Jax shouldn’t have been surprised to see a small commuter car with a messed-up bumper. Yep. It was the same car that had hit him.
Gray. Slate gray to be exact. Meg knew the color of Jax Emerson’s eyes. Now that she’d seen them open and up close. She had never been more relieved in her life when she’d pushed open the door of 208 a few inches and saw him dressed and upright. Alive and seemingly all right, for the most part.
And now they were inside her car, and she was going to drive him home. If her life were any stranger, it would be a science fiction novel.
“I apologize in advance that my car’s a mess,” Meg told the hulk of a man whom she’d supported out of the hospital. With every step, she doubted more and more that she should be helping him out and driving him home. Was there anyone at his place to take care of him? He seemed exhausted, and now that he was settled into the front seat of her car, he’d closed his eyes again.
He hadn’t commented on the stacks of shipping boxes in the back seat or the boxes of bracelets she had to move so he could sit down. It wasn’t that the car wasn’t clean inside; it was just full of stuff she had to transport to the shop in the morning.
“What’s your address?” she asked before starting the car.
With his eyes closed, his low voice rumbled out his address.
Meg typed it into her phone, then hit GO on the GPS. Twenty minutes away. Not bad. It looked like he was in a small suburb. She tried not to freak out about the fact that she would be driving pro hockey player Jax Emerson to his home. Or freak out about how he’d held her hand in his huge one, pretended she was his girlfriend, and then used her for support to walk out of the hospital.
Breathe, Meg. “Okay, here we go.” She started the car.
Click.
She tried again.
Click. Then silence.
Jax’s eyes were open now and focused on her dashboard. “What’s wrong?”
Heat crawled up Meg’s neck. Last week the battery had died, and she’d had to call roadside assistance for a tow. She should have changed out the battery right away, but then she got the rent increase notice, and everything else got put on the backburner.
“I think it’s the battery,” she said.
Of all times, of all places, and with all people, this had to happen now.
“Maybe it has something to do with the wreck?” Jax asked.
It was an innocent question, and a logical one, but it only made Meg feel terrible. “No, I had to get a jump start last week. I should have replaced the battery right away.” She reached for the jockey box, then stopped.
Because two long legs were in her way.
“Um, I need to get the manual out of the jockey box and call roadside assistance,” she said. “Your best bet might be to call a Lyft, Mr. Emerson. I don’t know how long it will take for assistance to come.”
“Jax,” he said immediately.
Why did his correction make her feel even worse? As if it was totally normal to be on a first-name basis with the guy she’d hit.
He popped open the jockey box and pulled out the owner’s manual. Thankfully, the jockey box was fairly clean. “I could take a look at the engine if you want.”
Of course he’d be mechanically minded. Superstar that he was. “No, you look like you’re going to fall asleep at any moment, and I’m nearly one hundred percent sure it’s the battery,” she said. “The car’s only three years old, so too soon for major problems, right?”
“Right,” Jax said.
She opened the manual, then called the number inside the cover. She should have saved it into her phone. As the phone rang, she felt Jax’s gaze on her. Although it was dim inside the car, with only the streetlamps providing light from the outside, she was sure her face was a mess. After crying half the day, she hadn’t even dared look in the bathroom mirror.
She gave the hospital address to the woman who answered the roadside-assistance call, then she gave the required info about her car. “Forty-five minutes?” she asked. At nearly one in the morning, that felt like forever. “All right. Thank you.”
When she hung up, she looked over at Jax, who was scrolling through texts on his phone.
“Do you want me to book a Lyft?” she said. “I’ll pay for it.”
Without even looking up, he said, “I’m not going to leave you in the parking lot alone this time of night.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, because the guilt was carving a giant hole in her stomach. How much more could she take from this man? “The parking lot is bright, and I don’t think there will be many muggings taking place twenty feet from the hospital.”
“You’d be surprised,” he murmured. He clicked off his phone, so the screen went dark. Then he looked at her. Even in the dimness, she felt the intensity of his gray eyes.
“I’m s-serious, Jax,” Meg said, knowing she was stumbling over her words. Which all women probably did when Jax Emerson was solely focused on them. “I feel horrible. About everything. And now . . . my car won’t start. I’m sure you hate me even more now.”
His eyes shifted, scanning her face. “I don’t hate you. It took guts to come in and check up on me. Unless you were sneaking in to smother me with a pillow—but I’m betting you’re a Flyers fan, being from Chicago and all. I’m just glad you finally stopped crying.”
“Definitely a Flyers fan,” she said, but her eyes stung. How was this guy being so great to her? So patient? So unfazed? She took a steadying breath. She didn’t trust herself to speak, because her throat ached and she felt weirdly shaky. Possibly due to no food or appetite for going on twelve hours.
“Good to know,” he said. “Because I’m about to put my life in your hands again. Do you mind if I take a nap until that tow truck gets here? I think the events of the day are starting to catch up.”
“Okay,” she managed to say.
The edge of his mouth lifted, then he reached around the side of his seat and popped it back. Not that it went very far, with all the boxes in the back seat.
Then, incredibly, he folded his arms and closed his eyes. He was really going to sleep? Now? In her car? He barely fit in it, but somehow he looked comfortable.
“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low.
“What?” she choked out. “I thought you wanted to sleep.”
“I usually fall asleep to the TV, so maybe your voice will work,” he said. “Don’t be offended if I fall asleep while you’re telling me a fascinating story about yourself.”
Meg shouldn’t laugh. She didn’t feel like laughing, but it escaped anyway. “I’m far from fascinating. I mean, I’m the farthest.”
His mouth curved ever so slightly, eyes still closed. “Continue.”
She exhaled. Alrighty then. So she started to talk. She told him about her brother who was serving in the military and about the grandparents who’d raised them. Her grandpa had passed away a few years before, but her grandmother was as sprightly as ever. “In fact, it was my grandma who always said she believed I could be a shop owner someday. She doesn’t get out much anymore, but sometimes I bring her on a field trip to the shop. She loves to browse the clothing and almost always buys a scarf or a blouse.”
Jax didn’t respond, and she didn’t expect him to.
“My grandma’s a huge hockey fan, even more so than my grandpa was,” Meg continued. “We’ve spent many a night together with the game on. Well, she watches, and I listen while browsing clothing designers for inventory.”
He still didn’t respond, but Meg continued, “I don’t think I’m going to tell her about this little . . . incident. She’s probably already seen the news about you.”
His breathing had deepened, evened out, and finally she looked over at him. He’d fallen asleep.
“Jax?” she whispered.
No answer.
His arms were still folded, and his eyes remained closed. Remarkable.
She gazed at him. His expression was relaxed, unfettered, unencumbered. With no one else around and Jax unaware, she fe
lt like a spy. Yet he was in her car, asleep. She could look at him, right? So she did. From his hands and long fingers—fingers that had clasped hers—to his legs, which were also long and butted up against the dashboard and jockey box, which made her wonder what sort of vehicle he drove. Likely a truck.
Next her gaze moved along his torso. Even a button-down dress shirt couldn’t conceal the hard planes of his chest and the leanness of his torso. Or his thick shoulders and sculpted forearms. Jax Emerson was a force to be reckoned with, both on and off the ice. Then there was his face. Had he always worn a beard, since adulthood at least? A lot of hockey players had one, and pro athletes at that. His father had been clean-shaven.
Meg had never dated a guy with a beard, had never kissed a guy with a beard either. Good thing no one was around to see her blush. Where had the thought of kissing Jax come from? If she weren’t trying to be quiet, she would have laughed at herself. Jax Emerson was everyone’s player in Chicago. His successes were the city’s successes.
And those three points he’d scored the night before in the first period had been celebrated by the entire league and the entire city. Had that only been a night ago? Meg rubbed her arms, at the goosebumps there. It was surreal to sit by a man who skated like lightning across ice and could take down 250-pound men with a shoulder bump.
While waiting in the hospital lobby hour after hour, she’d done some googling on him. Read about his roots in Chicago, about his socialite parents, about how he’d been called up pro when he was only nineteen years old. She read a printed interview where he’d talked about learning the game from Coach Fenwick on his club team Northbrook Hockey Elite. It seemed that five of his Sabercats teammates from the club team played pro now. Most recently Clint McCarthy, according to a linked article.
The article had a picture of the group of hockey players at some fundraiser for the club only about a week ago. She pulled up her browser again to look at the saved picture. There was Jax, front and center, wearing a tux that made him look like he could be on a magazine’s sexy bachelor list. Yep. She’d googled that too. Jax was single. Some mentions of girlfriends littered the internet, but nothing recent.
Which made Meg even more curious about this beautiful, talented, hard-as-stone man next to her. Why hadn’t some gorgeous actress or trust fund starlet scooped him up?
Almost against her will, her gaze moved back to the sleeping Jax. His lips were relaxed, and his lashes rested against his high cheekbones. The slight crook in his nose was probably from a break, or two. His brown hair was tousled, and she realized she’d only ever seen it that way. Helmet pulled off after a game, sweaty, tousled hair.
Well, he wasn’t sweaty now. Not that she minded the sweaty version of Jax.
Too bad her car wouldn’t start. Even though it was below forty degrees outside, she could use a little AC right now.
Two headlights swung into the parking lot. The bulky outline of the vehicle told her that the tow truck had arrived. She didn’t bother Jax; he’d probably wake soon enough. She pulled the hood latch, then stepped out to greet the tow truck driver.
In just a few minutes, her car was started again, and she stood outside, her arms folded against the cold as he ran a diagnostics test.
“Your battery is on its last leg, ma’am,” the driver told her. “I’d recommend getting it replaced first thing tomorrow. If it starts up for you tomorrow, that is. I can tow it to the shop if you can find alternate transportation home tonight.”
Maybe if Jax weren’t asleep in her car, depending on her to get him home, she would take the tow truck driver up on his offer.
“It’s all right,” Meg said. “I’ll figure it out first thing tomorrow.”
“All right then.” The driver unhooked his machinery, then swung up into the cab of his truck.
Meg watched him drive away, then with a shiver, she climbed into her car.
Jax hadn’t moved.
Good thing he’d already given her his address. Meg pulled up her Maps app and started to drive.
“You should sit this one out, Jackson,” his father said into the phone. “Get some rest and your equilibrium back.”
Jax clenched his jaw. This was the first time he’d answered a phone call from his dad in a long time. Usually he let calls go to voicemail, then decided if it was worth his time calling back. Since the fiasco with Lacy, things between him and his dad had been strained. And he didn’t want his dad to think that just because he’d visited Jax in the hospital, everything was now smoothed over. It was far from that. They still had his contract to talk about.
“I’m already on my way.” He’d been home since the accident four days ago. He’d already missed one game, and he wasn’t going to miss another. Jax flipped on his blinker and made a right turn. He was ready, and he knew it. He’d been working out in his home gym and been in constant communication with the coach. Since the accident, his teammates had reached out to him more than ever.
Jax felt neutral about this. He’d never been particularly close with his Flyers teammates. He didn’t hang out with them socially. In fact, last month at the Northbrook fundraiser, he’d connected more with his old teammates than he had with anyone else over the past eight years in the pro league. Which only told him there were other teams out there, other opportunities.
Life didn’t always have to be all about Chicago.
He needed to speak to his dad as soon as he got through this game. About his contract. About how he was going to take control of his career, and life, once and for all.
“Jackson,” his dad’s voice came again. “One more missed game won’t make a difference in your overall career.”
“Oh, since you know so much about my career,” Jax shot back, “what else do you want to tell me?”
“Son—”
“Look, I need to focus on driving here,” Jax cut in. “Your seats are open at the game. Take them or leave them.” Then he hung up. It felt good to cut his dad off, to essentially hang up on him. For about thirty seconds. Then he felt guilty for being disrespectful, even though he had every reason to be upset with his dad.
Problem was, there was really no one for him to talk to. No one on his team, not his coaches, and definitely not his mother. He thought about the Northbrook guys. They’d all known his dad had sponsored some of their tournaments, and they’d known he was the rich kid on the team. Yeah, they had razzed him, and Rocco called him Golden Boy, but the guys had never crossed the line, because his dad’s money helped them all.
Jax exhaled, feeling stuck. Hockey was his life. Literally. And he loved it. Mostly.
Not the business side of it, that was for sure.
He pulled into his assigned parking space and let the engine idle, keeping the interior of his truck warm while he scrolled through his phone. His dad had sent a text. Of course.
Let’s talk after the game. And be careful out there, huh?
Well, if one thing was clear, his dad did care about him. But his personality was so controlling, so stifling, that Jax wished that he had the kind of dad who’d just take him fishing once a month. Simple.
Another round of texts had come in from The Pit. Jax wasn’t surprised. Before starting up his truck thirty minutes ago, he’d sent out the text: Playing tonight. We’ll see whose season I can end.
It was an inside joke—although the wrong type of hit could end another player’s season, it was an unspoken code of ethics to never go in for the career-ending injury.
The responses had been fast and furious.
Clint: I’ll watch on my phone because I’m probably going to be warming up the pretty bench in St. Louis. Clint McCarthy was the newest recruit to the St. Louis Hawks. He’d played in the minor leagues after a four-year stint in the Marines. This season, he’d been called up to the pros. That made two pro athletes in the McCarthy family. Clint’s brother Grizz was a professional baseball catcher, originally from the legendary Belltown Six Pack.
Send pics of you on the bench, McCarthy, Zane
Winchester wrote. Everyone called him Zamboni, or Z.
Funny, Clint wrote.
Ya, some of us have to actually play tonight, The Rock, aka Rocco De Luca, quipped. He played for the Wyoming Steers. Show the Chargers what a puck is.
Hey, Rocco, Dice wrote. Dice, or Declan Rivera, played left defenseman for the Denver Chargers. When we get done with you, you’ll be scraping your teammates off the ice.
Pull your heads out, Trane Jones wrote. Otherwise known as Diesel, he was the massive goalie for the Michigan Comets. He’d been big at Northbrook Elite, and now he was huge. We should be congratulating Jax on his miraculous comeback.
Congrats, dude, Clint wrote. Recovery from your coma was amazing.
I didn’t get any hospital pics, Rocco complained. No pics, then it didn’t happen.
Oh it happened, Dice wrote. You should have heard him whining on the phone the next day. All about how his hip hurt and his shoulder got a few scratches.
Jax chuckled at this. He scrolled through the rest of the texts, then wrote, Proof just for you, Rock. He texted a selfie of himself in his truck, with the stadium visible through the windows.
That started off another firestorm.
Since Jax was a full twenty minutes early, he bantered on the texting group for a few more minutes. Then another text came in. One not part of The Pit.
Meghan. She’d signed her first text Meghan, so he knew her full name now.
When she’d dropped him off at his house the other night, she’d walked him to the door. Then after a debate of whether or not she should pay for his hospital bills, in which he’d said no and she kept insisting, he finally told her to give him her number and he’d call her if he needed anything.
“Anything at all,” she’d gushed. “I can take out your trash, bring you dinner, anything.”
He’d raised a hand to stop her crazy offers. “You’re not taking out my trash.”
But he’d called her the next day. She hadn’t answered, so he’d left a message that he was perfectly fine and didn’t need any help with trash. She must have called when he’d taken a nap, because he’d woken up to a voicemail from her. Basically apologizing and reoffering to help him with anything at all. He’d called her back. Voicemail. She’d called him. Voicemail.
Powerplay Page 3
