Alpine Embrace

Chapter 15

The end of tranquility didn't come with a whisper; it came with the shriek of a reciprocating saw.

I bolted upright on the leather sofa, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a split second, I thought the roof was collapsing again.

Then I saw the dust.

A fine, white powder was drifting down from the hallway ceiling, coating the hardwood floor like a ghost’s dandruff.

"Morning, sunshine," a gruff voice called out.

I clutched the duvet to my chest, blinking sleep from my eyes. Standing in the entryway, framed by the morning light and wearing a tool belt that looked heavy enough to anchor a boat, was a man who looked like he ate nails for breakfast.

"Rick," Jaxon said, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs of coffee. He was dressed in gym shorts and a tight gray t-shirt, looking frustratingly awake. "This is Kelsea, my guest." he said with a smirk.

Rick tipped his hard hat. "Ma'am. Sorry about the noise. Gotta cut the drywall to see how bad the truss damage is."

"It's... fine," I squeaked, trying to preserve my dignity while looking like a tangled mess of bedhead and blankets.

"Coffee," Jaxon said, setting a mug on the coffee table near my knee. "Black. Strong. You're going to need it."

"Why?" I asked, reaching for the mug as if it were a lifeline.

"Because Rick brought his crew," Jaxon said, gesturing to the window. "And they listen to heavy metal while they demo."

As if on cue, a thudding bass line began to vibrate through the floorboards.

"Awesome," I muttered, taking a sip. "Nothing says 'romance novel setting' like Metallica and drywall dust."

The next two hours were a masterclass in chaos.

The chalet, once a silent tomb, was now a construction zone. Rick and his two assistants, burly guys named Steve and "Tiny" (who was definitely not tiny) tore into the guest wing with efficient violence. They hauled out debris, hammered supports, and shouted over the music.

I tried to stay out of the way. I moved my "studio" (my sketchbook and pencils) to the kitchen island, then to the dining table, then finally to the corner armchair by the fireplace.

Mia was delighted. She was following Tiny around, wearing a plastic yellow hard hat Rick had given her, asking questions about load-bearing walls.

Jaxon, however, was not delighted.

He was pacing. He was on his phone constantly, his voice low and tight. He was checking emails on a tablet, his brow furrowed so deep the scar over his eye looked like a canyon.

"Is everything okay?" I asked during a brief lull in the sawing.

He looked up, startled, as if he’d forgotten I was there. "What? Yeah. Fine. Just... schedule stuff."

He didn't look fine. He looked cornered.

Suddenly, his phone rang. A harsh, blaring ringtone that cut through the room.

He looked at the screen. His face went pale, then hardened into a mask of professional stoicism.

"I have to take this," he said. "It's Coach."

He walked toward the mudroom, sliding the glass door shut behind him to block the noise.

I shouldn't have listened. I should have been a good person and focused on my drawing of a snow-covered pine tree.

But the glass wasn't soundproof. And Jaxon was shouting.

"I couldn't get out, Coach! The pass was closed! Yes, I know we have a game on Friday. I know the standings!"

Pause.

"I'm not making excuses. I'm telling you the roof of my house caved in. I had a structural failure."

Pause.

"No, I haven't been skating. I've been digging out a six-year-old and a guest."

Pause. Long pause.

"Yes, sir. I understand. I'll be there in an hour. No, I'll be ready. I'm always ready."

He hung up. He stood there for a moment, gripping the phone so hard I thought the screen might crack. He took a deep breath, rolled his neck, and walked back inside.

The man who walked back in wasn't Jaxon the dad. It wasn't Jaxon the rescuer.

It was Jaxon Hale, number 44, alternate captain of HC Lausanne.

His posture was different. Tenser. Shoulders back, chest out. His eyes were cold and focused.

"Pack up," he said to me.

I blinked. "What? Am I... am I leaving?"

"No," he said, grabbing a duffel bag from the closet near the entry, a massive hockey bag that smelled faintly of sweat and rubber. "I have to go to the rink. Mandatory skate. If I miss it, I'm benched for the Friday game."

"Okay," I said. "So you're going to work."

"I can't leave Mia here," he said, gesturing to the construction zone. "Rick is tearing down the ceiling. It's not safe. And I can't leave you here without a car."

He looked at me, his gaze intense.

"Come with me."

"To the rink?"

"Yeah. Pack a bag. Warm clothes. We'll be there all day."

"I... I don't skate," I stammered. "I mean, I went to a birthday party at Rockefeller Center once, but I spent the whole time clinging to the wall like a barnacle."

"You don't have to skate," he said, already moving to the kitchen to pack snacks for Mia. "You can sit in the stands. Draw. Read. Just... I need you to come.... I....I need you."

That was the magic phrase.

"Okay," I said, closing my sketchbook. "I'm in."

The drive to the rink was different than the drive yesterday.

Yesterday, the silence had been heavy with unspoken feelings. Today, the silence was focused. Jaxon was in "game mode." He wasn't looking at me; he was looking through the windshield, playing a mental highlight reel.

Mia was in the back, happily munching on pretzels.

"Are we going to see Uncle Sven?" she asked.

"Maybe," Jaxon grunted. "Depends if he's done with physio."

"Uncle Sven is funny," Mia told me. "He has no front teeth. He looks like a pumpkin."

"Charming," I smiled.

We pulled into the complex in Chamonix. It wasn't just a rink; it was a massive sports center nestled at the base of the glacier. The parking lot was full of high-end SUVs.

Jaxon parked in a reserved spot marked 44.

We got out. The air was crisp, smelling of ozone and expensive European cigarettes.

"Head down," Jaxon muttered to me as we walked toward the entrance. "Don't look at the cameras."

"Cameras?"

Before I could ask, a flash went off.

Two men with large lenses were waiting by the player's entrance. Paparazzi. Or sports photographers. I couldn't tell the difference.

"Jaxon! Jaxon! Is it true you were snowed in?" one shouted in French-accented English. "Are you ready for the match against Geneva?"

Jaxon ignored them. He put one hand on Mia’s head, guiding her, and the other hand on the small of my back, pushing me forward. His touch was firm, possessive, and impersonal. He was shielding us.

We burst through the double doors into the cool, quiet hallway of the arena.

"Vultures," Jaxon muttered, relaxing slightly once the doors closed.

"Is that normal?" I asked, my heart racing.

"It is when you're on a losing streak and the playoffs are next month," he said grimly.

He led us down a maze of corridors until we reached a door marked Locker Room - HC Lausanne.

"Mia, you know the drill," he said. "Go to the family lounge. There's coloring books. Kelsea..." He paused, looking at me. The "Pro Athlete" mask slipped for a second, revealing the guy who liked paper lanterns. "You can go with her. Or you can come to the bench."

"I'll stick with Mia for a bit," I said. "Let you... do your thing."

"Okay. I'll be on the ice in twenty."

He disappeared into the locker room.

I took Mia to the family lounge. It was nicer than my old apartment. Leather sofas, a massive TV showing highlights, and a vending machine that sold espresso.

After ten minutes, Mia got bored.

"I want to see Daddy skate," she announced.

"Can we go out there?"

"Yeah! The tunnel!"

She grabbed my hand and led me down another hallway. We emerged into the arena bowl.

It was empty of fans, but the lights were on. The ice was a sheet of perfect, gleaming white glass. The smell hit me, that specific mix of frozen water, rubber, and sweat. It was sharp and exhilarating.

And there he was.

Jaxon was on the ice. He was wearing practice gear, black jersey, black helmet, but he was unmistakable.

He was fast.

Impossibly fast.

I watched as he took a puck from the blue line. He didn't just skate; he exploded. His powerful strides ate up the ice. He moved with a grace that defied his size. He wove through a set of cones, the puck glued to his stick as if by magic.

Then, he wound up.

CRACK.

The sound of his stick hitting the puck was like a gunshot. The puck flew, a black blur, and hit the crossbar of the net with a metallic PING that echoed through the empty arena.

"He's mad," Mia whispered, holding my hand.

"How can you tell?"

"He shoots harder when he's mad. He's trying to break the net."

I watched him. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't having fun. He was working. He was punishing the ice for the stress of the last three days. He was channeling the roof, the snow, the grief, and the confusion about us into pure kinetic energy.

He did a lap, skating backward now, his eyes scanning the ice.

He saw us standing in the tunnel.

He stopped. He sprayed a wave of snow as he cut hard, skating over to the boards where we stood.

He pulled his helmet off. His hair was wet with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His chest was heaving.

"Hey," he panted.

"Hey," I said. "You're... really good."

"I'm rusty," he scowled. "My edges are dull. I feel heavy."

"You looked like a rocket," I said honestly.

He took a squirt from a water bottle, eyeing me through the glass.

"You bored yet?" he asked.

"Not even a little. It's kind of... hypnotic."

"Hypnotic?" He smirked. "That's a new one. Usually, people say 'violent.'"

"It's violent ballet," I said.

He looked at the empty ice behind him. Then he looked back at me. A spark of mischief lit up his eyes, the first time I’d seen it all morning.

"Hey, Coach isn't here yet," he said. "Just me and the equipment manager."

"So?"

"So," he unlocked the gate in the glass. "Get out here."

"On the ice?" I recoiled. "In boots?"

"Yeah. Come on. I want to show you something."

"Jaxon, I will fall. I will break my face, and then I won't be able to draw, and I'll be homeless and ugly."

"I won't let you fall," he said softly.

He held out a gloved hand.

I looked at the ice. It looked slippery.

I looked at Jaxon. He looked strong. Solid. A mountain on skates.

"If I die," I said, stepping onto the ice, "tell my mother I love her, but she was wrong about the bangs."

He laughed, grabbing my hand. "Deal."

I stepped onto the surface. Instantly, my feet tried to slide out from under me.

I shrieked, flailing.

Jaxon caught me. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard, padded chest.

"I got you," he murmured into my ear. "I got you."

We stood there on the center ice, his skates digging in, my boots sliding, his arm holding me up.

"See?" he said. "Easy."

"Easy for you," I breathed, clutching his jersey. "You're a centaur. Half man, half skate."

He smiled down at me. "Just hold on to me, Kelsea. I'll do the steering."

And as he slowly began to glide backward, pulling me with him across the smooth, cold surface, I realized something.

He wasn't just talking about skating.