Jackson sensed my fear, squeezing my hand firmly. “We’re just going to say hello, soldier. I’ve got you.” Before he could even knock, Cory burst out of the front door, wearing a miniature Tidal Teals jersey. “Jackson!” Cory screamed, launching himself at Jackson’s legs. Jackson effortlessly scooped him up, spinning him around before setting him down. “Hey, buddy. You ready to show me that new net?” They headedstraight for the backyard, Jackson’s laugh so beautiful, and that fucking backward cap, yeah, I’m screwed.
I found Anna in the kitchen, a space filled with the warm, heavy scent of cinnamon and home. She looked tired, her eyes still red rimmed, but she was standing, and that was enough. She pulled me into a hug, a fiercely solid embrace, and we broke together. My tears were for the loss of Brody and for the loss of Anna and Cory’s future with him. We talked about Brody, not the soldier, but the goofy, chaotic man who bought inflatable pool floats and fought over cookies. We shared a few broken laughs over his ridiculous habits. Anna told me some stories that I hadn’t heard before. About the time he tried to convince the entire neighborhood he was a professional dog whisperer, only to end up being chased up a slide by a very small, very angry Pomeranian. I told her about the week in the valley when he decided he was going to ‘up-cycle’ our empty ration tins into a chandelier for the tent. He spent three days puncturing holes in them with a multi-tool until the Captain walked in and asked why our quarters looked like a disco ball made of scrap metal. We laughed until we cried when she mentioned the ‘Great Hot Sauce Incident’ of 2024, where he’d tried to make his own extra spicy batch in her favorite blender, resulting in the kitchen needing a professional cleaning and Brody having to sleep with his head in a bowl of milk for two hours. It was the Brody I knew, the man who would face a gunfight without blinking but was utterly defeated by a kitchen appliance or a three-pound dog.
Anna looked at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Jackson’s been incredible, Ryan.” She paused, swallowing hard. “He… he came here right after the funeral. He’s been checking on us. He even paid for all of Cory’s hockey equipment and signed him up for lessons for the entire season. He said Cory’s going to be a defenseman, just like him, and that the team needs to look out for their own.” Hearing that Jackson had extendedhis protectiveness to Brody’s family grounded me completely. It wasn’t just a care package anymore; it was a permanent investment in the world Brody left behind. It was a physical way of fulfilling the promise I made to Brody in the sand, and he was helping me do it.
I sat on the porch watching Jackson—my Jackson—in the sun-drenched garden, patiently teaching Cory how to hold a hockey stick. The ghosts didn’t vanish, but for the first time since the valley, the heavy, suffocating silence of grief was replaced by the bright sound of laughter. I had finally made it to the quiet pond, and I hadn’t come alone. Jackson knew exactly what I needed to cross the line between the soldier I was and the man I was trying to become.
77
Jackson
The hotel room was sterile, silent, and smelled faintly of floor cleaner—a stark contrast to my house in Tidehaven, which smelled like salt air, old books, and, lately, just… Ryan. I was lying on top of the covers, my leg hanging off the side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I’d played the game, done the media interviews, and managed to be “Jackson the Joker” for exactly four hours, but the second the hotel door clicked shut, the mask had dissolved.
I was restless. I tapped my phone screen, and without even thinking, I hit the call button.
It rang twice before the screen lit up. Ryan appeared, but he wasn’t in the bedroom. He was still in the bathroom, the mirror behind him clouded with steam, his hair damp and dark, clinging to his forehead. He had a white towel hitched low around his waist, his chest and shoulders still glistening with water droplets.
“You’re home,” I breathed, my voice dropping an octave. “How was your meeting?” Ryan was meeting some of the guys from The Forward Watch.
Ryan smirked, a slow, lazy expression that I’d only ever seen directed at me. “You really wanna talk about that right now?” He shifted the phone so the angle captured more of him, his towel dipping dangerously low as he moved. “Your shower is great, but your bed’s empty.”
I groaned, rolling onto my side and burying my face into the pillow. “You are an absolute menace. You know I’m three states away, right? Why are you punishing me?” I groan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ryan teased, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, his gaze heavy and languid. He traced a finger down the line of water still tracking across his peck. “I’m just getting ready for bed. Does this not look like a good enough view for you?”
“It’s a spectacular view,” I admitted, my pulse spiking. “It’s a view that’s currently making it impossible for me to get a single second of sleep, I’m so fucking hard.”
Ryan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that traveled through the speaker and settled right in my stomach. He walked out of the bathroom, the phone camera trailing him, and I caught a glimpse of the bedroom—my bedroom—bathed in the soft blue moonlight. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking familiarly.
“I’m lying on your side of the bed,” he whispered, his tone suddenly shifting from playful to something deeper, something raw. “It smells like you here, Jackson. It’s helping. But it’s not the same.”
“I’m counting the days, Soldier,” I said, my heart aching. “Seriously. Four more days, two games, and I’m catching the first flight back to the coast.”
“Four days,” Ryan repeated, his eyes dark and hungry. He reached up, his hand hovering over the camera lens, almost as if he were trying to reach through the glass. “You’d better be ready when you walk through that door. I’ve had a lot of time to practice being very, very unsoldier-like.”
“Oh, I’m ready,” I said, a grin spreading across my face. “I’m already planning the rest of the night when I get back. And trust me, it’s going to involve a lot less talking than we’re doing right now.”
Ryan laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. I lay back on my bed, Ryan seeing the very visible wet patch on my boxers. “Take them off,” he demanded. “Yes, sir,” as I stripped them, leaving me completely naked. Reaching over to my suitcase, I grab my lube. The crack of the lid opening turned Ryan’s eyes dark. “Fuck” he groaned through the phone. My hand covered in lube slides perfectly down my cock, moaning as the friction is just so fucking good. “You so fucking perfect,” Ryan groaned as his hand stroked over his own cock. “Close your eyes, Jackson, show me what you did when you got my letters… and don’t give me that bullshit that you didn’t touch yourself. Fuck, even the smell of you on those pages got me going!” I watch as Ryan swipes his tip with his thumb, putting it straight into his mouth, sucking the pre-cum. “It’s like I can taste you, Jackson.” Fuck… I moan, “I’m so close.” I don’t want this moment to end. Ryan’s strokes are just as frantic as mine. “I want you sliding against me, fuck I want your pre-cum all over my cock.” Such a perfect view, Ryan’s bicep flexing with each stroke, “tell me I can cum” I moan. I need him to say it. “Cum, Jackson, fucking cum with me.” white hot cum shot onto my abs, “Fuck” I moan, looking at the phone screen, Ryan’s head dropped back, exposing that fucking suck-able neck, I could see the moment he let go completely, that glorious sound as his whole body shakes. “Wow,” Ryan said as he shook his head like he was in a daze.“Yeah, it was never like that, I mean, it was great, but hearing that sexy as fuck voice, yeah, wow.”
He lay back against the pillows, the phone propped up on his chest so I could see him looking up at the ceiling, his body relaxed and open. “Well, soldier’s orders, Jackson. Get some sleep. You’ve got a game tomorrow, and I need you to rest. I want you in peak condition when you finally get home to me.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmured, watching him drift off. Even through the screen, the sight of him—finally in my home, finally safe, finally mine—was the best thing I’d ever seen. “Goodnight, Ryan.”
78
Ryan
Jackson stood by the front door, his gear bag heavy in his hand, that fucking cap on backward, but his eyes never left mine. “Come with me,” he said, his voice a low, steady anchor. I shook my head, my fingers still dug into the fabric of his hoodie. “I can’t, Jackson. The noise… the people… I can’t handle a crowd right now.” He dropped the bag and walked back to me, kneeling so we were eye level. “It’s not a crowd, Ryan. It’s my rink. It’s my safe place, and the guys? They’re my unit. If you’re with me, I know you’re safe.” He held out his hand, a silent promise. “Trust my unit.” I took a ragged breath and finally reached for him, letting him lead me out into the gray Seattle morning.
As we approached the massive, looming hockey stadium, the sensory assault began. My hand tightened in Jackson’s, my knuckles white, but he didn’t pull away. He threaded his fingers through mine, his grip firm and grounding. As we crossed the threshold of the employee entrance, he didn’t let go. Walkinghand in hand into his world was the most terrifyingly public thing I’d ever done, but the heat of his palm against mine was a shield I hadn’t known I was allowed to carry. The anxiety was a screaming siren in my head, but Jackson was the frequency that tuned it out.
We ran into the Coach near the tunnel. He was a mountain of a man with eyes that seemed to catalog everything in a single glance. I braced for the reprimand, the military reflex to stand at attention coiling in my gut. Instead, he just looked at our joined hands and then up at me, a brief, respectful nod acknowledging the man, not the rank. “Glad to see you, Ryan,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble. “Jackson, get your ass on the ice. Ryan, the suite is all yours.” He clapped Jackson on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity that made the air in the hallway feel a little easier to breathe.
The proper introduction was, predictably, at the private viewing suite above the rink at the Tidal Teals practice facility. Jackson had warned me that Logan and Donovan were “a lot,” but I still wasn’t prepared for the sheer volume of Logan’s welcome. “Splash, you absolute legend! Jackson’s been writing novels about you for what feels like years,” Logan roared, pulling me into another one of his signature, spine-crushing hugs. Donovan, ever the Captain, approached with a respectful handshake. “Ryan. Glad to finally meet you properly. I know how much you mean to him.” We talked for half an hour about everything but the war, the new uniforms, the team’s playoff chances, and whether Jackson’s cat, Puck, still held him hostage. The final introduction came when Logan’s daughter, Willow, burst in, wearing a full-body pink unicorn tutu and holding a drawing. She didn’t look at me like a soldier or a pen pal; she just saw the man Jackson loved. “Did you bring me a duck?” she demanded, eyes wide, hand on her hip. I knelt down and pulled out the crisp, watercolor drawing I’d packed, a tiny, perfect tealduck. Her eyes lit up. “This one is the best one you’ve done! You can sit next to me today.” Her simple, total acceptance of the man behind the armor was the most profound welcome I could have received.
Willow tilted her head, her eyes tracking from the watercolor duck in her hand up to mine. I felt the familiar weight of my own gaze, sharp, guarded, the soldier still looking for a threat. “Are you really a soldier?” she asked, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that cut through my tension. “My daddy says soldiers are like superheroes, but they don’t wear capes because they’d get caught in the propellers.”
A soft, huffed breath of a laugh escaped me, and I felt my shoulders drop just a fraction. “Something like that, Willow. No capes for us, though.”
