Chapter Fourteen #4
"I've spent twenty years wishing I could hear your voice," he said, his own thick with emotion.
"Tonight I finally did, and it was worth every second of the wait.
Nothing that's happened this evening changes the man you've always been, but hearing you laugh, hearing you tell me you love me, hearing you interrupt me...
" He let out a quiet laugh of his own before pulling Jack onto his feet and into another fierce embrace.
"Those are memories I'll carry for the rest of my life. "
Jack held him just as tightly. For several moments they stood there, father and son holding one another with the easy familiarity that only comes from a lifetime of unconditional love.
Watching them together made me appreciate all over again the extraordinary relationship they'd built despite everything life had taken from them.
Jack had lost his mother and then his voice, but he'd never lost the one person who refused to stop listening.
When they finally stepped apart, Coach looked toward me and gestured with his head.
"I think he's your problem for the rest of the night."
I laughed quietly before crossing the room.
"I’m not complaining."
Jack turned toward me and before I could say anything I wrapped both arms around him again.
I wasn't trying to make another grand gesture or compete with the emotions he'd just shared with his father.
I simply needed to hold him. Throughout the evening I'd watched him lay bare fears he'd carried alone for years, and every confession only made me love him more fiercely than I already had.
"I still can't believe this is real," I admitted softly.
"It doesn't quite feel real to me either."
"It will."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
I drew back just enough to look at him properly, my hands still resting lightly against his waist.
"I've spent weeks wondering why you seemed...different."
He tilted his head.
"Different?"
"Happier. More confident. More at peace with yourself." I shook my head slowly. "I thought it was because I was getting better after the accident. I thought maybe things were finally settling down after everything we'd been through. The whole time you were carrying the biggest secret of your life."
Coach cleared his throat gently, drawing our attention back toward him.
"I hate to interrupt this but the two of you have somewhere else you'd probably rather be than standing in my dining room listening to an old hockey coach getting emotional."
"You're throwing us out?" I asked in disbelief.
"I'm giving you some privacy. I'll clean up in here."
"We can help," I offered automatically.
He dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand.
"Not tonight."
"Dad..."
Coach looked at Jack.
"Go and spend the night with your man."
A warmth settled quietly in my chest. There wasn't the slightest awkwardness in his words. No hesitation. No discomfort about Jack and me sharing a room, a life, or loving one another.
Just acceptance.
Complete and unquestioning.
Coach stepped forward once more and embraced Jack briefly before turning to me and pulling me into an equally firm hug.
"Take care of each other."
"We will," I promised.
The November air greeted us the moment we stepped outside, cool enough to carry the sharp scent of fallen leaves and the faint bite that warned winter wasn't far away.
The campus was quiet as was typical for a Sunday evening.
Scattered lights glowed in residence hall windows and small groups of students wandered along pathways wrapped in hoodies against the chill.
Around us, life continued exactly as it had every other night, completely unaware that the world had shifted beneath our feet.
Jack reached for my hand almost immediately and our fingers intertwined naturally.
Neither of us spoke as we began the walk back toward my dormitory.
For once, silence didn't need filling.
It wasn't the old silence that had accompanied Jack for most of his life.
This one felt peaceful.
Comfortable.
Shared.
Every now and then I glanced sideways at him, and each time he caught me looking he shook his head with quiet amusement before tightening his fingers around mine.
I realized I wasn't actually watching him.
I was listening. Every small sound he made—the quiet breath that escaped him, the soft chuckle when a gust of wind scattered leaves across the sidewalk in front of us, the unconscious hum beneath his breath that he probably didn't even realize he was making—still felt miraculous to me.
"I keep looking at you," I admitted as we crossed the final stretch of campus.
"I noticed."
"I'm staring because every time you speak, I remember what tonight means."
Emotion softened his features.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to thank Caroline enough."
"You can by living the life she helped give back to you."
He was quiet for several steps before answering.
"I intend to."
By the time we reached my residence hall, the last of the evening traffic had disappeared from the pathways.
I held the front door open for Jack before following him inside, and together we rode the elevator to my floor without encountering another soul.
The hallway beyond lay completely deserted, the quiet broken only by the distant hum of the heating system as Jack unlocked the door and stepped into the room we'd been sharing ever since I left the hospital.
He turned to face me as I closed the door behind us.
We didn’t speak. The evening had already given us more words than either of us would ever forget.
I crossed the room until I stood in front of him and lifted a hand to his cheek.
He whispered my name and his voice was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
He didn’t move toward me. He simply waited, his back against the door he’d just closed, giving me the control my healing body demanded.
My hip ached with a familiar, dull throb from the walk, a reminder of its limits.
But there was another ache, deeper and more urgent, that had nothing to do with the injury.
I took a step, then another, my movements deliberately slow. When I was close enough to feel the heat from his body, I stopped, lifted a hand, and pressed my palm flat against his chest, over the steady, accelerating beat of his heart. Then I kissed him.
His breath hitched. "Mase," he whispered, a plea and a caution wrapped in one.
"I know my limits," I murmured back, my own voice rough.
That was all the permission he needed. His hands, so practiced at supporting my weight, lifted to cradle my face.
His kiss was not the tentative brush of a caretaker, but the deep, claiming pressure of a lover starved.
I melted into him as his arms wound around my back, careful to avoid my almost healed side.
We moved toward the bed in a slow, shuffling dance. He guided me backward until my knees hit the mattress, then his hands were on my waist, lowering me with infinite gentleness. The concern in his eyes was a language I’d become fluent in. "Your hip?" he asked, his voice thick.
"It’s fine," I breathed, pulling him down to me. "It’s forgotten."
He stretched out beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand roaming over my shirt.
Every touch was measured, mindful of the landscape of my body he knew so well—the ridges of scar tissue, the places that were still healing.
He peeled the fabric away, his mouth following the path his hands had charted, learning me all over again.
There was no rush, no frantic grappling. This was reclamation.
When it was my turn, I pushed at his shirt until he shrugged it off. My fingers traced the tense line of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, relearning the feel of him. His skin was warm and real beneath my hands.
He helped me with my pants, his movements achingly slow, his eyes never leaving mine, checking for any sign of discomfort.
He would have found only want. When we were both bare, he settled over me, but not on me.
He kept his weight on his forearms, his knees carefully positioned outside of mine, creating a cage of safety around my injured side.
The connection, when it came, was a slow, profound joining.
A sigh escaped me, part pleasure, part relief.
This was not just sex; it was a homecoming.
His rhythm was a deep, rolling wave I could move with, not a pounding that would jar my bones.
Every thrust was a promise, every gasp a reassurance.
His forehead rested against mine, our breath mingling, and in the half-light, I could see the sheen of sweat on his skin and the fierce, protective love in his eyes.
The world narrowed to the points where we were joined: the press of his body, the grip of his hand twined with mine against the sheets, the solid beat of our hearts syncing.
The climb was gradual, a slow burn that coiled tighter and tighter in my core, a heat that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the man moving inside me, with me, for me.
When the orgasm broke, it washed over me in a warm, quiet tide, pulling a soft, ragged sound from my throat. He followed moments after, his own release a shudder against me, a whispered name lost against my neck in a voice I would never tire of hearing.
For a long time, he didn’t move. He stayed above me, holding his weight, until his breathing evened.
Then, with more care than ever, he withdrew and gathered me against him, my back to his chest, his arm a secure band across my stomach.
My hip gave a muted protest at the shift, reminding me there was still healing to be done.
He felt me tense and immediately stilled. "Pain?"
I settled deeper into his warmth, the lingering pulses of pleasure drowning out the ache. "No," I sighed, utterly spent.
In the dark, his lips pressed softly against the nape of my neck. We didn’t speak. The evening had given us its words. Now, our bodies had written the rest.