Page 10 of Body Check

4

Holly

Jackson is a stubborn son of a gun.

This is the same man who, seven years back, brought the Boston Bruins to a Stanley Cup victory on a broken patella (notthe same thing aspaella, the delicious Spanish seafood dish). It was game seven, down to the last period, and he clinched the win with the dirtiest slapshot in NHL history that’sstillshown on highlight reels years later.

He played through the pain, never revealing the magnitude of his agony until the final buzzer sounded and he was ensconced safely in the locker room.

Full disclosure, that damn knee cap was threatening to pull a peep show out of his skin. A sight that had me seeing triple when I fought my way to his side and took one look at him, hockey pants stripped off his muscular form and perspiration dotting his temple. He took my hand and comfortedmewhen my legs turned into cooked spaghetti. Me, as though I was the one with a brokenpaella.Patella. Whatever.

Every sports journalist loved him that spring. They nicknamed him the Badass of Hockey. The Beast of the Northeast. The one man who’d put the victory of his team above his own health.

It’s not in his DNA to give up or step down when confronted with adversity.

Except with us.

I shove the errant thought away like a fly zipping annoyingly around my head.

Fix my attention on the face that’s as familiar to me as my own. My fingers clench together in my lap. “It was a pity negotiation and you know it. But I don’t needyour help. I’m good on my own. I’msucceedingon my own.” At the vehemence in my tone, his dark eyes turn flinty and unapproachable. “I don’t want your handouts, Jackson, you know that.”

When he says nothing at all, my stupid mouth gets the best of me—as it always does—and I seek to fill the silence. “I spent so many years living on your income, on the perks of you playing for the NHL, and I was so, so clear that I didn’t want that to continue. I’m not trying to be ungrateful, or sound like a spoiled brat, but I need to stand on my own. Can’t you see that? I need to know that my success comes from my own drive and ambition, and not because of what connections you’vemade inyourcareer.”

Those connections may have helped me in the very beginning, but I’ve come so far since then. I would never interfere with his relationship with the Blades. Is it so wrong to expect that level of respect in return?

Jackson lifts a hand to his face, thumb scrubbing along his lower lip.

He’s not trying to hold back a smile right now. His expression is grave. The smile lines at the corners of his eyes almost smooth—or as smooth as they’ll ever be. Then he speaks, his voice such a low timbre that I nearly tip forward in my need to hear what he has to say.

“You ever think that maybe meblackmailingSports 24/7 has nothing to do with pity and everything to do with needingyouon the other side of that camera?”

My heart gives a wild, traitorous thump. Stupid, stupid organ. “I . . . Jackson, I don’t even know what to—”

“Say?” He shakes his head, his dark hair flopping forward over his forehead. Long, blunt-tipped fingers roughly shove the thick strands back into place. “I won’t lie—I knew this gig would be good for the business. You’re big in New England, Holls, but this would do some serious legwork for your reach across the country.”

I can sense thebutcoming along, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to hurry it up already.Patience, girl, have some damn patience.Unsurprisingly, patience has never been a virtue of mine.

“But, and I’m sorry to disappoint, I didn’t throw down for you in Coach’s office becauseGetting Puckedwould open doors for Carter Photography—not completely.” Dark eyes lift to my face, unwavering in their intensity. “I did it for me.”

His words aren’t registering, not over the loud ringing in my ears. I swallow hard, then press my tongue against the back of my teeth as I wrack my brain for something to say—something that isn’t, “Come again?”

In the end, my response isn’t all that much better than the one voiced in my head. Nor does it sound any less incredulous. “How in the world wouldmebeing the one behind the camera helpyou?”

He shifts his large frame off the stool, and I know he’s about to pace. A troubled Jackson is a pacing Jackson. I watch as he fists his hands behind his head, then I struggle to avert my gaze when the cotton clinging to the hard muscles of his torso lifts with his upraised arms.

My life would be so much easier if Jackson weren’t at the top of his game and probably bench-pressing weights that are double my size—he looks way too good for my peace of mind.

Jaw ticking with an unnamed emotion, Jackson grinds out, “I need someone to run interference with what gets filmed. The network required everyone’s signature on a contract or the entire production was a bust. No matter how much I’d like to give Sports 24/7 the middle finger, the Blades needGetting Pucked. A show like this can lead to all sorts of sponsorships—a spotlight on our charities, cash in the bank for the team. I’d be an asshole to strip my guys of the opportunity because I want nothing to do with this shit.”

Steven Fairfax’s mention about the Blades overhauling the roster flits through my head, and I can’t help but ask . . . “Are you retiring?”

“What?”

“Retiring,” I repeat, lowering myself off the stool so I can step near him. “Are you planning to retire after this season?”

“Fuck no.” He narrows his eyes, brows knitting together. His raised arms fall back to his sides when he demands, “Why the hell would you even ask that?”

“It was something the show’s producer, Steven Fairfax, said to me today—about why Sports 24/7 wants the Blades onGetting Pucked’s first season.” Needing to do something with my hands, I lock them over my chest and rock back on my heels. “They think Harrison is retiring this year, along with Weston Cain . . . and you.”

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