eyes. Every time I breathe, I feel her settling deeper into my soul.
I drop into the butterfly, the chill biting into my knees through the thick padding. I’m a professional. I’m a statue of focused granite. I’m currently losing my mind over a woman who has every reason to hate me and a brother who actually does.
Mick McLinden skids to a halt in front of my crease, hitting me with a sense of déjà vu. He doesn’t say anything at first, which is worse than the shouting. Mick knows the rhythm of my game better than I know my own heartbeat. He knows when the wall is solid and when it’s made of glass.
"You’re playing like you’ve got a dozen eggs in your pockets and you’re terrified of breaking one, Jax," Mick says, his voice low enough to stay between us. "We’ve got the road trip starting tomorrow. Vancouver, Calgary, and then the big one in New York. You plan on showing up for any of them?"
“Didn’t we just go through this a few days ago?” I push off the ice, my skates carving deep, angry grooves into the surface.
“It seems to be our thing now,” Mick grumbles, glaring at me. “What has you acting like this?”
"I'm just a little stiff from the collision the other night. My head’s clear."
"Your head is in another zip code," he shoots back, following me as I head toward the bench for a drink. "You missed three glove saves in the last ten minutes that a peewee goalie could have snagged. Who is she?"
The water from my bottle is cold, but it doesn't do anything to dampen the heat rising in my chest. I squeeze the plastic too hard, a stream of water splashing against my chin.
I wipe it away with the back of my glove, my movements jerky and uncoordinated.
The silence between us stretches, filled only by the distant sounds of the rest of the team running drills at the other end of the rink.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, the lie tasting like ash. I try to focus on the weight of my gear, the familiar constriction of the chest protector, the way the world looks through the steel cage of my mask. It’s a cage I built myself, and usually, it’s the only place I feel safe. Right now, it just feels like I’m suffocating.
Mick lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Right. And I’m the next Prime Minister of Canada. Spill it, Wall."
We head into the locker room ahead of the others, the heavy doors swinging shut and cutting off the roar of the facility.
The room is quiet, smelling of wintergreen and old sweat, a familiar sanctuary that suddenly feels far too small.
I sit on the wooden bench, my hands vibrating with a low, persistent hum.
It’s the same hum I felt when Harper touched me.
A physical frequency I can’t seem to tune out.
"It’s Harper," I say, the name falling out of my mouth before I can stop it. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud to someone else, and the weight of it nearly floors me.
It isn't just a name; it’s a confession.
It’s the sound of my professional suicide and my personal salvation all wrapped into two syllables.
Mick freezes, his hand halfway through unlacing his skate. He looks up, his jaw literally dropping. "Harper? As in… Harper Coleman? Ryan's sister? The nurse? The one who looked like she wanted to transplant your kidneys without anesthesia at the gala?"
"The very same," I mutter, leaning back against the locker and closing my eyes. "She’s the one. She’s the only thing I can think about. It’s like a slap shot to the ribs that I never saw coming."
Mick whistles low, finally pulling his skate off and dropping it with a heavy thud. "Jax, buddy. Have you lost your goddamn mind? Ryan Coleman is going to hunt your ass down and eat your balls with ketchup."
"I know," I say, and I do. I know the risks. I know the rivalry. I know that if this gets out, it’ll be a PR nightmare. The 'Ice Wall' melting for the sister of his fiercest enemy. It’s the kind of headline that the gossip rags love.
"But you’re still going after her," Mick says, and it’s not a question. He’s watching me with a mix of pity and awe, the way people look at a car crash in slow motion.
"I have to," I tell him, my voice cracking with a vulnerability I haven't felt since I was a rookie. "I’ve spent my whole life being the guy who doesn't feel anything. But when she’s in the room, all I do is feel. She makes me feel something for the first time in my life."
Nobody talks about my history. Not the shit that happened before my name turned up on a draft board.
Most of these guys think I hatched out of an egg at age seventeen, stick in hand, ready to stop pucks and piss off every forward in the league.
They have no clue what it’s like to bounce from one fucking foster home to another, plastic trash bags for luggage, never remembering who you’re supposed to call ‘Mom’ that month.
The only saving grace for me was the hockey clinics run by a former NHL linesman. Those clinics gave me something to do with my energy and aggression. And a purpose in life that led to my NHL career.
It isn’t something I talk about. No one really knows about it. Except Mick. He knows. He always has. His dad was the former NHL lineman.
Mick sits in silence for a long moment, the only sound the hum of the ventilation system.
He’s my best friend, the only one who sees past the mask, and right now, he looks like he’s trying to decide whether to hug me or call for a medic.
Finally, he reaches over and claps a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and steadying.
"I hope you know what you’re doing," Mick says, a small, lopsided grin appearing on his face. "You have a lot to fucking lose."
He’s right. But the one thing I don’t think I’ll survive losing is Harper. So, I’m going to do whatever it takes to make this work with her. Even if it means playing nice with her asshole brother.
I stand up, the decision crystallizing in my mind with the same clarity I feel when a game is on the line.
The road trip starts tomorrow. New York is at the end of the line.
Ryan's territory. But Harper is here, in Seattle, and I’m not leaving this city without making sure she knows exactly where I stand.