by Luis, Maria
Too late to turn back now, though.
Swallowing roughly, I rub my hand along the underside of my jaw. “When my grandma died, she . . . uh—I should say thank you, first, for coming to her funeral. I’m not sure if I have before, but seeing you there, even though we didn’t speak, it meant the world to me.”
Jackson’s hand reaches out to clasp mine. He gives my fingers a quick squeeze. “We’re family, Holls. I told you that.”
That’s right, he did. A screwed-up family, I believe he’d written in that envelope last month, but a family nonetheless. It feels like ages ago that he sat down in the row opposite mine with all of his crazy gifts.
I squeeze his hand back, and then I don’t let go.
“It’s not like she had a lot to give away for an inheritance, you know? Maybe a few furniture pieces? Some clothes that she’d had for decades?” I can’t help but laugh. My grandmother was nothing if not tidy and organized. If she didn’t use something, it went in the trash—a life motto that could also be used to describe her personal relationships with friends and family.
Funny how I miss her so much at the most random times.
“Anyway, it wasn’t like Sam or I were concerned about any of that. He hated her taste and I did, too, but we figured we’d split it all down the middle. Then we found out that she’d left us a letter.”
“A letter?”
I nod. Turning over Jackson’s hand, I run my fingers over the veins, tracing them until I hit his wrist. “A letter,” I confirm. “Sam didn’t care to read it because let’s face it, that’s how Sam is. But I was in a rut . . . everything with us and then her passing away . . . I guess I wanted something of the familiar, even if she was reprimanding me in that way of hers.”
Jackson’s gaze flicks from my face down to his hand and then back again. I can tell he’s anxious to have me spill it all. Still, he waits in silence for me to go at my own pace.
I wait as the server brings me more wine—this time, I gladly say yes—and then down a sip for liquid encouragement. “Turns out, she’d lied. For years, she let us believe that my parents took off and chose to live a different life somewhere else.” Another sip of wine that goes down as smoothly as the first. “I knew they were coke addicts. Grandpa used to mutter all sorts of crap whenever Sam or I brought them up. I may have not known what any of it meant until I was much older, but I still caught the general feeling: Momma and Daddy were not good people.”
Jackson’s silence breaks with the sound of his chair scraping back over the stone floor. He drags the damn thing to my side of the table, turning it toward me so that when he sits down, he’s effectively straddling my chair.
He’s shielding me from anyone who might be watching.
The thought alone makes me want to hug him.
“Keep goin’,” he rasps, one hand coming to meet mine on the table again. He twines our fingers together. It feels so wrong to look at our clasped hands and see that our ring fingers are bare. “I’m here, sweetheart.”
My throat pinches with a hard swallow. “In the letter, my grandmother wrote about how she’d kept tabs on them after they left me and Sam with her and Grandpa. She didn’t trust them, she said, but she’d never thought her daughter would fall into the hell that she did.” When tears prick at my eyes, I dot at them with the heel of my free hand. I’ve had months to come to terms with the news, but somehow, relaying them to someone other than Sam makes it all feel more real.
More depressing.
“Momma overdosed,” comes my ragged whisper. “I think I was around thirteen, my grandmother noted. I don’t know if anyone attended her funeral. I don’t know if she had a funeral. Given what little I know about her, I’m guessing probably not. I might remember her smiles and hugs, but those are child’s memories. Reality paints a much darker portrait.”
With his hand still clasped to mine, Jackson asks, “And your dad?”
“He’s in jail.”
“Damn.” Shaking his head, Jackson’s jaw tenses with emotion. “What did he do?”
“Murder.” I let that settle in before I continue. “A drug deal gone wrong, I guess. Or, at least, that’s what my grandmother wrote. He’s going to do life at Louisiana’s Angola State Penitentiary.”
“Will you visit him?”
“No.”
His thumb skates across the top of my hand. “You’re okay for feeling this way, Holls. They abandoned you and your brother. They chose drugs over their kids, their families. I can read the guilt all over your face.” He tugs on my hand until I drag my gaze up to his face. Vehemently, he growls, “Do not feel guilty for putting up boundaries and doing what’s best for you.”
I want to believe him, I do. But . . .
“I should feel guilty.”
“Tell me why. Right now, tell me why you should feel anything of the sort over a man who never bothered to contact his daughter after he left her.”
“Because when I read my grandmother’s letter all I could think about was your mom and your dad, and the fact that at least you knew that he loved you to his dying breath.”
The words slip from my mouth, and I wish I could reel them back in and staple my lips shut.
Jackson’s cheeks hollow with a harsh breath. Unsurprisingly, he pulls his hand from under mine, but it’s only to scrub at his face in overt frustration. “I don’t see the correlation,” he grits out, voice unsteady. “There is no correlation. My dad died overseas while serving his country. He was a patriot.”
“And he loved you.”
I never met Jackson Carter, Sr., but I’d heard enough of Momma Martha’s stories to know that Jackson’s father was a one-in-a-million kind of man. He spent endless hours teaching Jackson how to skate, even when the hot Texas heat would have dissuaded an average man. He went to each of Jackson’s games, always showing up with his military buddies to cheer on his young son.
Momma Martha’s eyes always shimmered with tears when she relayed the stories. “My husband—he loved hard just like he lived hard. I couldn’t have asked for a better father or husband.”
My tongue feels swollen when I speak again, determined to make Jackson see where I’m coming from. “I read those letters and I thought of your family. Yours encouraged you to love hard, Jackson, no matter what it was you were loving—me, hockey, your friends. Even after your dad passed, your mother never warned you off from giving something your all.”
I look at my hands, at the wineglass I’ve forgotten I’m still holding. “You were allowed to grow bright—that’s what I’m saying.”
“And you were what?” Jackson says the words low and stark.
I drain the rest of my wine. “I was told that I loved too hard, Jackson. That I loved too hard and that would ultimately hurt me. My grandmother grew up in a different generation, one in which nothing was ever handed to her. Your parents led by love, my grandparents by fear. And so I read that letter of hers and I realized why she’d always told me to be careful with my heart. She knew she’d disappoint me, that others would disappoint me, and she wanted me safe.”
“She was wrong.”
I blink. “What?”
Jackson leans forward, and for the first time ever, I feel like I’m about to be a recipient of one of his captain pep talks. “Yesterday, you asked me about finding that high. Fun fact, sweetheart, you can’t be careful and love hard all at once.” Gently, he touches one finger to my chest, giving it a little poke. “It’s got to be all in or all out. When I step onto the ice, I don’t worry about the what-ifs. They’ve got no room in my mind. I’m there to win; I’m there to make the other team piss their pants.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“The same goes for Carter Photography,” he goes on, cutting me off without a hint of shame. “You’ve stuck to the Northeast. Why?”
“Um, because it makes sense logistically?”
“Wrong.” Another poke to my chest. “It’s because even considering a game plan that includes count
rywide domination sends you into a panic attack. I’m reading you like I do my opponents on the ice, and what I’m reading is that you haven’t been lovin’ hard at all. You’ve been too scared to even try.”
My jaw drops. “I’m sorry, but did you just say that I’ve been scared?”
Confidence lines every curve of his face, including the smug smile tipping his lips. “Your parents may have been assholes, Holls, and your grandmother may have cautioned you against giving yourself up to vulnerability, but you can’t live life waiting for the other anvil to drop and crush you. You want the high, crave it more than anything . . . but you won’t even take the initial hit.”
Emotions tangle in my throat as I fight to keep my hands from gesturing wildly in the air. “So, what do you recommend, huh? Calling every hockey team west of the Mississippi River to hire me?”
“I recommend lovin’ me as hard as you can.”
I swear that I don’t even blink as I stare Jackson down. “That’s your suggestion?”
His answering grin is all wickedness. “Doctor’s orders.”
“There’s no doctor,” I grit out from behind clenched teeth.
His fingers brush the side of my face. Then, leaning forward, his mouth finding the shell of my ear to husk out, “I’m not goin’ anywhere, Holly. You can love me as hard as you want, and I won’t budge. I’m a safe bet.”
My gaze finds his.
He looks so damn earnest, genuinely wanting to help me. It does something to my insides, stripping away the fear and all the remaining worries that we might not work.
I hope we will.
No, I believe we will.
“I’ll take that bet, sir.” I slip my hand over his thigh, squeezing once, and angle my face to catch his lips with mine in a gentle kiss. “Now about that no-sweets rule . . . is dessert off the menu? Or am I the only sweetness allowed in your daily diet?”
32
Holly
“Guys? Have I ever mentioned how much wax figures creep me out?”
I stifle a snort as I prod Adam in the back and urge him to keep moving along the dimly lit hallway. Although it’s been ages since I’ve visited The Box—the unofficial Blades bar in Cambridge—there’s no forgetting the narrow hall that leads from the front of the establishment to the back, the latter which is reserved exclusively for the Blades and their guests. This hall is a shrine to the best hockey players the NHL has ever seen, like some sort of modern-day equivalent of a mummified Egyptian tomb with sarcophagi.
Except that the players who’ve been transformed into wax replicas aren’t dead in real life. Well, I think all but one or two aren’t, anyway.
“If it helps,” Jackson drawls from behind me, “we’re coming up on Duke Harrison’s figure now. We all know he’s your favorite.”
“It’s not helping, man.” Adam’s shoulders twitch with a shiver. “They’ve got some of the beadiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Seriously, have you guys ever been to one of Madame Tussaud’s exhibits? My wife loves going, mainly because I think she likes to see me cry.”
When we pass Duke’s lifelike wax figure, I tease, “Does that mean you don’t want to confiscate this one right here? I bet Madeline would be thrilled for you to bring home her own Duke Harrison.”
Adam snaps a horrified look at me over his shoulder. “First off,” he says, flustered, “low blow, boss, low blow. Second, the only place that thing is going, if it left with me, is in a firepit. Have you ever smelled the scent of burning wax? It’s glorious.”
I feel Jackson’s warm hand connect with the small of my back. “Pretty sure glorious is not a word anyone would use to describe burning wax.”
“Pretty sure that whoever makes these creatures should be put in an asylum,” Adam grumbles, turning his body sideways to avoid being stabbed by the legendary Bobby Orr’s hockey stick. Adam’s hands come up, stomach sucked in, as he inches his way past the wax figure like Bobby might come alive at any moment and launch at him.
I’m sure good ol’ Bobby will be getting a lot of reactions like that tonight. It’s the mid-season finale for Getting Pucked, and instead of watching the show at home like everyone’s done for most of the season, Mark Fillmore suggested a massive watch-party with the team, the Blades’ staff, and the crew from the show.
To everyone’s surprise, Jackson was the one to suggest holding the party at The Box. Since the Blades franchise began, the bar has been a well-kept secret—unless you know someone who knows someone, there’s not a single chance you’d ever receive an invite.
Tonight, the bar is packed.
The minute Jackson cracks open the door to usher us in, it’s safe to assume that everyone and their mother is here. Not an exaggeration. I’m pretty sure that I spot Henri Bordeaux’s mom eating a slice of pizza on one of the sofas on the far side of the room.
Trying to catch Jackson’s attention, I hook one of my fingers through the belt loop of his slacks. Immediately, his pace slows and he ducks his head near mine to hear me. The gesture shouldn’t be as swoon-worthy as it makes me feel. But that’s been Jackson’s M.O ever since we spent our time in Rhode Island a few weeks ago.
We’ve spent almost every waking moment together since our return to Boston. If I have a shoot to handle outside of my work for the Blades, Jackson’s made a concerted effort to either meet me there or be waiting after for lunch or dinner or whatever our respective schedules can manage. Thanks to Getting Pucked, it’s not like I’ve had the opportunity to miss any of his practices or games, but I’m already thinking of ways that I can show my support once filming for the season has ended.
Jackson may have promised that he’s a safe bet, but I desperately want to show him that he can expect the same from me too. We’re in this together, no matter how long it takes for us to feel out our footsteps and truly learn to trust again. I know that we’ve been through too much to expect things to go back to the way they were before. And, if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not interested in any re-runs of what used to be.
Not if it means living separate lives all over again.
My hand finds Jackson’s forearm, which I use for balance as I lift onto the balls of my feet and touch my nose to his ear. “How much do you want to bet that Adam trails Duke like a lost puppy tonight?” I half shout, trying to be heard over the loud chatter in the room. “I’m sensing a bromance brewing.”
Jackson binds an arm around my back, shoring me up against his hard frame. “If I take you up on this bet, do I get you in my bed tonight?”
“As if that’s different than any other night?”
I got him there. Boyishly, he scratches behind his ear and flashes me an endearing smile. It’s all innocence, which I don’t believe for one hot second. I tap him on the chest, right over his heart. “Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?” he asks, giving me The Look, dialed up to a hundred.
A giggle escapes my mouth. “The one where you’re thinking about getting me nak—”
“Carter!”
At the masculine voice behind me, I whirl around, only to find Mark Fillmore standing there with his arm wrapped around another man’s lean frame. After two months of working with Getting Pucked’s director, I’ve never seen him out of his usual attire: slacks, dark shirt, leather loafers.
That’s not the Mark Fillmore who showed up tonight.
He’s rocking dark-washed jeans and a burgundy turtle neck, and holy crap, but is he wearing cowboy boots? Not an everyday sight here in Boston, that’s for sure.
“Carter, I’m so excited that I ran into you.” Fillmore sends me a quick hello and draws the other man forward. “Sorry for pulling the fanboy act over here, but my husband Carl has always been a fan of yours.”
When I make a move to step back and give them some space to talk, Jackson’s arm tightens around my back and stalls my flight. Given the circumstances, I’m not sure how Mark Fillmore might take my relationship with Jackson. Had he hoped for some drama like Steven Fairfax had? When he does
n’t even bat an eye at seeing Jackson and I standing so close together, I decide that Mark Fillmore probably doesn’t care at all.
“As soon as I told Carl that you’d be here tonight, he had to come,” Fillmore is saying now, all bright smiles and twinkling eyes. “From one queen fan to another, he couldn’t pass up this opportunity.”
Beside me, Jackson’s body freezes.
Tossing him a quick, confused glance, I fix my attention on the Fillmore couple in front of me. “A Queen fan?” I ask, my hand looping around Jackson’s back to slip into the front pocket of his slacks. “Like, We Are the Champions Queen?” I bump Jackson’s hip with mine. “How appropriate, right? This season is totally reminding me of a scene from The Mighty Ducks when Emilio Estevez first met the team.”
“Emilio Estevez?” Fillmore asks, brows drawn together.
“Coach Bombay? You know, now that I think about it, it’d be hilarious to do a round-table interview with the guys on which player they think they’re most like from the movie.” Slyly, I prop my chin on Jackson’s arm and glance up at his face. “You’d be Charlie Conway, I think. Stoic, an overachiever, the captain.”
Jackson’s throat works with a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple dodging downward. “Fillmore’s, ah, not talking about Queen.”
“No?”
A flush crests over Jackson’s cheekbones. “No, he, uh . . .” He hooks a finger over the starched collar of his button-down, pulling at the material in obvious discomfort. “He’s talking about—”
“Celine Dion,” says Fillmore’s husband, Carl. “The true queen.”
I think, maybe, a sound emerges from my throat. It’s tough to tell when I’m choking on air and burying my face in Jackson’s arm. Celine Dion? Not that there’s anything wrong with her—she’s got an amazing voice—but Jackson is more of a heavy metal or rock connoisseur. The more screaming, the happier he is. He wouldn’t know a Celine Dion song if it bit him in the butt.
