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L auren

March 1 st – Countdown to playoffs

Lauren stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits, as Barb lounged on her bed scrolling through the Charm City Chill's Instagram page.

"What exactly does one wear to a hockey team's charity casino night?" Lauren asked, holding up a black cocktail dress only to immediately return it to the closet with a frustrated groan. "Formal? Semi-formal? Jersey-formal?"

"According to these photos from last year," Barb said, turning her phone to show Lauren, "it's definitely cocktail attire. Ooh, look at Kane Norris in that suit. Man cleans up nice."

Lauren glanced at the photo, but her eyes were drawn to the figure slightly behind Kane—Jax in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, his expression serious but softened by a slight smile. Her stomach fluttered traitorously.

"This is ridiculous," she declared, sinking onto the bed beside Barb. "I'm overthinking a simple charity event."

"A simple charity event you were invited to as the personal guest of the team's most intimidating player," Barb corrected. "After three weeks of 'professional consultations' about a kitten and 'research' at hockey games."

"When you put it that way, it sounds absurd," Lauren admitted.

"That's because it is absurd," Barb said, sitting up to face her friend. "Gloriously, romantically absurd. An enforcer with a heart of gold falls for the vet who initially judged him for his violent job."

Lauren threw a pillow at her. "We haven't 'fallen' for each other. We're just..."

"Just what?" Barb prompted when Lauren trailed off.

"I don't know," Lauren sighed. "That's the problem. What am I doing, Barb? He represents everything I've always avoided in men."

Barb's expression softened. "Does he, though? From everything you've told me, he's controlled, thoughtful, gentle with animals, and protective without being possessive. That sounds like the opposite of your ex."

"But his job is literally fighting," Lauren argued.

"His job is hockey," Barb corrected. "The fighting is part of a role he plays, with rules and boundaries and purpose. And from what you've said, he's been actively working to evolve beyond that."

Lauren couldn't argue with that. Over the past three weeks, she'd watched Jax transform his game, using his size and strength strategically rather than punitively. The texts they'd exchanged about his expanding defensive responsibilities had been filled with a quiet pride that touched her.

"But what happens when he can't?" Lauren asked quietly, voicing the fear that had been gnawing at her. "What if someone pushes him too far? What if that violence isn't as contained as we both want to believe?"

The question hung in the air between them. Barb studied her friend for a long moment before responding.

"Is that what you're really afraid of? Or are you afraid of what happens if he's actually the good guy he seems to be?"

The question hit too close to home. Lauren stood abruptly, returning to the closet to avoid meeting Barb's knowing gaze.

"Wear the emerald dress," Barb said, changing tactics. "The one with the open back. It matches your eyes and makes your ass look fantastic."

"Barb!"

"What? Even if you’re not sure about The Mountain, you might as well look devastating."

Lauren fingered the silk of the emerald dress, the cool fabric sliding between her fingers as she considered it. She'd worn it once before, to a colleague's wedding, and remembered how it had made her feel—confident, beautiful, seen.

"What am I getting myself into?"

"Something worth taking a risk for," Barb replied simply. "And if I'm wrong, you can fire me as your best friend."

THE CHARITY CASINO night was being held at the Grand Harbor Hotel, New Haven's most elegant venue overlooking the waterfront. Lauren handed her car keys to the valet, the metal cold in her palm before the attendant took them. She smoothed her emerald dress nervously as she approached the entrance, the silk whispering against her skin with each movement. The event was larger than she'd expected, with local media stationed outside capturing the arrivals of players and notable guests.

She hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. What if she made a fool out of herself? The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted from inside, mingling with the sharp March wind off the harbor.

Before she could spiral further, her phone buzzed with a text. Are you here yet? I'm by the entrance inside, away from the cameras.

The simple message steadied her. Just arrived. Coming in now.

The hotel lobby was transformed with tasteful hockey-themed decorations—nothing garish, just subtle touches of the Chill's blue and white colors accenting the elegant space. The scent of fresh flowers mixed with expensive cologne and perfume as Lauren made her way past photographers and guests in cocktail attire, searching for Jax's unmistakable figure.

She spotted him before he saw her—standing slightly apart from the crowd, his imposing height making him easy to find despite his attempt to blend in. He wore a black suit that must have been custom-made to fit his athletic frame, the crisp white shirt offering a striking contrast to the dark fabric. The scar above his left eyebrow—usually hidden by his helmet during games—stood out in the hotel's bright lighting, a small reminder of the physical toll his career demanded.

As if sensing her gaze, he looked up, their eyes meeting across the space. The admiration in them as they traveled from her face down the length of her dress and back up made her breath catch. He cut through the crowd like a shark through water, seemingly unaware of the people who instinctively stepped aside to let him pass.

"You look amazing." Jax paused, his eyes taking her in with an appreciation that sent heat blooming across her skin. "Beautiful doesn't seem adequate."

Lauren felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Up close, she noticed details about him she'd missed from a distance—the fresh cut along his jawline from a high stick in yesterday's game, the hint of cologne that smelled of cedar and something darker, the way his jacket strained slightly across his shoulders.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," she said, gesturing to his suit. "I'm guessing they don't make these off the rack for men your size."

"Benefits of a professional athlete's salary. Custom everything." His voice had a rougher edge than usual, as if her appearance had affected him more than he wanted to show.

The moment stretched between them, charged with unspoken possibilities, until someone called Jax's name from across the lobby. He grimaced slightly.

"Media obligations," he explained apologetically. "I have to make an appearance at the red carpet with the team. Would you mind waiting here? It shouldn't take long."

"Of course," Lauren assured him. "Go do your job. I'll be fine."

He hesitated, then unexpectedly took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing it. "I'll find you," he promised, then made his way toward where the team was gathering.

Lauren watched as the Chill players lined up for photos, the contrast between their on-ice personas and current formal attire striking. Kane was charming the reporters, Dmitri was hamming it up for the cameras, and Oliver looked considerably better than he had the night of his anxiety attack, smiling shyly at the attention.

And then there was Jax—stoic and reserved compared to his teammates, answering questions with brief responses, his discomfort with the spotlight evident even from a distance. Yet he handled it with the same quiet dignity she'd come to associate with him, neither rude nor overly indulgent.

"You must be Dr. Mackenzie."

Lauren turned to find an elegant woman in her late forties observing her with keen hazel eyes. It took her a moment to recognize Coach Victoria Kovalchuk in a short, black dress instead of her usual tracksuit or blazer.

"Yes," Lauren confirmed, extending her hand. "Coach Kovalchuk, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"Vicky, please," the coach said, her handshake firm. "I've been curious about the veterinarian who's had such an interesting effect on my defenseman."

Lauren fought to maintain her composure. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Three weeks ago, Jax was at a crossroads in his career—struggling to evolve beyond the enforcer role, resistant to change despite knowing it was necessary. Now he's embracing a new playing style, logging more minutes, and showing leadership I always knew was there but rarely saw."

"That has nothing to do with me," Lauren protested.

"Doesn't it?" Vicky countered, her gaze assessing but not unkind. "I've coached Jax for a long time. I know when something—or someone—is serving as a catalyst."

Before Lauren could formulate a response, Vicky continued, "I'm not here to interrogate you. Just to satisfy my curiosity about the woman who's somehow inspired one of my most stubborn players to reconsider his approach to the game."

"I think you're giving me too much credit," Lauren said carefully. "Jax is making his own choices."

"True," Vicky acknowledged. "But sometimes we all need someone who sees us as more than our most obvious attributes." She glanced toward the media scrum where Jax was still answering questions, his expression stoic. "Most people see the enforcer. What do you see?"

The question felt like a test, though Lauren couldn't determine the correct answer. She opted for honesty. "I see someone who protects what's vulnerable. Who's gentler than his size suggests. Who values control above impulse."

A shadow passed across Vicky's face. "Control is important to him. Maybe too important sometimes. The pressure he puts on himself..." She trailed off, then refocused. "The playoffs are coming. Sixteen games in less than a month if we go the distance. It's when everything intensifies—the hits, the media scrutiny, the stakes. Players show their true selves when that pressure builds."

The warning was subtle but unmistakable. Lauren felt a chill despite the warmth of the room.

"I understand," she said quietly.

"Good answer," Vicky said, nodding with approval. "And for what it's worth, he speaks very highly of you too."

Before Lauren could ask what exactly Jax had said, Vicky was called away by a team executive, leaving Lauren with a reassuring pat on the arm and the lingering impression that she'd passed some unspoken evaluation.

The main ballroom was transformed into an elegant casino, with tables for blackjack, poker, and roulette scattered throughout. Guests used donated funds to purchase chips, with proceeds benefiting the team's youth hockey foundation. A bar lined one wall, while a small stage at the far end featured a jazz quartet playing subdued music. The air was thick with perfume, aftershave, and the champagne being passed on silver trays by circulating servers.

Lauren was admiring the ice sculpture centerpiece—a remarkable replica of the Chill's logo—when a familiar voice spoke behind her.

"Sorry about that," Jax said. "Media obligations always take longer than they promise."

She turned to find him holding two glasses of champagne, offering one to her with a slightly apologetic smile. The bubbles tickled her nose as she accepted the drink, the crystal glass cool against her fingers.

"No apology necessary," she assured him, accepting the drink. "I had an interesting conversation with your coach."

Jax's eyebrows rose. "Vicky found you? I should have warned you. She can be a little intense."

"So I gathered," Lauren said, unable to suppress a smile at his concerned expression. "Don't worry, I think I passed whatever test she was administering."

Relief flickered across his features. "Good. She's protective of the team."

"As she should be," Lauren acknowledged. "You're in the middle of a playoff push with your starting goaltender injured. The last thing you need is distractions."

Something shifted in Jax's expression, his dark eyes holding hers with unexpected intensity. "Is that what you think you are? A distraction?"

The directness of the question caught her off guard. "I don't know what I am," she admitted, the honesty easier in the dim light of the ballroom. "This wasn't exactly in my plans."

"Mine either," he confessed. "But I'm glad it happened anyway."

The simple statement hung between them, an acknowledgment of whatever this was developing into. Before Lauren could respond, they were interrupted by Dmitri's exuberant arrival, the Russian's cologne announcing his presence before he spoke.

"Jax! You bring the beautiful doctor!" the Russian exclaimed, his accent thicker than usual, suggesting he'd already visited the bar several times. His bow tie was slightly askew, his smile wide and genuine as he took Lauren's free hand and kissed it with theatrical flourish. "You remember me, yes?”

"Of course, Dmitri," Lauren replied, returning his smile. "You’re hard to forget."

"Come, you must meet everyone properly," he insisted, gently tugging her toward a cluster of players.

Before either could protest, Dmitri led them toward a group gathered near a blackjack table. Lauren's senses were overwhelmed by the sudden immersion into the team's inner circle—the mingling scents of various colognes, the rumble of deep voices punctuated by laughter, the light reflecting off diamonds and watches.

She was introduced to the team in rapid succession—Kane and his wife Allison (whose assessing gaze made Lauren suspect she'd been a topic of discussion), Marcus with his analytical eyes that seemed to catalog every detail, Ethan with his boyish enthusiasm, and a blur of other players whose names and faces began to blend together.

"Don't worry," Jax murmured close to her ear as Dmitri launched into an animated story about a road trip misadventure, his breath warm against her skin. "There won't be a quiz later."

The warmth of his breath against her skin sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. "Good, because I'm terrible with names," she whispered back.

Their closeness didn't go unnoticed. Lauren caught knowing glances between teammates, whispered comments behind hands, assessing looks from partners. It should have made her uncomfortable, being the subject of such obvious speculation, but with Jax's solid presence beside her, it felt oddly right.

Oliver approached, looking significantly better than the last time she'd seen him. "Dr. Mackenzie," he greeted her with a warm smile. "Nice to see you again under better circumstances."

"Please, call me Lauren," she insisted. "And yes, this is definitely an improvement over our last meeting."

"Jax hasn't stopped talking about you," Oliver said, his eyes dancing with mischief as Jax shifted uncomfortably beside her. "It's been driving the guys crazy. 'Lauren said this about Penalty, Lauren noticed that about my playing style.'" His impression of Jax's deeper voice was comically bad.

"If you value your ice time, Chenny, you'll stop right there," Jax warned, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Lauren bit back a smile. "And how are you doing, Oliver? Feeling better?"

His expression sobered slightly. "Much better, thanks. And thank you again for... you know." He glanced at Jax briefly. "For helping that night."

Before she could respond, a striking woman in a fitted silver dress appeared at Oliver's side. Lauren recognized Stephanie Ellis, the team's PR director, who immediately sized up the situation with shrewd eyes.

"Dr. Mackenzie, I presume," she said, extending a hand. "Stephanie Ellis, PR for the Chill. So nice to finally put a face to the name. I've heard quite a bit about you."

"All good things, I hope," Lauren replied, wondering just how much chatter there had been about her.

"Oh, absolutely," Stephanie assured her with a professional smile that revealed nothing. "Thompson's been quite the topic lately—his evolving playing style, his community outreach. The league office is very pleased with the direction he's taking."

There was something calculating in her gaze that made Lauren uneasy. Jax tensed beside her.

"Steph," he said, his voice carrying a warning note, "we're off the clock tonight."

"We're never off the clock during a playoff push, Thompson," Stephanie replied smoothly, though her expression softened slightly. "But point taken. Enjoy your evening." She turned to Oliver. "Chenofski, I need you for the Gazette interview in five."

As they departed, Lauren noticed the lingering glance Stephanie threw over her shoulder—not at Jax, but at Oliver, whose hand had briefly touched the PR director's elbow as they walked away.

"She seems driven," Lauren observed.

"You have no idea," Jax replied with a grimace. "She's been managing my 'image rehabilitation' since the Wilson fight. Every interview, every public appearance, everything gets filtered through her approval first."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It's part of the job," he said with a shrug that didn't quite hide his frustration. "The modern NHL cares about optics as much as performance."

"And where do I fit into those optics?" Lauren asked, the question slipping out before she could reconsider it. "Am I part of your image rehabilitation too?"

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Jax's expression closed off, hurt flickering briefly in his eyes before he masked it.

"I'm sorry," she said immediately. "That was unfair."

"It was a fair question," he countered, his voice low and controlled. "There's a lot about my life that's performative. But this—" he gestured between them, "—isn't part of that. You're the one part of my life that has nothing to do with hockey or PR or any of it."

The simple honesty in his words eased the knot of tension in her chest. "I'm sorry I asked."

"Don't be," he said, his expression softening. "I'd wonder the same thing in your position."

As the evening progressed, Lauren found herself enjoying the event far more than she'd anticipated. They moved through the casino games together, Jax patiently explaining the rules of craps while she taught him the optimal strategy for blackjack. The constant brush of his arm against hers as they leaned over the table, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd—each point of contact left her skin tingling, hyperaware of his proximity.

They both proved terrible at roulette, losing their chips in record time and laughing more freely than Lauren could remember doing in years. The champagne hummed pleasantly in her veins, not enough to impair but just enough to soften the edges of her usual reserve.

"I'm hopeless at this," she admitted after another losing spin. "My father would be appalled. He fancied himself quite the poker player."

"Was he good?" Jax asked, guiding her toward the less crowded bar area.

Lauren's smile turned wry. "Good enough to lose our rent money more than once," she said, the admission slipping out before she could censor it.

Jax's expression shifted, something like understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah," he said simply. "That explains a few things."

"Does it?" Lauren asked, suddenly wary.

Jax studied her for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Your wariness about men who can't control themselves. It's not just about physical aggression, is it? It's about impulse control in general."

The insight was so accurate it momentarily stole her breath. "That's... perceptive."

"I recognize the signs," he said quietly. "My father was similar. Different vice, same impact."

The simple solidarity in those words—the understanding without pity, the recognition without judgment—loosened something in Lauren's chest that had been tight for as long as she could remember.

"How did you end up different?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Jax was silent for a moment, his gaze distant. "I saw what lack of control did to him. To us. I promised myself I'd never be that man, even if I sometimes had to play one on the ice."

"The enforcer with boundaries," Lauren mused.

"Exactly." His eyes found hers again, warm with something that made her pulse quicken. "What about you? How did the daughter of a gambling addict become a veterinarian?"

"Animals were safe," she answered honestly. "Predictable in ways people weren't. If a dog growls, you know exactly where you stand. No hidden agendas, no broken promises."

"Just honest reactions to how they're treated," Jax nodded, understanding immediately.

"Yes." Lauren found herself studying his face, the strong jaw and thoughtful eyes that had become increasingly familiar. "Is that why you volunteer at the shelter? Because animals are honest?"

"Partly," he acknowledged. "And partly because I know what it's like to be judged by your appearance. To be feared before you've given anyone a reason."

The admission felt like a gift, a piece of himself offered without expectation. Lauren found herself wanting to reciprocate, to bridge the remaining distance between them.

"Dance with me?" she suggested, nodding toward the small area near the jazz quartet where a few couples were swaying to a slow number.

Surprise flickered across Jax's face, followed by something that looked almost like nervousness. "I should warn you," he said with a self-deprecating smile, "I'm much more coordinated on skates than in dance shoes."

"I'll risk it," Lauren replied, offering her hand.

After a heartbeat's hesitation, he took it, his large palm engulfing hers with unexpected gentleness. As he led her to the dance floor, Lauren was acutely aware of the eyes following them, the whispers that trailed in their wake.

"Everyone's watching," she murmured as Jax's hand settled at her waist, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of her dress.

"Let them," he replied simply, his eyes never leaving hers as they began to move to the music.

Despite his warning, Jax proved to be a competent dancer, his movements lacking polish but making up for it with natural rhythm. The initial awkwardness of their height difference—her 5'8" to his 6'4"—faded as they found their sync, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his at the small of her back. She could feel the solid muscle beneath his suit jacket, the strength carefully restrained as he guided her through the simple steps.

Lauren became aware of a group of women standing near the bar, their eyes fixed on Jax with varying degrees of speculation and envy. One leaned close to another, whispering something that made them both look at Lauren with undisguised assessment.

"Your fan club doesn't seem thrilled with me," she observed quietly.

Jax's eyes flicked briefly toward the women, then back to her. "They're not my fan club. Just people who like the idea of dating a hockey player without understanding what that actually means."

"And what does it actually mean?" Lauren asked, genuinely curious.

A shadow crossed his face. "Road trips. Media scrutiny. Mood swings after losses. Physical therapy appointments. Injuries that never quite heal right. A career that could end with one bad hit." His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. "It's not the glamorous life they think it is."

The stark honesty in his assessment surprised her. "You make it sound pretty bleak."

"Not bleak," he corrected. "Just complicated. And not for everyone."

The unspoken question hung between them: Is it for you?

"So," Jax said after a moment, his voice pitched low for her ears alone. "Not a disaster yet?"

"Not even close," Lauren assured him, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "I'm having a good time. A really good time."

Something in his expression softened. "Me too."

As the song shifted to something slower, more intimate, Jax's hand at her back drew her slightly closer, not presuming but offering. Lauren accepted the invitation, reducing the space between them until she could feel the solid warmth of his chest against hers. The scent of his cologne mingled with the underlying note that was uniquely him—clean sweat, faded deodorant, the indefinable scent of his skin.

"Lauren," he began, his voice pitched low enough that she felt it as much as heard it.

"Yes?" she prompted when he didn't continue.

"I'm glad you're here," he said finally. "Not just tonight. These past three weeks... having you at games, helping with Penalty... it's been good. Better than good."

The simple honesty of the statement touched her more deeply than an elaborate declaration might have. "For me too," she admitted, finding it easier to speak such truths in the intimate space they'd created, bodies swaying gently to the music.

"I know this is complicated," Jax continued, his dark eyes serious. "My schedule, the media attention, the travel... it's not easy."

"Nothing worthwhile ever is," Lauren replied, the words emerging before she could second-guess them.

His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. "Is that what this is? Worthwhile?"

The vulnerability in the question caught her off guard. This man who commanded respect on the ice, who protected his teammates without hesitation, was asking her if she thought he was worth the complications.

Before she could answer, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A tall man in an expensive but slightly rumpled suit was arguing with security, his voice carrying even over the music. Lauren felt Jax stiffen beside her, his posture suddenly alert.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Brady Wilson," Jax replied, his voice tight. "Philadelphia's resident dirtbag."

Lauren recognized the name immediately—the player who had injured Ethan, triggering Jax's viral fight. The player who had scored the winning goal against them in their last matchup.

"What's he doing here?" she asked.

"Good question." Jax's expression had hardened, the relaxed man she'd been dancing with replaced by the vigilant enforcer she'd first glimpsed on television.

Wilson spotted them across the room, his face splitting into a predatory grin. He said something to the security guard, who reluctantly stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

"Stay here," Jax murmured, moving to intercept Wilson before he could reach the main area of the party.

Lauren watched as the two men met halfway across the room, Wilson's exaggerated swagger contrasting with Jax's controlled stillness. They were of similar height, but Wilson's leaner build made Jax appear even more imposing by comparison. Though they spoke too quietly for her to hear, the tension in their body language was unmistakable.

Kane and Marcus quickly joined them, positioning themselves on either side of Jax in a silent show of support. The quartet created a barrier between Wilson and the rest of the party, shielding the other guests from whatever confrontation was unfolding.

Lauren became aware of someone beside her. Oliver had appeared, his expression concerned as he watched the scene.

"What's happening?" she asked him.

"Wilson's drunk," Oliver replied grimly. "And he's not even supposed to be here. This is a Chill Foundation event."

"Then why is he here?"

Oliver's eyes flicked to her, then back to the confrontation. "To cause trouble. To get under Jax's skin. In the league, there's nothing better than making the other team's enforcer lose his cool off the ice. Career-ending stuff."

Lauren's stomach tightened with dread. "Will he?"

"Lose his cool?" Oliver shook his head. "No." But something in his tone suggested less certainty than his words.

Across the room, Wilson's posture had grown more aggressive, one finger jabbing toward Jax's chest as he spoke. Jax remained perfectly still, not retreating but not engaging either, his restraint visible even from a distance.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, security reappeared, this time with hotel management in tow. Wilson was escorted out, though not before throwing one last comment over his shoulder that made Kane physically restrain Jax with a hand on his arm.

When Jax returned to her side, his expression was carefully neutral, but Lauren could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

"Everything okay?" she asked, knowing it wasn't.

"Fine," he replied, the clipped tone belying his words. "Just Wilson being Wilson."

"What did he want?"

Jax's eyes met hers, something dark and carefully controlled lurking in their depths. "To prove he could get to me. To show everyone he's not afraid."

"And did he? Get to you?"

The muscle in Jax's jaw ticked. "No."

But Lauren had spent enough time with frightened animals to recognize the signs of someone fighting for control. His breathing was too measured, his posture too rigid, his eyes too fixed.

"Jax," she said softly, placing a hand on his arm. "It's okay if he did."

For a moment, she thought he might brush off her concern. Instead, he exhaled slowly, some of the rigid tension leaving his shoulders.

"He brought up my father," Jax said quietly, the words clearly costing him. "Stuff that's not public knowledge."

Lauren felt a flash of anger on his behalf. "How would he even know about that?"

"Hockey's a small world. Guys talk." Jax's gaze drifted toward the exit where Wilson had disappeared. "He wanted me to throw a punch. End my career over a personal insult. Prove I'm just an out-of-control goon like everyone thinks."

"But you didn't."

"No." His eyes found hers again, something vulnerable beneath the controlled exterior. "I didn't want you to see that version of me."

The admission stole her breath. Before she could respond, Kane approached with an apologetic expression. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, genuinely looking it, "but the auction's about to start, and management wants all players front and center."

Jax nodded, reluctantly releasing Lauren but keeping one hand lightly at the small of her back. "We'll be right there."

As Kane left, Jax turned to her with regret evident in his expression. "Team obligation," he explained. "The auction's the main fundraising event of the night."

"Of course," Lauren assured him. "No apology necessary. This is a charity event, after all."

"After the auction," Jax said, his voice dropping lower, "would you want to get out of here? Maybe grab a late dinner somewhere quieter?"

The invitation sent a pleasant thrill through her, though it couldn't quite dispel the unease that Wilson's appearance had created. "I'd like that," she replied, rewarded with a smile that transformed his usually serious face.

The auction proved surprisingly entertaining, with players offering everything from signed memorabilia to exclusive experiences. Lauren watched with amusement as Dmitri auctioned off a "Russian cooking lesson" that had the female attendees bidding into the thousands, while Marcus offered a private analytics session that particularly appealed to the stats-obsessed fans.

When Jax's turn came, he stepped forward with evident discomfort at being the center of attention. "I'm offering a two-hour private defensive skills session," he announced. "For a youth player or team. Any skill level."

Lauren found herself unexpectedly moved by his choice. Not a signed jersey or a meet-and-greet, but actual time and expertise dedicated to developing young players. It spoke volumes about what he valued.

The bidding quickly escalated, ending at an impressive sum from a local youth hockey association's representative. As Jax stepped back from the microphone, his eyes found Lauren's in the crowd, a silent communication that made her heart beat faster.

As he rejoined the team, Lauren noticed Wilson had reappeared at the back of the ballroom, nursing a drink and watching the proceedings with barely disguised contempt. Security hovered nearby, clearly under instructions to keep an eye on him but unable to remove him without causing a scene.

By the time the auction concluded, it was approaching midnight. The event was still in full swing, but as promised, Jax made his way back to Lauren.

"Ready to escape?" he asked, the tension from earlier still evident in the tight set of his shoulders.

"Absolutely," she replied, surprising herself with how much she meant it.

They made their goodbyes to teammates and collected their coats, slipping out a side entrance to avoid lingering media. The March night air was crisp and cold after the warmth of the ballroom, and Lauren couldn't suppress a shiver despite her coat.

Without comment, Jax placed his suit jacket around her shoulders. The fabric was still warm from his body and carried his scent, enveloping her in a cocoon of cedar and musk that made her feel oddly protected.

"You'll freeze," she protested, though she made no move to return it.

"I run hot. One of the benefits of all this muscle mass."

As they waited for the valet to bring their cars around, Jax asked, "So dinner preferences? Most places are closed at this hour, but I know a few good late-night spots."

Lauren considered for a moment. The evening had been a whirlwind of new experiences, and while the Wilson confrontation had cast a brief shadow, she wasn't ready for her time with Jax to end. A crowded restaurant, even a late-night one, seemed less appealing than somewhere more private where they could talk without an audience.

"Actually, I have a better idea," she said, surprising herself with her boldness. "My place isn't far, and I make a mean omelet. Breakfast for midnight dinner."

Something darkened in Jax's eyes—not anger, but a hunger that sent heat spiraling through her. "I'd like that," he said, his voice rougher than before. "Lead the way."

As the valet brought their cars around, Lauren caught sight of Wilson watching them from the hotel entrance, his eyes narrowed and calculating as they tracked Jax's movements. When he noticed her looking, he raised his glass in a mocking toast before a security guard stepped between them, blocking him from view.

"Everything okay?" Jax asked, noticing her distraction.

"Fine," Lauren replied, deciding not to mention Wilson's continued presence. The last thing they needed was another confrontation.

As she slid into her car, Jax leaned down to the open window. "I'll follow you," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of anticipation that matched the flutter in her stomach.

The short drive to her townhouse gave Lauren time to second-guess her impulsive invitation. What exactly was she doing, bringing a man she was still getting to know back to her home? A man whose career was built on controlled violence, whose public persona was so different from the private one she was discovering.

Yet as she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw his truck following steadily behind her, those doubts receded against the certainty that had been building over the past three weeks. Whatever was happening between them, it deserved a chance to unfold away from prying eyes and team obligations.

Her townhouse was modestly elegant, a reflection of her practical nature with occasional indulgences that spoke to her aesthetic sensibilities. As she led Jax inside, she was suddenly aware of how personal the space was—the way it revealed her priorities and habits in ways she normally kept private.

"Nice place," Jax said, his eyes taking in the comfortable furnishings, the wall of bookshelves, the collection of framed botanical prints. "It suits you."

"Thanks," Lauren replied, feeling oddly shy as she hung up his jacket and her coat. "Make yourself comfortable while I change into something less formal?"

Jax nodded, loosening his tie as he moved toward her living room. "Take your time."

In her bedroom, Lauren exchanged the emerald dress for slim black pants and a soft cream sweater, wiping away the heavier makeup from the evening in favor of a more natural look. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, cheeks flushed with more than just the remnants of blush.

"What are you doing, Lauren?" she whispered to herself. But she already knew the answer, had known it since that first night when he'd cradled a tiny kitten in his massive hands.

She was choosing to trust her instincts about him, despite all the warning signs her past said she should heed. She was choosing to believe that control and restraint, when chosen rather than imposed, could be signs of strength rather than weakness.

She was choosing Jax.