Claire
I’m watching the game against the Grizzlies from Luc’s suite situated high above the ice…
And it’s not going well.
Okay, the team is doing fine—it’s just that Jackson isn’t.
He’s…off.
That’s the only way I can describe the passes he’s missed—including one that would have gotten the team and him an easy goal—and the trouble he’s had getting the puck out of his own zone, the clear frustration on his face at the end of his shifts. And, frankly, he’s sitting on the bench more tonight than he’s been skating on the ice.
At least this period.
Damn.
It’s not his blood sugar.
Not right now, anyway.
His number has been steady since the puck dropped—this according to Sam and my nosy self making sure his graph from his continuous glucose monitor is in the safe range—so it’s not diabetes.
Not today, anyway.
But something’s seriously off.
“I haven’t seen him like this since his rookie season,” Luc mutters from next to me, and one glance and I can tell he’s doing his best to keep his expression neutral.
I’m doing the same—Luc taught me embrace my inner Stone Face, because one never knows when the camera may be panning this direction.
No need being caught on a feed somewhere looking unhappy.
That’s just fodder for the sports and gossip blogs.
At least make them work for their stories.
Or work for the Breakers, I think, allowing my mouth to tip up just slightly at the edges, gaze drifting to the box where former sports blogger, Eva Moreno, is broadcasting, now a significant part of the team’s television crew.
Luc’s sneaky, working his magic on parts of the team that don’t necessarily fall under his purview, but that benefit this family he’s built.
And I’m soaking in every sneaky moment.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this,” I say quietly.
Luc sighs and leans back in his seat, fingers steepled in front of him. “Everyone has an off night.”
Not Jackson.
If I’ve learned anything in the years since I joined the team, way back when Jackson was that rookie, it’s that all players have ups and downs.
Except Jackson.
He’s the steady on the roster—the guy who always shows up ready to go, whose constant, even energy keeps propelling the team forward, whose calm presence has guided the team to several Stanley Cups.
But that’s not the Jackson I’m seeing on the ice tonight.
“Christ,” Luc mutters and I jerk, focusing on the rink below, on the sight that has even my Master of the Stone Face boss wincing.
Jackson has launched himself at the biggest guy on the ice, and they’ve lost their gloves, grabbed on to each other’s jerseys, and are punching each other.
Repeatedly.
“Damn,” I whisper when Jackson takes a fist to the jaw, sending his head snapping backward and blood gushing down his face. “That has to hurt.”
“It does,” Luc says. “Even in that moment”—a nod to the ice—“but especially later.”
I bite my lip as Jackson takes another blow, even as he unloads several of his own in quick succession. “His face or his hands?” I ask quietly.
“Both.” Luc flicks his gaze in my direction. “And everywhere else. It’s hard work to fight and that shit strains muscles below muscles that we never knew we had. He’ll feel like a truck ran him over tonight—”
“Men and their little games.”
He grins, a flash of a smile that’s absolutely stunning, and turns in a flash. I’m doing the same because I recognize the female voice, because I know that Luc’s wife, Lexi, is standing there. She strolls through the suite and plunks herself into Luc’s lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his mouth so scorching hot that I look away to give them privacy.
Lexi doesn’t give a fuck about fodder for gossip blogs.
She’s happy and in love and doesn’t care who knows it.
My belly twinges with jealousy, but I push that down. She and Luc deserve every bit of happiness.
God knows they deserve it.
I stare down at the ice below again, see that the refs have intervened and separated Jackson from the huge ass player he’s been fighting, guiding them to the doors that lead off the ice.
The Breakers are up by three goals, there’s less than three minutes left in the game, and Jackson and the other guy will each have at least a five minute penalty for fighting (and likely, Jackson will get extra time because he’s the one who started the trouble), so they might as well head to the locker room to get undressed.
Yes, epic comebacks have happened in hockey—do happen in this sport where fans should never leave until the final buzzer goes.
But I highly doubt that my guys are going to give up a game they’ve had in hand since early in the first period.
Not my guys.
I still stay in my seat, focusing on the game until the final seconds ticks down, making small talk with Lexi—and hearing some hilarious stories about their son, Noah and his adventures with their new puppy.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Luc says as the guys file off the ice and he packs up his stuff. “But not before—”
“Noon,” I finish for him, earning a tug of the end of my ponytail.
“Exactly. Noon and—”
“—not a second earlier,” I finish again.
“Smart ass,” he mock grumbles then fixes me with a look as he slings his bag over his shoulder.
“I’m just saying that I’ve learned from the best.”
Lexi grins and takes his arm. “Damn right you did.” A wink at me. “Because I know you mean me and not him.”
“Hey!” Luc begins, but she’s already drawing him from the room, waving at me, allowing the door to slide closed behind them.
Noon tomorrow.
And not a second before.
I bite back a sigh.
Because what the hell am I going to do for the next twelve-plus hours? Sit silently in my apartment and stare at the walls?
There’s no real set hours when someone works for a sports team—we have late nights interspersed with early mornings, flights and bus rides to and from airports and hotels. Practices and games and community outreach events. I could let it be my entire life, if I wanted.
Like I’ve been known to do in the past.
Which is why I know I earned that gentle admonishment from Luc about noon—and not a second before.
He wants me to have a life that isn’t work, that’s balanced, that’s not just living and breathing the team and my job.
The only thing is…that’s fucking hard.
Luc has a family, kids, a dog, a beautiful, happy wife.
He has things to go home to.
I have…an empty apartment and—
“Enough,” I whisper, grabbing my purse and slipping from the room.
I have all the streaming services. My apartment may be sans kids and family members, but I have plenty of trash TV to watch.
So, my apartment won’t be completely empty.
Just absent of anyone but reality TV personalities yelling through the screen.
Sighing, I make my way down to the elevator. I need to stop by my office, get my coat and maybe my laptop—because while Luc said I couldn’t come in before noon, he didn’t say I can’t work between now and then.
Grinning, because I love my job and all the things that come with it, I zip out of the elevator doors and—
Promptly slam into a big, strong body.
Into Jackson’s big, strong body.