7
AURORA
Right before the game ends, the twins lead me out of the club section, down a few private hallways, and into the players’ tunnel. They fist-bump a few security guards along the way. Apparently, they ‘know a guy.’
Jax enters the exclusive area, and I grab his beaming face and kiss him.
“That was amazing!”
Sweaty tendrils of hair are plastered to his forehead, but I don’t mind. It only makes him hotter.
“I missed watching you play.”
Stick and helmet in one hand, he bends down and scoops me up with an arm under my ass.
I encircle his neck and hold on, my legs dangling, unable to fit around his waist with my belly and his full gear. “You can’t carry me.” My voice is bubbling with laughter, and I try to wriggle free. Soon enough, I’ll be too big for him to manhandle easily.
He gives his equipment to a staff member and readjusts me in his arms. “I sure as fuck can. Who’s gonna stop me?” He nuzzles my neck, his wet hair dripping all over me.
I shriek and push him away, but he only tightens his grip.
There’s media present and a setup for after-game interviews. Cameras trail us as we make our way toward the locker room, capturing every kiss and lighthearted moment.
Jackson’s agent advised him not to discuss anything with reporters outside of press conferences cleared by the team, but when someone asks when I’m due, he proudly announces March. This sets off a flurry of questions concerning our relationship.
Are you reuniting because of the baby? Did you go to rehab? Are you really engaged? Have you set a date?
We ignore it all. Then comes the question I’ve been dreading. My brain doesn’t even fully process it. I hear the words ‘pics with other women,’ and my mind goes into panic mode, my body stiffening.
Jax stops, carefully places me on my feet, and faces the reporter. Players and staff gawk as they move around us, but no one intervenes.
Shit. Shit. Shit. A tussle with the media is the last thing he needs after his suspension.
With trembling hands, I reach for him and snag his jersey. He crowds a short, stocky man against the wall, a deranged grin twisting his sharp features into a mask of madness. Jax, almost seven feet tall in skates, dwarfs the guy, who barely reaches six.
“I wish I could bounce your head off the cement—watch it split open like a fucking melon.” His voice is sinister, a low rasp, far more chilling than a threat. “Hear the clink, clink, clink of your chiclets as they hit the floor.”
Who thinks about the sound of someone’s teeth hitting the floor? Fortunately, there are these pesky things called laws. Without them, I worry Jackson might act on some of the wild thoughts he voices.
“Jax—”
“No killing tonight,” Ethan cuts me off, throwing an arm around his captain’s shoulders and guiding him toward the locker room. Then, he gestures to the photographer or reporter—I’m not sure which, but he has a camera in his hand. “Show some respect or lose your press pass.”
My fiancé intertwines our fingers, and our gazes meet, silently communicating.
I’m rattled, not so much by the question itself, but by the rudeness of it all, the crowd, the embarrassment amplified by my anxiety.
I’m disappointed. This was supposed to be a moment of triumph for him, but my presence ruined it.
No one would’ve asked about the other women if I hadn’t been here.
He kisses my knuckles and promises, “It’ll get better,” before Coach drags him away.
I wait outside the locker room, the twins a wall of muscle and expensive cologne in front of me. Dante grumbles about strangling the reporter with the lanyard of his press pass while Desi bobs his head to the music blasting in the arena.
My phone buzzes in my hand, a message from Reece.
Viking
Give Jax my congrats. That was a great game. Are you doing anything after?
I should tell him to contact Ethan, but since I’m doing nothing but waiting, I see no harm in chatting.
We have a charity dinner tonight. Or they do. Not sure I’m going. Why? What’s up?
I’ve had enough stimulation for the day. I just want to go home.
Viking
Missing my princess.
How am I supposed to respond to that? I’ll admit, I miss my bodyguard—or who he was when he pretended to be my bodyguard. Kind and caring, a big, protective teddy bear.
It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t respond to that. I’m only asking for trouble…and maybe a spanking, which doesn’t sound bad. Still…
Ethan told me to tell you to text him.
Viking
Why? Did something happen?
No. He said if you’re worried about me, contact him.
Viking
Oh yeah? Tell your daddy I adore you, and you’re all I think about.
My stomach flip-flops. I am not telling Ethan that.
Have you lost your mind? Did you forget I already have two men?
Viking
Did you forget I don’t care?
I don’t answer. I’m tempted to erase the entire conversation, but that feels even more dishonest.
Viking
I bet you’re alone right now. I bet they can’t take care of you. I bet you need me.
What is up with you? Friends, remember? And I’m not alone.
Viking
I miss you. I’m going crazy. And the Mafia twins don’t count.
I ignore the first part, my fingers flying across the screen.
Why don’t they count?
Viking
Because they don’t comfort you. You don’t see them that way.
And what makes you think I see you that way?
Viking
To begin with, my voice breaks through your panic attacks.
So does Ethan’s.
Viking
Exactly.
I walked into that one, but at the time, I trusted Reece, trusted him to protect and care for me. I still do, but again, it doesn’t matter. Despite what he says, he wants more than friendship, and beyond that isn’t possible.
To you, this is a fantasy. To us, it’s family. Ethan builds Jax up. He believes in him. You put him down and talk to him like he’s a failure. I can’t live with that.
Viking
He hurt you. That’s hard for ME to live with. I get it. They’re besties. I wanna be YOUR bestie.Now, tell me what’s wrong.
Ethan is busy, and discussing this with Jackson will only worsen his guilt. I’ve accepted his relapse and moved on, but that doesn’t mean it’s not gut-wrenching to remember for both of us.
A reporter mentioned the pictures of Jax with other women.
Viking
Where do I bail out your fiancé? I hope he throat-punched the asshole.
Chin up. Straighten your crown, princess. Those vultures are nothing but dirt under your pretty little heels.
His words bring a smile to my face, melting away the tension in my shoulders—until he writes:
Viking
Wouldn’t have happened on my watch.