Page 96 of Body Check

“Great, I am too. Let’s go.” Jackson wraps a hand around mine. “Carl, you comin’? I’m doing this one time and one time only. You’re in or you’re out.”

Carl chose to be in,which is how the three of us end up belting outMy Heart Will Go Onbefore all of our peers while we wait for theGetting Puckedepisode to begin at the start of the hour. Much to my chagrin, Carl doesn’t take center stage, apparently more content to remain in the background and hum the melodies.

Unfortunately, both Jackson and I are completely tone-deaf and only know half of the words.

I try to make up for it by bringing in my old dance skills and prancing about the makeshift stage—we’re standing on a rug, literally—while all eyes are glued on us. Jackson, for all of his skills on the ice, might as well be a tree. He sways a little, mic close to his mouth, and watches the ceiling like he keeps hoping it’ll open up and drop down on him.

His teammates are beside themselves.

Beaumont throws dollar bills at us, hollering for Jackson to sing louder for the peeps in the back of the crowd.

Hunt has Gwen, his wife and my publicist, clutched to him as he twirls her around.

Even Coach Hall is laughing at his captain’s expense.

“All for the fans,” Jackson had muttered before Celine came blasting over the loudspeakers.

I dance up to him now, my free hand reaching out to clasp his. He stares at me, eyes round, no doubt trying to dissuade me from making this even more like hell for him.

Too late.

There’s nothing I love more than to see Jackson Carter lose control.

“Love was when I love you,” I sing into the microphone, not even bothering to wince when my voice cracks. I’m no Celine Dion, folks, but IamHolly Carter, and I’m ready to make Jackson come undone. “One true time I hold tooooo!”

The tense lines in his face break.

I coast my palm over his chest, swinging my hips. My gaze meets his, and this time,I’mthe one issuing the dare, the challenge. “Your turn, Cap. Sing to me.”

He looks at me like he wouldn’t mind throwing me over his shoulder and tossing me out of The Box forever.

He looks at me like I’m all he’s ever wanted, even when I’m hell-bent on driving him insane.

And then, in front of everyone and their mother (literally), Jackson sings to me.

It’sawful, maybe even as bad as his cooking. His husky pitch never climbs high enough to hit the notes and he stumbles his way through the chorus with red cheeks. When Weston Cain shouts at us to get a room, Jackson only flips him the bird and proceeds to throw his head back, one arm jabbing forward like he’s playing a set of drums. The grand finale comes with a crack in his voice and a dramatic wiggle of his hips.

I laugh so hard that I have tears gathering in my eyes.

I laugh so hard that when the bartender takes mercy on us all and switches the music off mid-word, cutting Jackson off, I double over and breathe through my nose before I pass out from sheer joy overload.

A warm hand grazes my lower spine, flirting with the waistband of my skirt, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which person those fingers belong to. Jackson touches me like he owns me, body and soul, and I can’t deny anymore that he does.

He tangles our fingers together, and then he’s bent over too and whispering in my ear, “Happy now?”

I kiss the corner of his mouth. Then whisper back, “Always you.”

His hand tightens reflexively around mine. “Fuck, Holly. You have no idea how much that—”

“Carter!”

We jerk upright, and my gaze flicks over the crowd. At my ninety degrees, I watch as the Blades’ on-hand doctor comes striding toward us.

Jackson breaks our connection and shoves his hand through his hair. He blows out a heavy breath that sounds rife with sudden tension. “John, man, hey.” He reaches out a hand to shake the doctor’s. “How’s everything?”

“Good.” John spares me a barely there glance. “Listen, you got a sec? I know the show’s about to start, but I got your voicemail and wanted to catch you before I head out on vacation on Monday.”

For as many years as Jackson’s been with the Blades—or any NHL team—it’s never been a secret that the team doctor is persona non grata for the players. On a personal level, I’m sure none of them have a problem with John. He’s a good guy, has a great family whom I’ve met a few times, and who always wants the best for the team. Professionally, though, a meeting with John means that something is wrong.

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