“Me too,” I say, feigning innocence but failing miserably.
She shakes her head, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
“But charming,” I counter.
“Debatable,” she mutters, but there’s laughter in her voice.
I pour two glasses of wine and hand her one, our fingers brushing, just enough to make my pulse skip. “What are we toasting to?” she asks.
“To you getting your guy,” I say, holding up my glass.
I catch it, her briefest hint of hesitation before she nods. Is she worried about not getting her guy, or is it something else entirely? “Sounds good to me.”
Our glasses clink softly, and I’m about to set mine down when she stops me.
“Uh-uh,” she says, wagging a finger. “You have to drink or it’s bad luck.”
“Here I thought hockey players were the superstitious ones,” I say taking a sip. “Can’t risk bad luck with scallops on the line.”
She laughs again, the sound easy and bright, before her expression softens. She goes quiet, thoughtful for a moment, before asking softly, “Is it okay if I ask who Coleson is?”
The question hits me like a body check I didn’t see coming. My chest tightens, and I turn away for a second, pretending to fuss with the pasta box.
“You know how we visit the children’s hospital, right?” I start, my voice quieter now. I drop the linguine into the pot, needing something to do with my hands. “Coleson was one of the kids I spent time with.”
I pause, remembering his grin—too big for his tiny face—and the way he’d light up the whole ward when I walked in wearing my jersey. “He was… incredible. Brave. Way tougher than me.” My throat thickens, and I swallow hard. “He didn’t make it.”
“Oh, Jaxon…”
She sets her glass down and steps closer, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I turn toward her, and before I can even think, she’s in my arms, warm, soft, real. I hold her tight, breathing her in.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the soft boil of water and the quiet beat of her heart against my chest. I don’t share much about those hospital visits. The kids, their families—it’s heavy stuff, too personal, too raw. But standing here with her, her arms around me, it doesn’t feel so heavy.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes glisten. “You’ve got a big heart, you know that?”
I try for a grin, but it comes out crooked. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my tough guy rep.”
She smiles, her fingers brushing my cheek. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I know it is, which is why I let her into my garage in the first place.
I press my mouth to her neck and breathe in the faint trace of shampoo and something sweet, like vanilla and heat. “I make them all ornaments,” I murmur against her skin, my voice rougher than I intend. A low, broken laugh shakes free from my chest. “Little Emily wasn’t too impressed last year, however. She wanted a doll.” I pull back, meeting her curious eyes. “Problem was, I didn’t know how to make a doll. So I called up Gabby, you know, Roman’s wife who designs clothes for all the teams. She gathered all her friends, and they stayed up late, sewing dolls by hand. Gabby donated all the fabric and they made tiny dresses with sequins and lace. You should’ve seen the girls’ faces when they opened those boxes.”
“I’ve seen the clothes she makes. They’re incredible,” she says softly, her gaze fixed on mine, full of warmth and something that feels a lot like awe. “That was… unbelievably sweet of you.”
I shrug. “Sometimes, I don’t get to hand them out in person. Life gets in the way. Games, travel…sickness. Sometimes…” I choke on my words as I force them out. “Sometimes, they don’t make it to Christmas. So I bring the ornaments home, hang them on the town’s Christmas tree.” My throat tightens. “That way, they’re not forgotten.”
Tears pool in her eyes. “You’re the one who does that?” she asks, her voice wavering.
I nod. “Yes.”
“I had no idea,” she whispers. “You’ve never said anything.”
“It’s just something I like to keep private,” I admit. “It’s not about the credit. It’s about the quiet part of it…” I tap my heart. “…the part that belongs only to me. To them. You know?”
Her expression softens, that empathy of hers shining like light through glass. “I get it,” she says, and her hand comes up to my cheek. “Some things are meant to stay close to the heart.”
She leans in and kisses me, a soft press of lips that carries more weight than words ever could. When she pulls back, her cheek brushes mine. “You are a man of many surprises.”