I reach Gina’s steps and the door flies open before I can even knock. I’m dragged inside, and it’s chaos in the best possible way—laughter bouncing off the walls, clinking glasses, the savory smell of food, and that low hum of camaraderie that makes you feel instantly at home. Wine glints in glasses, conversations overlap, and someone is telling a story that makes everyone laugh so hard their cheeks hurt.
Before I know it, the game is on. We huddle around the TV like a family, clinging to each other’s hands, reminding one another to breathe, inching closer with each pass, each play, each nerve-shredding moment, as our men leave everything on the ice.
When Brady stops that hard-hitting puck, we all leap to our feet. When Jesse scores the first goal, we spin, dance, and whoop so loud it echoes through the room. The score stays one-nothing through the third period, until Edmonton finally nets a goal. The collective “boo” rolls out in unison, a mixture of frustration and fear.
Our hands grip each other like lifelines. Jesse passes to Conner, Conner tips it to Jaxon, and Jaxon shoots…and scores.
I erupt, screaming so loud I’m sure I’m going to fry my vocal cords for a week. I don’t care. The guys cheer, high-fives flying, and for a fleeting moment, the world narrows to this pure, electrifying joy.
But then, less than a minute remains. Edmonton pulls their goalie. My lungs freeze. My heart hammers so hard it’s almost painful. I can’t breathe.
“I can’t watch,” I squeak, curling into myself as Edmonton takes the puck down ice, weaving past Ash like he isn’t even there. The puck slides to their left winger—then a shot. My stomach knots, my hands shake. I wait. The buzzer. The light. Anything. But nothing.
Then, Brady comes up with the puck. The clock hits zero. And suddenly—we’re all on our feet again, hugging, dancing, laughing, crying. Triumph tastes sweet and sharp all at once.
Eventually, we settle, wiping tears, watching our guys pile on each other, celebrating their hard-earned victory. Soon enough the cup is presented to the Bucks and then Conner wins the Conn Smythe trophy. After a few victory laps and impromptu on ice interviews with the media the players disappear down the tunnel.
And just like clockwork, the phone frenzy begins. Josie’s phone rings, then Brighton’s, then Gina’s and Taylor’s. My stomach tightens, and the second I glance at my own phone lying on the table…it rings. My heart jumps straight into my throat. I snatch it up, quickly stepping into a quiet corner, desperate for a private moment.
“Jaxon, oh my God, you guys did it! Your goal! You won!”
“We did it,” he says. His voice carries the exhilaration of victory, but beneath it—exhaustion. Fatigue that comes from giving everything you’ve got.
I press the phone closer, leaning into him through the line, the background noise fading into static. “You need to go celebrate. I don’t want to keep you.”
“I know, babe. I just really wanted to talk to you.”
I cradle the phone like it’s a fragile piece of him, feeling closer with every word. “I’m so glad. I wanted to talk to you too. I can’t wait to celebrate.”
“Yeah… me too.”
“I loved watching you tonight.”
“I love…” His voice falters, then trails off. One of the guys yells in the background, the pop of a champagne bottle punctuating the moment. My chest tightens. I’m desperate to hear what he was going to say next.
“Jaxon…” I whisper, almost breathless.
“I, uh… love that you love watching.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. I can’t tell if that’s exactly what he meant to say, or if there’s something more hiding in that pause, tucked between the words. But either way… it’s enough. For now.
29
Jaxon
It’s been weeks since our big win—spotlights, interviews, the celebration blur—and only now I’m finally able to breathe. Well, kind of. I stretch my shoulder as I press the rolling pin into the dough. Gina’s busy training three new servers and two cooks at the Nook. She’s been short-staffed and slammed for the lunch rush, so here I am, elbows deep in flour, handcrafting cinnamon rolls like we’re prepping for a Food Network bake-off.
If I do say so myself, I’m nailing them.
The air is warm, sweet, and heavy with cinnamon. The overhead fan squeaks with each rotation. I hum tunelessly—happy, content—as I sprinkle sugar across the dough, fingers quick, confident.
“Who knew you were so skilled in the kitchen?” Gina steps up beside me once she finishes giving instructions, her apron dusted in flour, eyes bright despite the chaos.
The grin splits my face wider. Memories flicker back—Rowyn on my countertop, moans echoing through my house, and then in the morning, her wrapped in one of my shirts as I flipped pancakes. God. She’s practically living with me now. Going home at the end of the day doesn’t mean stepping inside a house, it means walking toward her. When I’m home first, I make sure to have a meal ready for her. When she’s home first, she does the same and I often find her already curled into my couch like she owns it.
Which, in a way… she does.
“Wait,” Gina narrows her eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” She studies me for half a second before she throws up her hands. “Actually—nope. I don’t want to know.” She chuckles, disappearing into the dining area.