Chapter 19
962 Words
The final buzzer blasted through the arena, a deafening sound that was immediately drowned out by the roar of ten thousand fans.
Lausanne 3, Geneva 2.
Jaxon had assisted on the winning goal in overtime. He had taken a slap shot from the blue line that rebounded off the goalie’s pads right onto Sven’s stick, who buried it in the net.
The team poured off the bench, mobbing Sven. But my eyes were on Jaxon.
He was the last one to join the pile. He skated over, tapped Sven’s helmet, and then looked up. He found the VIP box instantly. He didn't smile, he looked exhausted, battered, and intense, but he raised his stick in a silent salute.
"We won!" Mia screamed, jumping on the leather sofa until the cushions groaned. "Daddy won!"
"He did," I said, my heart still racing from the overtime stress. "He really did."
Twenty minutes later, we were in the "Family Waiting Area," a concrete hallway outside the locker room. It smelled of industrial cleaner and lingering tension.
The other wives and girlfriends were there, chatting excitedly. Chantal walked past me, giving a curt nod.
"Good game," she said, adjusting her fur coat. "Your jersey brought luck. Don't let it go to your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I murmured.
Then, the locker room doors swung open.
The smell of victory, which turned out to be sweat, champagne, and Deep Heat muscle rub, wafted out.
The players started to trickle out in their suits. They looked different now. Showered, combed, human again.
But not Jaxon.
Jaxon came out last. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing team track pants and a tight gray t-shirt that clung to his damp skin. He had a towel around his neck and an ice pack taped to his shoulder. There was a fresh cut on his cheekbone, vivid red against his pale skin.
He looked rough. He looked dangerous. He looked incredible.
He stopped in the doorway, scanning the hallway.
Reporters were waiting behind a velvet rope barrier further down the hall. Cameras flashed blindingly.
"Captain Hale! Captain! A word on the hit?"
"Jaxon! Is the rumor true about the mystery woman?"
Sabine was there, clipboard in hand, trying to herd him toward the press.
"Jaxon," she said, stepping in his path. "Just five minutes. The Geneva press wants a quote about the interference call."
Jaxon ignored her. He ignored the cameras. He ignored the flashing lights.
His eyes locked onto me.
I was standing near a vending machine, holding Mia’s hand. I was still wearing his jersey. It was huge, swallowing my frame, the hem hitting my thighs over my jeans.
He walked straight toward us. The crowd seemed to part for him.
"Daddy!" Mia yelled, breaking free from my grip and running at him.
Jaxon caught her with his good arm, swinging her up onto his hip despite the ice pack. He buried his face in her neck, taking a deep breath.
"Hey, peanut," he rasped. His voice was gone, shouted away on the ice.
"You won!" Mia cheered. "You beat the bad guys!"
"We did," he said. He kissed her temple, then set her down. "Go see Uncle Sven. He has a chocolate bar for you."
Mia zoomed off toward Sven, who was signing an autograph for a kid nearby.
Jaxon turned to me.
He didn't say anything at first. He just looked at me. He looked at the jersey. He reached out and touched the fabric on my sleeve, fingering the heavy stitching of his name.
"You wore it," he said, his voice low and rough.
"You asked me to," I said, my pulse fluttering in my throat. "I follow instructions. Sometimes."
"It looks better on you," he muttered.
He took a step closer. The heat coming off him was palpable. It was a physical force, adrenaline and testosterone radiating in waves. His pupils were blown wide.
"Are you okay?" I asked, reaching up instinctively to hover my hand near the cut on his cheek. "That hit... it looked bad."
"I'm fine," he said, leaning into my touch. His skin was hot. "Just a headache. And a bruised rib."
"You should be in the hospital," I scolded gently.
"I need to be home," he said. The way he said home made my knees weak. "With my girls."
My girls.
The air in the hallway seemed to vanish.
"Captain Hale!" a reporter shouted, ducking under the rope. "Who is the lady?"
Jaxon’s head snapped toward the reporter. The tenderness vanished, replaced by the "Game Face" snarl.
He stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. It was a primal, possessive move.
"Back off," Jaxon growled. It wasn't a request.
The reporter froze.
Jaxon turned back to me. He slipped his hand, his massive, rough hand, into mine. He interlaced our fingers.
"Ready?" he asked.
"To face the mob?" I asked, eyeing the cameras.
"To get out of here," he said. "I'm hungry. And I want to sit by the fire."
"Pizza?" I teased.
"Steak," he corrected. "Medium Rare with mashed potatoes and green beans."
He whistled for Mia. She came running back, chocolate smeared on her face.
"Let's go, team," Jaxon said.
He walked us out.
He didn't let go of my hand. Not when we passed Sabine, who looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Not when we passed Chantal, who looked impressed. Not when the cameras went off like strobe lights in our faces.
He held my hand tight, pulling me through the chaos, an anchor in the storm.
And as we walked out into the cold night air of the parking lot, I realized something terrifying.
Sabine was right.
If I left now, I wouldn't just break him.
I would break myself.
- Writer
