19. Jaxson
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JAXSON
The locker room is a zoo after practice.
Twenty-two grown men in various states of undress, the air humid with a cocktail of sweat, expired muscle rub, and the rubber tang of fresh tape.
The clang of gear hitting benches, the echo of hard plastic on tile, the hiss of showers in the back corner, all blend into the kind of post-scrimmage white noise I usually find meditative.
Not today.
Today, I’m sitting at my stall in partial gear—shin pads and compression shorts, jersey off, shoulders slick with the kind of sweat that feels earned—and doing my best to ignore the guy in the next stall.
It’s a design flaw in the new facility, the way the benches wrap around in a tight horseshoe, putting my former nemesis and now-fellow Seattle Knight three feet from my left knee.
Ryan Coleman is peeling off his tape with a focused, rhythmic aggression that suggests he’s imagining the adhesive is my skin.
It’s been four weeks since he waived his no-trade clause and joined the Knights.
While our chemistry on the ice is a lethal, beautiful machine, the silence between us in the locker room is a different kind of torture.
“You moved like a glacier on that cross-crease pass, Thorne,” Ryan says, not looking up. He tosses a balled-up piece of tape toward the trash can. It misses. “If I hadn't back-checked like a saint, you’d have taken that puck right between your beady ass eyes.”
I don't look at him as I pull my pads off, the leather straps groaning under the tension. My knees ache with a dull, rhythmic throb that reminds me I’m not twenty-two anymore.
“Maybe if you didn't turn the puck over at the blue line, I wouldn't have to save your ass twice a period. It’s a team sport, Coleman. Try to keep up.”
“Oh, I’m keeping up,” he mutters, finally meeting my eyes with a look that is half-teammate, half-overprotective brother. “I’m watching every single move you make. On and off the ice. Don't forget it.”
A low rumble of snickers from the other side of the room. Not loud. No one’s dumb enough to insert themselves into this pissing match. I don’t look, but I can tell half the guys are following every syllable like it’s a tennis match, heads bobbing between us.
“How can I when you prance around like a little girl with a toothache?” It’s a stupid analogy, but I’m exhausted, and it’s all my mind can come up with.
Ryan stands, dropping the towel. For half a second, I’m sure he’s going to explode, but he just stares at me, arms crossed, every muscle in his upper body wound tight.
“You don’t even make sense,” he says, and I hate to admit he’s right.
I slide my shin guards off and start peeling the tape from my left ankle, letting the silence sit between us. The other guys filter out, some shooting us side-eyes, most keeping their heads down as they change. The showers keep hissing. The locker room shrinks to just me and him.
“I know.” It kills me to admit it. Fuck, I hate this—I’m fried, my mind a giant malfunctioning machine, all the gears stripped and rattling loose. “I’m exhausted, and my usually agile mind isn’t functioning.”
“Agile mind, my ass.” Ryan lets out a huge eye roll, so aggressive I swear I hear his eyeballs pop in their sockets. “You’re a fucking dipshit.”
“A dipshit who’s married to your sister.” I try for a smile, but my mouth is heavy, my words coming out more gravel than wit.
“Don’t remind me. I have fucking nightmares about it.” He takes a deep breath in and slowly exhales. “Feel like grabbing a drink with the guys and we can discuss our nightmares?” What is he doing? He knows I never go out with our teammates after practice.
There’s a beat where neither of us moves, not even to breathe. I can’t believe he’s extending an olive branch to me. And I know I need to do this for my wife.
“Sounds like fun.”
Mick walks by, muttering, “Going out in public with you two assholes sounds like fucking hell on earth. But I live for torture, so I’m all in.”
The Blue Line sits three blocks from the practice rink: a low-ceilinged cave of dark wood and older beer smell, the walls hung with jerseys in various states of fading, the kind of place that hasn’t updated its lighting since the lockout year and is better for it.
Ryan beats me to the back corner, sliding into the booth with his arms folded tight across his chest. We’re both still in our post-practice gear of joggers and team-issued pullovers. Mick comes over and drops two icy mugs of beer on the table. “First round is on me.”
We sit there, letting the silence fill up all the places where an actual conversation should go. I count the cracks in the tabletop, wondering how fast I can get out of here and home to Harper. Ryan drains half his pint in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“You ever think about how fucked up this is?” he asks, not looking at me. “A year ago, I’d have bet my left nut you’d wind up alone, retired to a cabin, talking to your thirteen cats.”
I snort. “Do I really seem like a crazy cat guy?”
He almost smiles. “You never let anyone know you. No one had any idea what kind of guy you are.”
“Until Harper,” I offer, letting the truth fall between us.
“My sister really is a miracle worker.” He tips his face toward me, a smirk flickering across his mouth. “I just wish she’d picked some other needy bastard to work her magic on.”
“Good thing she didn’t. Otherwise, I’d have to murder the fucker.”
He shakes his head, half amused, half exasperated. “You know it’s not very smart to admit you’re totally pussy whipped, right?”
The rest of the evening is easier. We trade barbs about practice, rip on Mick for that dumb goal he celebrated like a playoff winner, and agree that the new rookie is a “walking disaster.”
Outside, the city moves on without us. Inside, the weight of the day recedes, replaced by something that feels like I’m making headway with my brother-in-law. Fuck. I can’t believe I’m putting in effort into winning over Ryan “Pain In My Ass” Coleman.
He leans back, arms stretched along the top of the booth. “You’re still an asshole, Ice Wall.”
“Right back at you.” I hold up my glass to him.
But I think he means it less than he used to.
We sit there a long time, watching the neon flicker and the beer foam die down, two rivals slowly recalibrating. I let myself picture the next few months, and for the first time in my life, I’m looking forward to all of it.
Tomorrow, we’ll fight again. It’s what we do.
Tonight though, we just exist. And for once, that’s enough.
“I need to head home. I have a wife to satisfy,” I mutter as I stand up and drop a few bills on the table.
“Motherfucker,” Ryan growls, sticking his fingers in his ears. “I need to wash my brain out, or I’m going to have nightmares.”
I laugh all the way to my car, the image of Ryan doing his best toddler impression warming me more than I want to admit. My feet are dragging, but my brain’s already sprinting ahead to Harper. All I want is to get home, bury my face in her hair, and forget about the insane circus I just left.
Traffic’s a bitch. By the time I key into our place, my clothes stick to me, and my knees are throbbing. The lights are low, everything soft and quiet, except for the faint sound of an old crime show drifting in from the living room.
Harper’s stretched out on the sofa, one arm flopped over her eyes, a damp washrag barely hanging onto her forehead. Something’s wrong. My pulse cranks into overdrive.
I drop my keys and cross the room in three strides, heart beating so loud I swear the sound fills the room. “Hey, firecracker. Are you sick?” I kneel at the couch, ready to call in a damn medevac if she croaks out a yes.
She shifts the rag and gives me a look. “Sorta. Look at this.”
She hands me something. For a second, I’m positive it’s a thermometer. But it isn’t. I squint, then stare.
Holy. Shit. A white stick with two very distinct pink lines.
My hands shake. “Are you serious?” My voice cracks wide open.
She nods. That’s all it takes—I scoop her off the couch and onto my lap. “You just made me the happiest man alive,” I whisper into her hair.
I want to shout, break out in a happy dance, and text Ryan just to see if his head explodes. Oh, this is going to be so much fun.
Instead, I lock my arms around Harper and just breathe her in. “My girl’s having my baby,” I choke out. “I love you, firecracker.”
“I love you, too.” She snuggles against my chest. “And before you ask, yes, you can tell Ryan.”
God. She really does love me. “Why don’t we tell him together?” I laugh.
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
Life just doesn’t get any better than this. The ice wall is completely gone.