Chapter 15

I was going on a date.

Tonight.

With Jackson.

Jamie perched on the edge of my bed while Daisy and Scarlett rummaged through my closet, their enthusiasm barely contained, transforming my bedroom into a chaotic council of fashion.

"Daddy, wear the blue shirt! It makes your eyes look nice," Scarlett insisted, holding up a shirt that had seen better days.

"Is this a jeans place, or a slacks place, or should you be in your Armani?" Jamie asked for the third time. "Are you sure you don't want me to message him?" Finally, he picked up my phone and waggled it.

"He said casual is okay."

"Armani can be casual," Jamie smirked. Asshole. This from the man who wore waistcoats to go grocery shopping. To underscore that, he tugged at the paisley one he was wearing now, with jeans, and assumed a pose.

"Armani is for games and traveling," I groused, and he snorted a laugh.

"Wear your nice jeans, not the ones with the paint," Daisy added, her tone suggesting that my usual non-hockey attire might not be up to par for whatever Jackson had planned. "And not your hockey stuff."

"Okay, not hockey, got it."

There was an awful lot of LA Storm purple piled on the side shelves, most of it in plastic still, but it was all splashed with my name and number, and while I wasn't a Hollywood celeb, I didn't want to be noticed, unless people really looked.

I stood there, amidst a sea of clothing choices, feeling an odd mix of excitement and unease. The date with Jackson loomed large in my mind, overshadowing even the simplest decisions. I stared at the clothes, unable to muster the energy to make a choice, my thoughts a whirlwind of anticipation and nerves, and I felt suddenly overwhelmed and lethargic.

Jamie, ever observant, watched me with a concerned frown. "Oliver, you okay? You've been staring at that shirt for five minutes now."

I blinked, pulled from my reverie. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… can't decide, I guess."

But Jamie wasn't convinced. "When's the last time you checked your sugar?" he asked, his voice carrying an edge of worry.

"I'm not in a hypo," I murmured and picked up a discarded shirt in pale green.

"You haven't checked your watch in all the time I've been in the room."

"Hmmm?"

Jamie's concern deepened. "I think you should check it now. You're looking a bit off, mate." He grabbed my hand and pulled back my sleeve, and I tried to recall the last time I'd glanced at it. The day had been a blur of preparations and excitement for the evening ahead.

"Jesus, Oli, that's high, right?"

I focused on the numbers—they didn't seem right—and I blinked at them.

"Oli?" He was off the bed now, cradling my face. "Did you inject for the cookie you ate earlier?"

"I think so… Damn," I muttered, realization dawning. The cookie tasting. Jamie, Daisy, and Scarlett had spent the afternoon baking, a fun distraction that had turned into an impromptu taste test for me. I'd indulged in a cookie, caught up in the moment and the laughter, and fuck—had I really forgotten to adjust my insulin afterward? That wasn't me. I was rigidly controlled and I never forgot my insulin. Yet, here I was, so caught up in the prospect of my date with Jackson, I'd let it slip and now my sugar was high and my eyesight was blurring.

I picked up my phone to dial in the insulin, but Jamie stopped me. "How about you check manually as well, yeah?"

Nodding, I retrieved my glucose meter from the nightstand, a sense of unease growing. The girls were used to me pricking my finger and waited for the reading, still discussing blue jeans over black, and I didn't have to wait long for the reading. The number flashed on the screen, confirming Jamie's suspicion and the figures on my watch: my sugar levels were high, much higher than they should be.

Fucking great.

Jamie stood up, his expression softening. "Hey, it's okay. Just dial in what you need now, and you'll be right as rain by the time Jackson picks you up."

The girls nodded. "We can help pick your outfit while you take care of that," Daisy offered, her voice earnest, and yet more clothes came out of the closet.

Jamie patted my arm, then went to a crouch in front of the growing pile, chatting to Daisy about what slacks were, and I administered the insulin, feeling foolish for letting my excitement disrupt my routine. As the insulin began to work, the lethargy started to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of anticipation for the evening, and also regret that I'd fucked up. Any expert would tell me that these things happened, but they didn't to me. I was an elite athlete, albeit getting on in athlete-years, and the team doc would have a fit if he thought for a moment I was letting real life interfere with my health.

He should try living with diabetes and see what it was like to have it so much a part of life.

I shook off the negatives, and with the crisis averted, Jamie and the girls rallied around me, helping me select the perfect outfit. A newer blue shirt and "nice black jeans" were the unanimous choice, and as I dressed, I couldn't help but smile at my girls.

"Okay, how do I look?" I asked, turning to face them.

"You look great, Daddy!" Scarlett exclaimed, while Daisy nodded vigorously.

Jamie clapped me on the back. "Jackson won't know what hit him." Then, he gathered the girls to him and made a duck face as he captured a selfie with me in the background. I never even had time to pose. He snickered as he pocketed his cell and herded the girls downstairs. A message from him flashed on my phone with the photo and a message a minute later.

Jamie: Don't make too much noise when you do the walk of shame.

He added an eggplant, and the raindrop emoji, and I shook my head.

Oliver: Fuck off

Jamie: GASP! I'm horrified at your lack of language skills.

Oliver: Fuck off again

At least I was smiling, and the nerves had eased. I hadn't dated since I'd met Melissa, which was god knows how many years ago, but I couldn't worry about that now as I checked my bag. Backup insulin, needle, pump, testing kit—all in case the system I was wearing now let me down—phone, wallet, keys. Some days, I wished I could just walk out of the house as I was, but something new—like a date, possibly more physical things—and I had to cover all contingencies. Last in was the small container of Skittles to give me an instant sugar boost if I needed it. Then I was done. It was five minutes to seven, and he'd be here soon.

I didn't know what to do, so I flopped onto the bed, staring at the photos next to me. It was Melissa and me on our last vacation in Vancouver. She was pregnant with Daisy, and I was holding Scarlett, smiling so damn hard.

"What am I doing?" I asked the beautiful woman in the photo, and I didn't expect a reply, and I wasn't sure about an afterlife, but what if she was watching now? "I still love you," I whispered to the empty room, "but I think you'd like Jackson. He's all gritty and grumpy and sexy. I'm sorry you're not here, Mel." Grief curled in my chest, and I had to breathe through it. "I'm so sorry."

"He's here," Jamie murmured from the door, and I snapped around to face him, almost tumbling off the bed before standing. "It's okay, you know," he added, then brushed down my shirt as if I had lint all over it. "She wanted you to be happy."

I caught his hand, and he didn't tug it away. "I feel like I'm betraying what we had."

Jamie hugged me then, this slip of a Brit who seemed to know what to do and when. "It's not a betrayal when she gave you permission to live and love."

I nodded, hugged him tight, and we stood back as he casually checked me from head to toe.

"Go get him, Cowboy," he said in his best approximation of my Texas drawl, which he'd clearly learned from Dallas re-runs because it was horrific.

"You still suck at that accent," I said in my best upper-class Brit.

He faked shock. "You just butchered the King's English," he gasped.

Then, laughing, we headed downstairs to find Jackson sitting on the bottom step, Daisy on his lap, and Scarlett cross-legged on the floor, listening as he read to them. He stopped when he heard us, and glanced back, his jade eyes bright, his stubble gone as if he'd shaved it for me, and his pink lips curved in a smile. He still looked tired, but so gorgeous.

"Hey," he said and scooped up Daisy before standing and placing her on the floor.

"Hey," I replied, because yep, that was about all I could manage.

The girls giggled, Jamie freaking giggled, the ass, and then, with a flurry of goodbye kisses, hugs, and warnings for Daisy and Scarlett to be good for Jamie, we left. As soon as the door shut us out, Jackson stepped into my space, tilted my chin, and kissed me deeply.

It was a hello and a promise, all rolled into one.

"Hey," he said again, and this time his voice was deeper, sexier.

"Hey."

He escorted me to his car, a classic Buick Riviera that'd seen better days but was clean inside. "I know we could take your Ferrari," he began.

I frowned. "I don't have a Ferrari."

He faked shock. "That's a game changer," he deadpanned, then opened the freaking door for me with a flourish. "I was only going to date you if you had a Ferrari."

I stopped him with a hand on his arm as concern flooded me. Was he being serious? A hard knot started in my chest, and maybe my tone was off, but I had to get this out. "Most of my money is in trust for the girls. The rest goes to… other things. After hospital costs for Melissa's care when she was ill, I didn't have much. I don't have a fancy mansion or a Ferrari. I'm not rich."

His eyes widened. "I was joking," he said, and for a moment, I thought I'd fucked up, because deep down, I knew what we had was a firestorm of attraction and nothing to do with who I was, or who he was.

We were just us.

Shit. I'd overreacted, and now he'd tell me to fuck off, and I didn't want the date to end before it had even begun. "Sorry, I have?—"

He kissed me to stop me talking and then guided me to get into the car. "You can trust me," he said. He belted himself into the driver's seat, then turned to face me, and in a perfect copy of my accent, he drawled: "I'm the law."

Fuck. That was hot.

And great, now I'm hard in my best black jeans.

* * *

Jackson parked in a shadowed alleyway,the kind of place I would have thought twice about if I were alone, even if I was a big burly hockey defenseman. But with Jackson, it felt like an adventure as he led me to the nondescript back door of an Italian restaurant, pushing it open with the ease of someone who'd done it many times before. The warm smell of garlic and herbs wafted out, inviting us in.

There was no greeting with menus or the usual fanfare of being seated at a table. Instead, a young man, who couldn't have been over seventeen, approached us with a bottle of wine. His movements were precise, a certain meticulousness in the way he placed the bottle on our table in a far corner of the room, and he wouldn't meet our gaze.

"No menus," he stated simply, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Food will be out quick-quick." His tone was direct and to the point, and I thanked him as he left.

I raised an eyebrow at Jackson, curious about this unconventional setup with the wine and no menus. He leaned in, his voice low. "That's Alessandro. He's on the spectrum. Couple of months back, Mack and I met him wandering in a park, completely bewildered. We walked him home, and well, according to his family, that means we're practically family now."

Before I could ask more, another man emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron adorned with the colors of the Italian flag. He was a sturdy figure, with a warmth in his eyes that spoke of a life spent around food and family. When he spotted Jackson, his face lit up with a genuine affection. Jackson stood, so I did too.

The man enveloped him in a hearty hug. "Jackson, my boy!" he boomed, releasing him before turning his attention to me.

"This is my date, Oliver," Jackson introduced us, and I got a hug as big as Jackson had gotten.

"Welcome! I'm Franco," he declared, as if his name was an afterthought. "Welcome to our little slice of Italy, served family-style, with the freshest and finest options available. I'll be back soon!"

The conversation flowed easily from there, Jackson regaling me with stories of his work, nothing awful, the quirky funny thoughts, and in return, I told him some about me being traded here with the girls in tow. We didn't discuss Melissa anymore—I guess she wouldn't have liked me fixating on her while I was supposed to find a new kind of happy.

Alessandro returned intermittently, each time bringing dishes more aromatic and enticing than the last: fresh bruschetta on toasted homemade bread, pasta that melted in your mouth, meats seasoned and cooked to perfection. I picked what I could eat and injected as best I could, and it was wonderful food and good company.

When Alessandro brought out desserts, he hovered after he placed them down. "I did this one," he said, gesturing at the concoction of berries and cream.

I took a taste and grinned up at him. "Perfect."

"He rescued me," Alessandro added and pointed at Jackson.

"You were so brave, and you rescued yourself," Jackson corrected him, and Alessandro blushed as he left.

"What exactly happened?" I asked when it was the two of us again.

"Mack and I were heading out to a scene, but they kept us back, so we were on a break, and this kid just comes over to us and tells us he's lost. He'd been hovering for a while, uncertain. Just as I was about to go ask him if he was okay, he asked us for help. He's a good kid. Quirky. Sweet. Hell, walking him home, that was nothing," Jackson said, brushing off the act as mundane. "But the gratitude from his family, you'd think we'd saved the world."

Franco, passing by, nodded vigorously. "You did save our world that day," he insisted. "Alessandro's a special boy, and not everyone takes the time to see that. But, Jackson, you and your partner, you saw him. You helped him. That makes you family."

As we finished our meal, Franco refused any attempt at payment, and Jackson left a huge tip that more than covered it instead, with me adding in some as well. Then, walking back to the car, we held hands, and I felt a connection to Jackson that went beyond the surface.

"Tonight was… it was so good, Jackson. Thank you for sharing that with me," I said.

Jackson smiled, that same soft smile that had drawn me in from the start. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Let's get you home."

We buckled up, and then I held out a hand, which he took, feeling a hundred kinds of awkward and almost shy. "I'm not ready for the date to end."

"I'm so glad you said that."

"You want to get a coffee or something?"

"I have coffee at my place." He quirked an eyebrow.

"Then, how about a coffee at your place?"

"I can get us home in twenty," he said.

And not that I was watching the clock, but he made it in eighteen.