95
Jackson
I paced the length of the living room, the rug feeling like it was burning beneath my feet. My phone was face down on the coffee table, but I could still feel it vibrating with every new notification. The blurry photos of us at the park had gone viral an hour ago, and the speculation was a wildfire I couldn’t contain.
“They’re going to tear you apart, Ryan,” I choked out, my voice tight with a frantic, protective energy. “The media, the trolls, they don’t care about the truth. They just want a headline. I’ve spent my life playing their game, but you? You didn’t sign up for this. I’m putting a target on your back just by being with me, and I can’t… I can’t be the reason your peace gets shattered again.”
I stopped by the window, my hands shaking as I gripped the frame. “What if they damage everything we’ve built? What if the noise becomes too loud for you to stay?”
I felt the shift in the air before I heard him move. Ryan stood up from the armchair, his movements steady and deliberate, the soldier’s focus grounding the frantic electricity in the room. He walked over and stepped directly into my path, forcing me to look at him. He took my shaking hands in his, his grip a solid, immovable anchor.
“Jackson, baby, look at me,” he commanded softly. I met his eyes, finding only clarity where I expected to see fear. “I love you. Not just the version of you that skates, and not just the version of you that sends cookies. All of you. I’m all in, Jackson. If the world wants to watch, let them watch. I’m not letting you go for anything.”
The words hit me with more force than any hit on the ice ever could. The suffocating weight in my chest suddenly loosened, the frantic noise of the internet fading into the background. He wasn’t flinching. He wasn’t looking for an exit. He was holding the line. I let out a long, shuddering breath, leaning my forehead against his, feeling the steady, certain rhythm of his heart. The media could scream all they wanted, as long as Ryan was standing here.
96
Ryan
The backyard was a wall of noise, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like the suffocating, demanding volume of the stadium or the media. It was the sound of a barbecue, the hiss of fat hitting the grill, the clink of beer bottles, and the raucous, overlapping laughter of the Tidal Teals.
Jackson’s house, which had felt so vast and hollow when I first arrived, now seemed to vibrate with life. Logan was at the grill, performing a one-man show of grilling expertise while Donovan tried to argue with him about the char on the hot dogs. The rest of the team was scattered across the lawn, but no one was sitting apart. No one was hovering awkwardly. They were talking to me—really talking to me—about hockey, about the league, about everything. I wasn’t “the soldier” anymore. I was just Jackson’s guy.
I stood near the edge of the deck, a beer in my hand that I’d barely touched, watching the scene unfold. It was surreal. Notlong ago, I was counting dust particles in a barracks. Now, I was standing in the Pacific sunlight, surrounded by people who didn’t care about my rank, only that I was the one who made Jackson smile.
Down on the dunes, the blending of our worlds was complete. Willow was currently ‘supervising’ Cory, who was meticulously digging a massive trench in the sand. They were a unified front, two kids building their own little world, oblivious to the history of war and grief that had brought them to this beach. Seeing them together, Willow’s bright energy and Cory’s growing confidence, made the knot of anxiety that had lived in my chest since Brody’s death loosen, just a fraction more.
“They’re going to be trouble together,” Jackson said, his voice soft beside me. He didn’t just stand near me; he stepped in, closing the gap, his arm sliding around my waist in a way that left no room for doubt about who I was to him. He didn’t bother with the “mask” here. He didn’t look like the team clown or the guarded defenseman. He just looked at peace.
“They look happy,” I said, my voice quiet.
“They are,” Jackson agreed. He looked out at the team, at Donovan laughing at a joke, at Logan tossing a Frisbee, and at the kids playing in the sand. “You know, the guys were placing bets on who would burn the burgers first. They’re usually insufferable, but today… They’re just being friends. Our friends.”
He squeezed my waist, and then, without a shred of hesitation, he turned to face the entire yard. He didn’t hide us. He didn’t angle himself to avoid the gaze of the guys on the lawn. He stood tall, his hand still firmly, possessively, on my side.
“Hey!” Jackson shouted, his voice carrying over the music and the banter. “Quit harassing the cook! And if anyone touches Ryan’s beer, I’m personally seeing to it that you’re benched for the rest of the season.”
A chorus of good-natured jeers erupted from the lawn.
“Don’t worry, Ryan, your drink is safe from Logan!” Donovan shouted back, raising his own glass toward us in a silent toast. “We know who the real boss is!”
I felt the heat rise up my neck, not from the grill, but from the sheer, overwhelming normalcy of it. For so long, I had believed that acceptance was something I had to fight for, something I had to earn by being “tough enough” or “hiding well enough.” But here, acceptance wasn’t a fight. It was a beer offered by a teammate, a nod from a captain, and the way Jackson held me without a second thought.
I looked at the man holding me. My head wasn’t a solitary place to hide anymore. It was a crowded, loud, messy house by the sea, filled with people who were finally, officially, on my side.
97
Ryan
The press room was a cage of blinding white lights and aggressive questions. I stood in the back, tucked into the shadows of the exit door, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. Every camera flash felt like a muzzle flash in the desert, and every shout from a reporter felt like an incoming threat.
I almost turned back. I almost walked out into the cool Seattle night, where the shadows were deep, and no one knew my name.
Then, a reporter’s voice cut through the static, loud and accusing. “Jackson, there are photos of you with a man, the same man who was seen leaving your house. Are you in a relationship? Is this a distraction from your performance on the ice?”
The room went dead silent. Jackson was sitting at the podium, his jersey still damp with sweat. He looked tired, but when he turned his head and scanned the back of the room, hiseyes locked onto mine. He didn’t look flustered. He didn’t look like a man trying to hide.
He looked like a man coming home.
