Chapter 11

Standing by the ice,waiting to get out for warmups for this home game against Carolina, my mind wasn't on the game. Instead, I found myself scanning the stands, searching for a particular face. I had left two tickets at will call for Jackson, seats right on the ice near the goal, and the question whether he'd picked them up gnawed at me. Would he be there? And worse, all I could think was—would he bring a sign?

I had it bad.

We'd texted, had a couple of dates, talked so long into the night I was crabby at early morning practice, and slowly but surely he was stealing tiny bits of my heart.

As my teammates and I started our warmup routine, I subtly maneuvered so I could get a better view of the section I'd left the tickets for. My heart skipped when I spotted him. Jackson was there, and he wasn't alone. Beside him was a young boy, chattering excitedly. Recognition dawned on me; the kid was from one of the youth hockey groups I volunteered with. Michael Zhang"s boyfriend, Bryce, was his dad, and yeah, Jackson was his uncle. The kid was fast, loved his hockey, and was always smiling. Jackson, without a sign, was entirely focused on the boy as the kid was explaining something in great detail to his uncle, but his presence in the stands sent a jolt of warmth through me. His lack of a sign didn't matter; his being there was enough.

Ash glided over, following my gaze. "Looking for someone?" he teased, nudging me with his elbow.

"Just seeing if someone took some tickets I left," I replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

Ash followed my gaze and then smirked. "Ah, the cop and his nephew? You left them for the kid?" he asked, even though the smirk was still there.

I couldn't help but smile, feeling Ash's good-natured ribbing. "Not exactly," I said, though I couldn't tear my eyes away from Jackson and Leo.

As warmups continued, I made sure to perform my stretches right in front of where Jackson was seated. It wasn't until I skated close enough to tap the glass with my stick that Jackson looked up, locking eyes with me. He didn't hold a sign, but the wink he sent me spoke louder than any words or playful banners could. It was a silent message, one that echoed in the grin spreading across my face.

Ash caught the exchange and let out a low whistle. "Well, well, if it isn't you making friends with Detective Heartbreaker."

"Just keeping the community engaged," I quipped back, not wanting to delve into the complexities of whatever was developing between Jackson and me.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of warmups. As I skated off the ice, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Jackson. The excitement on his nephew's face, mirrored by Jackson's own smile, filled me with an unexpected sense of happiness.

He'd come.

During the game, every stride I took on the ice felt amplified, every play charged with an intensity that wasn't solely about the competition. Knowing Jackson was watching from the stands transformed the rink into a stage. I wasn't playing for the win; I was playing for an audience of one, just the same as I used to do with Melissa every time she watched.

That meant something, right?

It wasn't the easiest of games either and, as it progressed, the tension was as thick as the ice beneath our skates. We were tied 2–2, the clock ticking down mercilessly.

Ash, ever the observant partner, shot me a look as we prepared for another face-off. "Time to shine, Cowboy," he muttered, a grin tugging at his lips.

The puck dropped and instinct took over. I found myself in the perfect position as a Carolina player came barreling down with the puck. Without a second thought, I leaned into a hip check; the collision was solid, sending the opposing player sprawling as I scooped up the puck, a rush of adrenaline fueling my movements.

"Beast!" Ash hollered, skating up beside me as we advanced. His praise was a fleeting distraction from the task at hand.

I didn't have a single breath in me to glance towards the stands, to seek out Jackson's reaction. Instead, I focused on the play, spotting Charles in the perfect position near their goal. With a flick of my wrist, I passed the puck, sending it sliding across the ice, right to Charles' stick.

The moment stretched, the entire arena holding its breath as Charles wound up and took the shot. The puck flew past the goalie, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying clang. The arena exploded into a roar of cheers from our fans, the score now 3–2 in our favor.

The bench erupted as we celebrated the go-ahead goal and Ash clapped me on the back, shouting over the noise.

"Told you. Beast mode activated!"

As the final seconds ticked away, and we managed to hold off Carolina's desperate attempts to tie the game, victory was ours. The elation of winning, of overcoming a worthy opponent, was heightened by the knowledge that Jackson had witnessed it all.

When the game ended, and the cheers of the crowd began to fade, I allowed myself a moment to scan the stands. My search found him standing now, clapping, with a smile that reached across the distance between us. There was pride in his eyes, a look that said he understood the language of the game, of my game, more than I'd given him credit for. Maybe it was me hip checking that player, or the way I'd seen the play unfold. I didn't care. I knew he'd seen me, and I was high from thinking about it.

As I skated off the ice with my teammates, celebrating our hard-fought win, I couldn't help but feel that the victory was sweeter than usual. Not only because of the scoreboard, but because of the audience of one who had made the night unforgettable.

In the locker room, amidst the chaos of celebration, Ash nudged me, a knowing glance in his eyes. "You played out of your skin tonight, Ollie. All for the detective?"

I shrugged, a secretive smile playing on my lips. "Maybe," I conceded, my thoughts already drifting to the moment I would see Jackson outside the arena, away from the noise, the ice, and the crowd.

Hopefully soon.

* * *

I got home at eleven.The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the noise of the television in the back room. Making my rounds first, I visited Daisy's and Scarlett's rooms to kiss them goodnight.

Scarlett stirred as I leaned over, her voice sleepy, but clear. "Did you win, Daddy?"

I smiled, brushing her hair back gently. "Yes, sweetheart, we won."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. "My clever daddy," she murmured before drifting back to sleep.

Feeling a wave of love wash over me, I stared down at her for the longest time, lost in memories of the day I'd first held her, letting the grief in when I remembered Melissa, and then, somehow feeling better that I could handle the grief.

Would you like him?I asked her as I headed downstairs and stopped at a photo of us on our wedding day. We'd been so young, only seventeen, but she'd been the center of my world. Still was, actually, given the two girls she'd gifted me. I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them to the photo. "I don't know what I'm doing, Mel. I miss you."

I carried on to the living room where Jamie was sprawled on the couch, watching an episode of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? He barely glanced up as I joined him.

"Good game?" he asked. He wasn't a hockey fan at all, citing the fact that being a Brit meant it was his God-given duty to be a football fan, and not the one with the "funny-shaped balls"—his words not mine—but real football with his favorite team, Liverpool.

"We won."

He made a roaring crowd noise. "Go, Storm!"

I smacked him upside the head and let the soft sofa swallow me. On screen, Jimmy Kimmel was asking which out of four U.S. Presidents appeared on Mount Rushmore. The contestant seemed confused, and Jamie threw a cushion at the screen.

"Oh my god, I'm not even American, and I know it's Lincoln! Fuck me, this is only the one thousand question, and that's dollars, not even real money!" He deadpanned the last of it, and it was my turn to throw a cushion at him.

Finally, the poor contestant, Jimmy from Maine, gave the correct answer, but not until he'd gone through his reasoning, which frustrated Jamie even more.

I was too distracted by my phone, eagerly hoping I'd get a message from Jackson, and giving him another ten minutes before I texted first.

I didn't have to because, soon enough, my phone buzzed with a new message.

Jackson: You were on fire tonight.

He added a fire emoji and a hockey stick.

I couldn't help the grin that spread across my face as I typed back.

Oliver: Only because I knew you were watching

Was it wrong adding a winky flirty face? If it was, then whatever, because I sent five of them.

The exchange went on, each message flirtier than the last.

Jackson: Do you always do that sexy stretching thing before the game?

Oliver: Yep

Jackson: I think you should stop in case half the arena combusts at the sight of your ass.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Oliver: I'll stop then. But when the Storm loses all their games, it's on you.

Jackson: Hmmmm. Maybe I should just come to every game. Just in case.

Oliver: Guess I'll have to make sure you get season tickets then. Only fair.

Jackson: Only if you promise to score a goal for me next time.

Oliver: It's a deal. I'll score for you any day.

Jamie, eventually noticing the smile I couldn't wipe off my face, paused the show. "Okay, out with it. Who's put that grin on your face? Is it your sexy detective?"

I hesitated, the warmth from Jackson's messages still lingering. "Maybe."

Jamie raised an eyebrow but didn't press.

Jackson: I can't stop thinking about that kiss

Oliver: Me neither

Oliver: I want to do it again

Shit. I was straight-up, blushing now, the heat prickling my skin.

Jackson: I want to kiss you some more

Jackson: Everywhere

Oliver: Me too.

Jackson: Jesus, I have to go to bed. I'm up at five

Oliver: Thinking of me?

Jackson: I am now. Night. Xx

Oliver: Night xx

My inner teenager was amped for the kisses, and the fact Jackson was thinking of me. Gah. I needed to get my tired self to bed and think about the kiss.

Or more like get myself off thinking about him kissing me all over.

And hope to hell, one day, it wouldn't just be my imagination.

Soon.