Claire, Six Months Later
“I really don’t like this,” I mutter to Jackson, who’s kneeling at my feet, tying up—heaven freaking help me—skates.
“Oh honey,” his mom, Kelly, says, patting my arm. “You’ll be fine. Jackson is a great teacher.”
I smile at her, but don’t give voice to the worries tumbling around in my head—
That I’ve had great teachers before.
That I still nearly brained myself on the ice.
I’m wearing a helmet. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And wrist guards.
Maybe I really will be fine.
Especially considering how tightly Jackson is lacing up my skates.
He’ll be right there.
Except that I already see the kids from his charity hovering at the edges, wanting face time with him, needing the connection—to a kid who’s like them, who has a disease or made mistakes and who’s doing something great.
Like connecting people—kids with mentors, kids who feel different or left out or alone in the world with their peers.
He’s amazing.
And so is living with him, being in a relationship with him, loving him.
Which means, that I need to learn how to skate, or at least cling to the boards well enough so that he can be present and not worried about me and—
He takes my hands and hauls me up to my feet. I waver, but stay upright, likely because he’s holding me…and because the skates are so tight.
“See?” he says, guiding me to the door that leads out onto the ice. “You’re doing great already.”
“You got this!” his mom calls.
I keep my smile in place, but I’m not nearly as confident as Jackson and his mom.
“Bend your knees,” his dad, Glen, says. “Use those knee pads to break your fall instead of your butt.”
Like falling is a given.
At least the man has read the room.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He leans close. “One lap around the ice and I’ll spring you for hot chocolate.”
Because even though he has a son who plays professional hockey, he’s not a fan of being on the ice.
“Dad,” Jackson sighs.
“Double thanks,” I say, lifting a fist for him to bump.
“Kitty cat,” Jackson says on an equally exasperated breath.
I smile up at him. “Unless I can skip the lap and just go straight to hot cocoa?”
His eyes narrow, but only for a moment, because then a thread of mischief creeps into his eyes as he glances over my shoulder. “What?”
“Someone’s come to spring you from skating purgatory.” A beat. “At least for a few minutes.”
Frowning, I turn and see—
My heart leaps.
“Smitty!” I cry, jumping into his arms, getting that taste of Smitty hug perfection I haven’t had in months, not since the Breakers and Grizzlies met just before the playoffs—
With the Breakers being the victors.
Now he’s here and Aiden is too and Kailey’s behind him and—
My family’s all together.
“Come on, Bambi,” Smitty says, drawing back and nodding at Jackson.
“Rude.”
He tugs at my ponytail. “Stop trying to make trouble. It’s beyond time we teach you how to skate.”
I gulp. “But you’re visiting and the kids want to see you.”
There already clambering around the edges, inching toward our gathering.
“I’ll just—”
But it’s Aiden who surprises me, stepping close, taking an arm, nodding at Smitty to grab the other.
I squeak as I’m lifted into the air then again as my skates hit the ice…and immediately try to slip out from under me.
“Shit,” I hiss, clenching at Aiden’s arm.
“We’ve got you.”
And, although it takes me a minute, I realize they do have me. Aiden and Smitty each holding me beneath an arm, Jackson maneuvering in front of me, his big hands wrapped around mine as he skates backward.
A four-person crew—three of them with professional skating experience, one pathetically resembling Bambi—skating around an ice rink.
It’s ridiculous and embarrassing and…
It’s my family having my back.
Even though it looks different.
Even though we’re spread out across the country.
It’s—
I squeal again as I lose my footing, somehow managing to take both Smitty and Aiden out, their big bodies hitting the ice with a sickening thunk.
Jackson moves in a flash, drawing me against him, holding me off the surface of the rink, keeping us both steady when I would have gone down with the rest of the ship.
“Umm,” I whisper.
Smitty and Aiden are already back on their feet, wincing as they brush snow from their pants.
“Sorry?” I tell them.
Jackson chuckles. “Taking out the competition?”
Smitty scowls, but his eyes are dancing. “Jesus, Bambi.”
Aiden just shakes his head at me. “You said it was hopeless.” A beleaguered sigh. “I should have believed you.”
“Nah, man,” Smitty says. “Bambi almost had it.”
“That nickname has to go.”
“Only one way to make that happen—learn how to skare.” His eyes fix me in place. “Now, it’s time to go again.”
“Yeah, no thanks,” I say, shaking my head vehemently. “One near brush with death is enough for the day.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
“I’ll practice making perfect with the hot cocoa dispenser.”
Smitty crosses his arms.
I cross them right back—or one of them, anyway. Because I’m clinging to Jackson with the other.
“What do we say?” he asks softly.
And…I melt.
And…I sigh.
Because I can’t resist that soft voice, the gentle hold.
It coaxes me into another try, and surprises of all surprises, I manage to make it a full lap.
And then another, this time without the side of taking out hockey players.
And then one final one, just holding Jackson’s hand as we skate side by side.
“Right,” he says as his phone beeps, signaling a low blood sugar.
“Right what?” I ask, already carefully turning us for the exit.
“Now it’s time for that hot chocolate.”
I grin, but then I see him nod to toward his parents, to his mom who’s holding her phone up, showing us his number, to his dad who’s showing us the steaming pair of hot chocolates.
Always paying attention.
Always watching out for the small details—just like their son.
And I know that I’m lucky my family now includes Kelly and Glen too.
Just like I know as Gran settles next to me, bundled up in a thick puffer coat and a fuzzy hat, that while my family may not always remain the same, it’s always growing and changing.
Becoming more.
Becoming somehow even more special.
Because it’s mine.
Aiden
I wake up to a heavy knock on my condo’s front door and glare blearily at my phone in the charger.
“Two in the fucking morning,” I mutter, grabbing a pillow and clamping it over my ears. “It’s two o’clock in the morning on my fucking birthday, and I have to deal with this shit.”
This shit being my neighbors.
It’s not the first time they’ve pounded drunk on my door, desperate for their roommate to let them in to what they think is their apartment.
This was sort of funny the first time.
I remember those days, drinking too much, being dumb.
But after the second and the third—where I gained status into the inner circle and a code to the keypad to their apartment door—it was no longer cute.
Now, six months later and countless times of bailing them out, I’m so not in the mood.
Especially when it’s my fucking birthday.
The knocking cuts off and I think—pray—that they’ve gotten the hint.
But it’s approximately two seconds later when it starts up again.
I glance at my phone again, see that really five minutes have passed, making it two-seventeen and officially my birthday.
Some present.
I could try to ignore it—but that just means extending the torture. Sighing, I toss back the blankets and stomp to my apartment door, whipping it open to reveal a slender brunette on my doorstep.
“Ho, mama,” she says, gaze taking a slow perusal down my body.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“It’s me. Luna.”
I stare at her, uncomprehendingly.
“From Rockfield?” she adds.
Recognition begins to dawn. “Luna Maybelle?”
“Yup! That’s me.” She nods, grinning, and I see it then, the glimpse of my best friend from the childhood rink I grew up playing at come out in her smile. Mischief and life. Joy and hard work.
Summers spent spending every spare moment together—her figure skating, me playing hockey.
But she’s not little Luna anymore.
Christ, she’s anything but—tall, beautiful, curves for days—and she’s staring at me.
Because I’m staring at her.
Fucking hell.
I spur myself into motion.
“Luna! Oh my God!” I pull her into a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s your birthday!” She holds up a piece of paper that looks faintly familiar. “And, well, it’s mine too, remember?”
That’s right.
We have the same birthday.
“We’re both twenty-five, single, and—”
My eyes narrow in on the paper. It’s crumpled and stained, as though it’s years old.
A purple and pink swirl decorates the edges and suddenly I remember her painstakingly drawing it as we sat side-by-side at one of the high top tables of the ice rink, waiting for the Zamboni to finish cutting the ice.
Her brow had been furrowed. Her movements carefully controlled.
And I had been obsessing over how pink her lips were and what her butt looked like in her skating dress, so much so that I barely remember what we’d been drawing.
No, I think hard, grabbing on to those memories, not what we’d been drawing.
The contract we’d put together.
The contract my hormonal twelve-year-old self had signed.
With a sparkly pink colored pencil.
A giant boulder settles in my stomach, but before I can snap myself out of the horror of those memories, she shoves the paper in my hands then throws her arms around my neck.
“We’re getting married!”
Thank you for reading! I hope you loved Jackson and Claire’s story as much as I did! If you want to know what happens to Smitty and Aiden, pick up book one in the Grizzlies Hockey series, 22. I signed the contract. I just didn't expect her to show up ten years later, ready to cash it in.
Have you met Lake Jordan, star forward for the Sierra, wedding officiant extraordinaire, and the man everyone hates to play against, and the woman who steals her way into his grumpy, broody heart? Lake and Nova’s book, OVER THE LINE, is available now!
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And don’t miss my brand new hockey romance, BROKEN LACES. I’m in love with the owner’s daughter. But I can’t have her…because if I do I’ll lose everything.
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