Chapter 9

I watched Detective Winwood—Jackson's—retreat,his departure as abrupt as his arrival. There was something about the way he moved—a confident, albeit slightly flustered, stride—that caught my attention more than I cared to admit. The door clicked shut, and the space between us suddenly felt too vast.

Jamie nudged me, a knowing smirk dancing on his lips. "Someone's got a thing for the sexy cop, huh?"

I rolled my eyes, feeling heat rise to my cheeks despite the coolness of the evening. "What are we, twelve?" I shot back, trying to deflect with humor, though Jamie's grin only broadened.

"Come off it, Ollie. You should've seen your face when he mentioned ‘witness courtesy,'" Jamie quipped, making quote gestures with his fingers.

"Shut it, Jamie," I said, the warmth in my face now undoubtedly a telltale blush. I knew there was no use arguing; Jamie's teasing had hit its mark. Detective Winwood was… compelling, in a way I hadn't expected and wasn't sure what to do with.

Jamie clapped me on the shoulder, his laughter filling the room, a sound I'd normally welcome, but right now, I was all over the freaking place. Attraction for Jackson, irritability at Jamie, and it was that strange itch of irritation that had me checking my watch. My sugar levels were okay, so maybe it was just plain old me being an irritable asshole.

"I just don't know what to think," I said.

Jamie's laughter faded into a softer, more serious tone as he caught the hesitation in my voice. He leaned against the wall, his expression turning thoughtful. "But seriously, mate, it's been what, two years since…" His voice trailed off, respecting the silence that wrapped around my wife's memory.

I let out a sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, two years," I murmured. I could feel the weight of the time passed, each day a balancing act between being a father, a professional athlete,and just… me—all while managing my health.

"And you haven't thought about dating again?" Jamie's question was gentle, treading lightly on a topic we rarely broached.

I shook my head, the image of the detective flashing in my mind, uninvited, but not unwelcome. "I don't know, Jamie. It's not just me I have to think about. There's Daisy and Scarlett."

Jamie nodded. "They want you to be happy, you know. They've said as much to Clare."

"Clare?" I was confused.

"You know, Clare, married to your team captain?"

"I know who Clare is. I just didn't know you talked to her."

"We both do school pickups, of course I talk to Clare. I've even talked to Charles, and he's kinda cute." Jamie wrinkled his nose. "In a wholly straight and married way."

I glanced up, surprised. "And the kids have talked to her?"

"Yes," Jamie confirmed. "Kids are perceptive. They have to know you've been lonely."

A moment passed as I considered his words, the truth of them sinking in deep. "But what if I'm not ready? What if I never am?"

"That's okay too," Jamie said, his voice steady. "But don't close yourself off because you're afraid. You deserve happiness, Oliver. So do the girls."

"But a man?"

"They don't have any trouble with Charlie's brother, who is dating another guy."

"But Michael isn't their dad."

The idea of moving on, of finding someone new, felt like trying to navigate without a compass. But, as Jamie's words echoed in the quiet room, I couldn't ignore the small spark of possibility flickering within me—a sign that maybe, just maybe, it was time to start exploring life beyond the roles I'd grown so accustomed to, and maybe that exploration could start with the first person I'd felt attracted to since Melissa passed. She'd made me promise to find someone to make me happy. Hell, even as I held her, and she took her last breath, she told me to be happy.

How could I do what she asked?

"Thanks, Jamie," I finally said. "I'll think about it. In the meantime, I need to focus on finding someone to be here for the girls permanently when you leave. I can't expect you to stay here with them forever."

"What if I wanted to?" Jamie asked with caution.

My chest tightened. Was he saying he wanted to be with me? And maybe not as his best friend? "We tried kissing and?—"

He thumped me in the chest. "Jesus, mate, I don't mean us as partners. I mean, me finding a place close by and covering things you can't do. My research is flexible, and I love the girls, and I love your face, too, you big stupid Yank."

I shoved him back. "The girls love you. I can tolerate you."

He grinned at me, then pushed off from the wall, clapping a hand on my shoulder as he passed. "Whatever you decide about Cop McSexy, I'm here for you. And hey, if you ever want to talk about… sexy cops or anything else, you know where to find me."

I cracked a smile, the tension easing from my shoulders. "I'll keep that in mind."

He headed for bed and left me alone with the quiet hum of the house and the girls fast asleep. I found myself reaching for my phone, the weight of the day pushing me to seek some sort of connection, however brief it might be. This was so wrong. This was stupid. I bet Jackson wasn't visiting tonight as anything but a courtesy, and here I was reading something into it.

I tapped out a message, the screen's glow bright in the dim room.

Oliver: Hey, Detective, it's Oliver. Just wanted to say thanks again for the update earlier.

Now what? That wasn't a message that left any room for discussion.

Oliver: If you ever want tickets to a game, I can hook you up.

The reply came quicker than I expected.

Jackson: Appreciate the offer, but I'm not much of a hockey fan.

Well shit. That was clearly not the way I wanted this to go. I was supposed to give him an opening, get him to a game, treat him to dinner, have sex.

The fuck? I shook my head to clear that particular thought process. Okay, I needed to pivot. Tease. I can do this. I have game.

Oliver: Next, you'll tell me you don't like sunshine and beaches either.

There was a brief pause before Jackson's response popped up.

Jackson: I might not watch a lot of hockey, but I'd watch you anytime, on the ice or off.

Wow, that man had way more game than me. He'd actually come out and full-on flirted. I stared at the message, a mix of surprise and something that felt suspiciously like excitement bubbling up inside me. This was new territory, and fuck, what did I do now? The last time I'd flirted properly had been with Melissa, and I'd been seventeen, for God's sake.

Oliver: Is that so? Well, maybe I'll have to give you a reason to come to a game then. I promise it's more exciting than it looks on TV.

Great, there was absolutely zero game in that. I mean, what even was the connection there? All I'd done was mention the game again.

Jackson: With you on the ice? I'm there.

Jackson: I'll even have one of those signs up for you.

Oliver: What will it say?

Jackson: Come score on me.

Jackson: emphasis on come

Yep,that would do it. Jesus, I was hard as steel. Jackson was winning the flirting with a solid gold medal performance. The conversation was veering into uncharted waters for me, and though part of me wanted to retreat to safer topics, another part was curious to see where this would go. Jamie had said it was okay. The kids didn't want me to be lonely. I was attracted to Jackson.

Come on Team!Oliver.

Oliver: Tell you what, how about I leave a ticket for you at will call next game? No pressure.

Oh Jesus, what the fuck was that? Why didn't I make more of the come part? I could have written anything about wanting to come, and instead I did that?

Jackson: I'll make the sign.

Oliver: I'll look for it.

Jackson: Goodnight, Mr. Hockey.

Oliver: Goodnight, Detective.

I put the phone down, a small, uncertain smile tugging at my lips. Maybe Jamie was right; perhaps it was time to start exploring what life had to offer beyond the rink and my responsibilities. Tonight's exchange with Jackson was just talking, just words on a screen, but it felt like a first, tentative step toward something new.

Something possible.

* * *

I strodeinto the hospital room where Joe lay. The sight of him—pale and fragile against the white sheets—squeezed my heart tight. He was asleep when I first got there, and his sister, sitting by his side, rose to shake my hand. As if she'd already said it a hundred times she explained what his injuries were in simple language.

He'd suffered a subdural hematoma, a severe brain injury, and it was this that had left him comatose for the last few days. He had memory issues, but he was resting peacefully.

I thanked her, and she took the opportunity to grab coffees. I sat in the other chair, the monitors beeping a steady, reassuring rhythm.

His eyes flickered open, and he stared at the ceiling.

"Hey, Joe," I said as I stood and tried not to loom and overwhelm him.

His eyes fluttered closed, and then open, and a weak, but genuine, smile spread across his face. "Oliver… you came."

"Wouldn't be anywhere else," I assured him, pulling the chair closer to the bed. His sister came back at that moment and shut the door behind her.

"Brought you a coffee," she said to me and handed it over, along with a handful of creamers and sugar. "Not that the sugar will help. The coffee is rank."

"Thank you. Joe's awake."

Her wry smile over the coffee softened, and she pressed a kiss to her brother's head. "Hey, big bro," she whispered.

He caught her hand. "Gemma…" he began, then blinked at me, and back at her.

"It's okay. Oliver's here."

Joe's gaze was unfocused, his words slurred. "Cops… here… questions," he mumbled, struggling to piece the sentence together. "I got retro—ret—gr—nesia?—"

"Retrograde amnesia," his sister interjected smoothly when Joe tripped over the words. "He doesn't remember a thing after getting a drink and sitting at his desk." She paused a moment, then swallowed. "They say he might not get those memories back, but it's common with head injuries."

I could see the frustration clouding Joe's eyes and the corresponding fear in Gemma's.

"Yeah, retro… retrograde," Joe attempted again, the effort furrowing his brow.

"It's okay, sweetie," Gemma soothed, placing a reassuring hand on his. "You just focus on getting better. I'll talk to Oliver."

"M'okay," Joe whispered and closed his eyes again.

"Doc said it was like trying to watch a TV with a bad signal. The pictures might be there, but they'd be flickering, out of focus and out of reach. I'm not sure I want him to recall a damn thing."

The worry lines around Gemma's eyes spoke of sleepless nights and fear. She leaned forward, her voice hushed as if the walls themselves might be eavesdropping.

"I get that," I commiserated. I didn't want to remember the attack, and all I'd done was observe the aftermath.

"Can you tell me what happened?" she asked, her gaze fixed on me.

I took a deep breath, recalling the event as best I could. "I remember walking into Joe's office with the intention to cheer him up," I began, my gaze flickering to Joe, who seemed to be following along as best as he could. "He was at his desk, and… that's when I saw the gunman."

Gemma leaned in closer, her hand gripping Joe's. "And what happened then?"

"Umm, he was panicked, erratic. He'd hit Joe here." I touched my temple. "And he had a gun pointed at Joe, and I froze, not wanting to provoke him. I knew I needed to talk him down, to de-escalate the situation," I explained, the scene replaying behind my eyes like a film I couldn't pause.

"And then?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"I didn't get a chance to stop it. He turned the gun on me, but all I had in my hands were coffee and files. I couldn't… I couldn't do anything," I admitted, the helplessness of the moment washing over me once more. "Before I could even think, the man took off. I went straight to Joe before he fell to the ground. Called 911 immediately after," I finished, feeling a shiver despite the room's warmth. I left out the attacker's threat, and finding Heloise locked in the janitor's closet—I'm not sure she needed to hear the nitty-gritty.

Gemma's eyes were bright, and her shoulders slumped. "Thank you for being there with him," she whispered, squeezing her brother's hand.

I offered a small, reassuring smile, wishing there was more I could have done, more I could do now. "I just wish I knew the attacker, or something that could help catch whoever did this to Joe."

"The detectives keep asking him about a photo on the wall, but he's confused. I'm not stupid, and I looked the detectives up; they work organized crime. I don't understand. Joe would never have anything to do with that."

By the time I left, Joe had woken a couple of times, and we'd even joked about the color of Lazlo's hair, which was a running theme.

It felt almost normal.

But I was a mess, tired, still three hours away from picking the girls up from their after-school club, and although I loved that the girls were happy in their new school, I felt at loose ends.

Bewildered by all the thoughts running through my head.

I exited the hospital, my mind still partly with Joe and Gemma, but as I made my way to the parking lot, a familiar figure caught my eye. There was Jackson, standing near my bike, looking every bit the detective off-duty, yet undeniably himself.

He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on my Ducati. It wasn't until I was close enough that he shook off his reverie, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "Hey," he said, his voice casual, but his eyes betraying a hint of intent. "Was just visiting a witness from another case and saw your bike. Thought I'd hover for a bit, see if you were around."

The sheltered bike bay felt like a world away from the rest of the hospital. It was quieter, more intimate, a private meeting place for us.

Or was that only my wishful thinking of what I'd love to happen right here, in front of my bike, over my bike? Fuck. Against the wall.

I leaned against the bike, crossing my arms. "You recognize it, huh?" I replied, feeling a mixture of pride and curiosity.

Jackson took a step closer, his eyes still on the bike, but clearly not talking about the machinery. "Hard to miss. It stands out, just like its owner," he said, his voice low.

The tension between us was crazy, a current buzzing in the quiet space of the parking bay. And before I could think of anything else to say, anything clever or witty, Jackson closed the distance between us.

His lips met mine in a deep, confident kiss. It was as if all the questions simmering beneath the surface found their answers in that contact. There was no hesitation, no doubt, just the shared understanding that this was right—perfect, even.

My hands found their way to his waist, pulling him closer as I surrendered to the kiss. Every bit of uncertainty about life, about moving on, about taking risks—it all melted away. At that moment, it was only Jackson and me.

When we finally parted, the look we shared spoke volumes.

"I needed to do that," Jackson murmured.

I reached up and cradled his face, loving that he had extra height on me, loving that I had to lean back to gaze up at him. I wondered what he'd be like in bed—was he growly and grumpy, would he order me around, would he make me come like I'd never done with a man before?

"I'm glad you did," I whispered back.

The slamming of a car door echoed from the parking lot, but it was enough to startle us both.

"I have to go," he said and stole one more kiss before turning smartly on his heels and leaving.

Taking his sexy self away from me before I jumped his bones in public.

Probably a good call.