“Seriously,” Emily pipes up. “Did either of you get me noise-canceling headphones for Christmas? Because I deserve them.”
Jackson, the traitorous fuck, just laughs. “Guess we got a little carried away with the Christmas spirit.”
Mrs. Reed snorts. “That's one way to put it.”
Jackson looks at his mother, brow quirked. “The apple doesn't fall far from the tree when it comes to creative activities.”
“That's my boy.” Mr. Reed raises his coffee mug in a mock toast. “Though, maybe next time, keep the creativity down a few decibels?”
I groan, sliding further down in my chair. “Can we please open presents now? Before I die of embarrassment?”
“Drama queen.” Jackson drops onto the arm of my chair, pressing a kiss to my temple. “But yeah, presents. I want Killian to open mine first.”
He practically bounces over to the tree, retrieving a large box wrapped in paper covered in tiny hockey sticks. “Here you go, golden boy.”
I tear into the paper, my breath catching when I lift out what looks like a handmade leather album. The cover is etched with intricate designs, including intertwined hockey sticks and serpents.
“Open it,” Jackson urges, an uncharacteristic nervousness in his voice.
The first page shows a newspaper clipping of our infamous fight at hockey camp when we were ten. Jackson's scrawl beneath it reads:
The day I knew you'd be important to me. Didn't realize how important until much later.
Each page that follows tells the story of our rivalry—excerpts from articles and photos, along with his crude humor and signature snark, pepper the margins.
There's the article about my draft to the Rangers, complete with Jackson's note:
Knew you'd make it, asshole. Never doubted it.
My throat tightens, tears gathering in the corners of my eyes. “You jerk, you really want to make me cry in front of everyone.”
He grins so wide, then kisses my cheek. “Didn’t we have a conversation about that shit already? Because if I need to threaten to stop doing nice things again, I will.”
After placing the scrapbook to the side, I stand, walk over to the presents, and grab the small box wrapped in blue with snowflakes. I hand it to him, suddenly nervous. “Your turn.”
As I sit, Jackson opens the small box, lifting the platinum chain with the St. Sebastian medallion. His fingers trace the engraved surface.
“It’s the patron saint of athletes. I got it weeks ago before knowing what you told me yesterday.” I swallow hard and lean in, keeping my voice low. “Whether you're on the ice in the NHL or pursuing something else entirely, he'll watch over you when I can't be there.”
Jackson pulls back a little, his eyes meeting mine. “You mean that? About supporting whatever I choose?”
“Of course I do. Your path is yours to choose. I'm just ensuring you've got backup, whatever you decide.”
He slips the chain over his head, the medallions resting against his chest. “Guess we're both sappy fucks now, huh?”
“Guess so.”
“Thank fuck for that.” He pulls me into a kiss that probably isn't appropriate for a family Christmas.
“Get a room!” Emily calls out. “Wait, don't. We've all heard enough of that.”
Jackson flips her off without breaking the kiss. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with promise. “I need to start getting ready for Miami in a bit.”
I sigh, hating that we can’t spend more time together, especially when games resume in a few days. “Just don’t get into too much trouble.”
Jackson laughs. “Says the man who helped dump a body in the ocean.”
“That was different, and you know it.”
