Page 6

Chapter Six

Hayden

One of the perks of being a retired hockey player turned sports agent is I can get free tickets to pretty much any game. NHL. NFL. MLB. NBA. You name a league, I’ll have a contact. All I have to do is make a few calls, and within the hour, I’ve got a choice of seats to pick from.

Tonight, I’m watching the Chicago Thunder face Boston from the GM’s suite. While I didn’t have a smooth transition into retirement with minimal support from the organization, I didn’t leave on bad terms. I held no shame when I dropped Boston’s GM a call two weeks ago and asked if he would be able to spring a ticket my way for tonight’s game. And I wasn’t going to say no when he offered up his suite. There’s always a fully stocked bar and unlimited food, and I make sure he repays for the tough years by drinking his expensive top-shelf whiskey.

I also have a perfect, uninterrupted view of the ice where the Thunder are currently up by one goal twelve minutes into the first period .

Did I need to be in Boston tonight? No. But this is all part of the master plan I’ve been working on over the last couple of months.

I knew they would be staying overnight before heading to Washington tomorrow, and what better place to invite Jackson for a morning coffee than in the city where we fell in love.

Corny? Perhaps. But I’m confident he won’t be able to resist when I mention Rafe’s Coffee House. It used to be our favorite place to go, and I remember how much he missed their hazelnut lattes when he got traded because he would tell me every day.

Until you ended it all.

I tell the voice in my head to fuck off because we’re not going down that road. Not today. This is my chance to make things right, and I won’t let that negative voice jeopardize my plan.

Sipping on a glass of whiskey, I watch Jackson skate smoothly across the ice. I loved playing on the same line as him. We were always so in tune with one another, silently communicating through our eyes, and we could connect passes without looking. I knew where he was on the ice at all times, and him with me. We were unstoppable, and nine times out of ten, if either one of us scored a goal, the other’s name would be listed with the assist.

Our connection was magical, both on and off the ice. But ultimately, it was my own fear that severed that connection. It’s kinda terrifying when you meet someone like that. Especially when it’s someone you can’t be with, like a teammate. The fear that rooted deep inside of me when he received the news of a trade took over and my mind began to spiral.

What if he found someone else? What if he realized how much I was head over fucking heels in love with him and decided I was too much? What if he realized he didn’t really love me and decided to end it? What if the distance became too much?

I guess my anxieties started long before my injury because it was when Jackson had to leave that the voices started to take control in my mind. Those intrusive thoughts became suffocating, and the voices convinced me that I was the one who had to end things first because then I was in control. He couldn’t break my heart if I broke his first.

I was twenty-six and immature. But even putting my actions down to immaturity doesn’t make what I did right.

Boston fails to even the score by the end of the first period, and second goes scoreless for both teams. By the time the third period ticks down, the heat is on. Boston are all over the Thunder’s forwards and trying to get under their skin. Blaine gets a penalty for tripping M?kinen, one of Boston’s defensemen, and argues his way to the box. He must say something out of frustration because the ref holds his hands up, forming a T.

Unsportsmanlike conduct.

“Fuck’s sake, Blaine. Keep your head in the game,” I murmur, resting my chin on my steepled fingers.

The next four minutes are like watching a disaster movie. M?kinen capitalizes on a failed pass from Peyton, sending the puck over Elliot’s glove and into the back of the net. Jackson’s head drops back in defeat, and I can just imagine him rolling his eyes in annoyance. My lips tip in a small smile at the thought.

The final two minutes of Blaine’s penalty is chaotic. Kendrick scores when Boston gets a hooking penalty, giving the Thunder a 2-1 lead, but then Mitch Henry takes a high stick to the chin that goes uncalled. Peyton drops his gloves at the first opportunity, grabbing the offending player by the front of his jersey, and lands an uppercut. The arena goes wild as the two fight it out while Mitch skates to the bench to get patched up. When the officials finally break them apart, Peyton makes his way to the penalty box, where Blaine gives him a fist bump and slaps his back. Boston evens the score once again, getting the puck past Elliot to make it two all.

My heart is in my throat as the camera pans onto Jackson, his face appearing on the jumbotron. His brows are pinched slightly as he tilts his head up to the screen. A light sheen of sweat coats his skin, and the scruff lining his jaw makes my fingers twitch with the need to touch it. To feel it between my thighs and the sensitive skin on my neck.

A shiver travels down my spine at the thought.

I’m on the edge of my seat as Jackson takes the face-off. He wins, passing it to Blaine, who’s finally out of the penalty box, but Boston are quick to take back possession. I stop breathing when Jackson intercepts the puck, and then he’s on a breakaway. Even at thirty-six, he’s one of the fastest skaters on the team. The sheer power in his legs propels him up the ice, and within seconds, he’s taking a shot on the net. It sails past the goaltender’s shoulder, sinking into the top right corner. The lamp lights, and there’s a collective groan throughout the arena while the Thunder fans celebrate.

I’m on my feet, clapping so hard my palms burn. My smile threatens to crack my face in two. Pride is blooming in my chest when Jackson skates past the bench, tapping his gloves against his teammates’. I’m so fucking proud of him.

The final buzzer sounds, and Chicago wins 3-2.

My eyes stay locked on Jackson until he disappears down the tunnel. I manage to sneak out of the arena unnoticed, and on the drive back to the hotel, I type out a message to him. I end up deleting and retyping it three or four times. Because how can I say, “Please meet me for coffee,” without sounding like I’m desperate?

I mean, I am desperate, but he doesn’t need to know that.

By the time I make it back to my hotel suite, I’m tired, and my body aches from the chilled air inside the arena. I strip out of my suit, hang it in the closet so it doesn’t get creased, then take a quick shower to warm up. Once I’ve dried myself off, I put on a pair of clean boxer briefs and slide into bed with my phone.

I managed to get Jackson’s number from Peyton under the guise of “needing to send him something” after Blaine and Alex’s wedding. Luckily, the Thunder’s newly appointed captain isn’t the kind of guy to ask questions, so he sent it over without me needing to think up some excuse. It’s been burning a hole in my contacts list since the day after my visit with Roberta, but I’ve been waiting for the right time.

I type out another message, hoping it sounds light and breezy and not at all desperate. My thumb hovers over the Send button, and I quickly press it before I can spiral further into procrastination.

Hey Jax, it’s Hayden. Great game tonight! That goal in the third was a beauty. Can we meet for coffee before you head to Washington? Say 9AM at Rafe’s? I won’t take up much of your time.

My pulse quickens as three dots appear on the screen, letting me know he’s typing.

Holy shit. It’s kinda embarrassing how happy I am at the sight of three bouncing dots.

The phone trembles in my hand as minutes go by and that bubble keeps disappearing and reappearing again. Is he going to tell me to fuck off? That there’s no way on this earth he wants to have coffee with me?

Before my mind can enter that dark spiral, my phone vibrates with a new message, and my breath whooshes out of me in a rush.

Jackson

Hey. Thanks, it felt pretty good too. Yeah, okay. See you at 9.

I stare at the screen for several minutes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is he going to ask me where I got his number? Or respond that he thought I was someone else and can no longer make it?

But then I realize I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. Because he said yes.

He said yes.

I roll over to put my phone on charge, and I fall asleep with Jackson on my mind and a smile on my face.

Rafe’s is a family-run coffee house that makes the best bagels in Boston. We used to come here all the time when I had a condo around the corner overlooking the harbor, and it became part of our morning routine. We would come down here, pick up coffees and a bagel. Sometimes we’d eat them in bed or in the car on the way to practice. Every time I’ve been in Boston for a work-related trip since I retired, I always come and order a hazelnut latte. Jackson used to drink it all the time, and I would tease him for it. But now I drink it all the time because it reminds me of how his mouth used to taste when I would steal kisses from him at every opportunity.

My knee bounces under the table, and nerves pool in my stomach. I knew it was a big risk when I sent that text last night. I’ve been working up to that moment for months. Baby steps. That’s all I need to remember. This was step one, and in my mind, it was the biggest. Jackson could have said no to meeting up. He could have left me on read and ignored me completely. But he didn’t.

He said yes. He said he was going to show up.

I take a sip of my coffee and glance at the time on my phone. 9:02 a.m. He should be here any minute now. I open up one of the apps I use when I need to distract my brain when the bell jingles above the door. My head snaps up so fast I get a twinge in my neck. Jackson’s hulking figure is in the doorway, dressed in a charcoal wool coat and light gray toque, his eyes scanning the cafe before landing on me. The corner of his lips tip in a small smile, and it takes everything in me not to fist bump the air.

He came.

I’m unable to take my eyes off him as he weaves around the tables. He places his coat on the other chair, then sits down.

“Hey,” he says with a slight apprehension in his tone.

“Hey.” I smile, hoping like hell it’s relaxed, considering my entire body has gone tense with anticipation. I slide the coffee I got for him across the table. “I got you a hazelnut latte. I wasn’t sure if you still drink it.”

He accepts it, and his eyes widen a fraction in surprise. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

“Great,” I say with a relieved sigh.

Blue eyes assess me over the rim of the cup, and I pick up my own coffee for something to do. It’s awkward, but not as awkward as the wedding. There’s this level of nervousness between us, but it doesn’t hold any animosity this time. It’s weird. This feeling like you’re in front of a stranger. There was a time we couldn’t have been closer. Hell, I’ve had this guy inside of me, and I’ve been inside of him. Yet sitting here today, you never would have known we once explored every inch of each other’s bodies with our mouths and wandering hands.

I trace my finger along the handle of the cup, trying to muster up something to say that isn’t “please take me back,” but Jackson beats me to it.

“So, what brings you to Boston?” he asks.

Well, shit. I can’t exactly tell him he is the reason I’m here because then that automatically puts me in the desperation pool. That’s something I’m trying to avoid.

“I had a few meetings, and I thought I might as well catch the game while I’m in town.”

His head bobs a few times. “Was it weird? Being back there? ”

“Kinda? I’ve learned to disassociate when I’m in agent mode,” I say, then chuckle nervously. “If I allowed my own hurt and bitterness over my career ending earlier than I wanted it to, affect me whenever I went to games, then I wouldn't have many clients”

The muscles in my neck tense up at the sight of pity flashing through his eyes. I quickly change the subject because I don’t want his pity. Rafe’s is not the place where I cut myself open and expose my underbelly regarding the demise of my career.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me this morning,” I begin, taking another sip of my coffee to dampen my dry mouth. “I… I’ve had a lot of time to process what you told me at Blaine’s wedding. It didn’t come as a surprise to me that I hurt you, but I don’t think I truly understood to what extent until that night, and I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything.”

His hand holding his cup pauses halfway to his mouth. The crease between his brow reappears, and his lips turn downward.

“Where is this coming from?” he asks warily.

I exhale heavily. “I don’t want to go into things right now, but I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry for everything I put you through.”

His frown only deepens. “Okay…”

I take another sip of coffee, then take a deep breath. I need to say it. Rip the Band-Aid off and get it out there. It’s time for step two.

“I’d like it if we could be friends again. I know that sounds very juvenile for guys our age, but…” I take off my glasses and scrub my face with my palm. He’s blurry, and so mehow, it makes it easier to get my words out. “I’ve missed having you in my life, and I didn’t know how much until I saw you at Zach’s apartment that time with your daughter.”

When I put my glasses back on, his expression is still full of confusion. The longer he’s silent, the more my skin begins to feel tight and itchy.

Please say something , I inwardly beg, Anything.

His tongue darts out to lick over his bottom lip, and my eyes latch onto the movement.

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally answers.

“Say yes?” A small huff of nervous laughter escapes me. “You’ve got my number now. We can text, or if we’re ever in the same city, maybe grab a bite to eat?” I shrug, trying to appear casual despite my knee bouncing an erratic rhythm beneath the table.

I sound like a fucking high schooler begging to be friends with the popular kid, but I don’t care. This is a marathon, and I’m only at the very beginning.

Baby steps.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” I bring my coffee to my lips to disguise how my face wants to break out in a wide grin.

“Yeah. I mean, a lot has changed over the years, like you said at the wedding. We’re not the same people we were last time we were here,” he says, and I don’t miss the slight defensive tone to his voice. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to be civil, considering we run in the same circles.”

“Right.” I nod in agreement.

He finishes his coffee, then pushes his chair back. “I’ve gotta head off. The bus leaves for the airport soon, and I don’t want to be late.”

I stand up and try to hide my wince as pain shoots through my body. Luckily, Jackson is too busy slipping on his coat and doesn’t see it.

“Good luck in Washington. Keep an eye on Young if he’s in the net. He’s been very pad-reliant recently—I think he’s hiding an injury.”

Jackson’s face lights up when he laughs softly, and the sight steals my breath. “Thanks, I will.”

We stand there awkwardly. Neither of us is quite sure how to say goodbye, but in the end, Jackson gives a firm nod.

“Take care, Hayden. It was good to see you.”

“You too,” I say, and I’m not ashamed to admit my eyes drop to his ass as he makes his way to the exit.

I guess there’s one thing that hasn’t changed.