Page 11 of Body Check

Muscles balled tight under his T-shirt, Jackson prowls through the kitchen without sparing me a glance. “See?” he growls, and I’m not even sure he’s speaking to me at this point. “Thisis the shit I’m talking about. They’re vultures—analysts, journalists, Hollywood. All of them. Imagine if they saw one of the guys at the hospital or something, they’d already be marking me—anyofus—as good-as-fucking-gone.”

Snagging the plates off the kitchen island, he moves swiftly, aggressively, toward a trash can near the fridge and drops the dry chicken into the garbage. He sets the plates in the sink, then locks his hands on the lip of the counter, his back to me.

Shoulders hunched.

His sweatpants hanging low on his hips to reveal a quarter-inch of skin between his T-shirt and his waistband. That quarter-inch is tan, taut, and so incredibly tempting.

Nope, nope. Not happening!

Especiallysince my heart is warring a battle of its own: keep the space between us or rush forward and offer comfort with my arms linked around his waist and a kiss pressed to his back. Decisions, decisions, and only one is acceptable given the circumstances of our non-existent relationship.

Retreat now.

I take a tentative step back.

“It’s the media, Jackson,” I say, voice huskier than it has any right to be. I clear my throat. “They’re going to say what they want to say, regardless of whether or not you participate in a reality show.”

He leans his weight back on his heels, hands still locked on the edge of the counter. The T-shirt rides higher on his back, exposing twin dimples at the base of his spine.

Seriously? My gaze flits to the ceiling, then returns. A peek won’t hurt, right? Not when he isn’t even looking at me? For memory’s sake, of course. Nothing more.

“Trust me,” Jackson mutters, “I know what they’re going to say after watching this season.” He glances at me over his shoulder, his dark eyes pinning me in place. “I’m not retiring, Holls. Not yet, not until I’m ready.”

“Then you’re all set. If you’re not planning to retire, then what secrets of yours am I keeping from the public? None. You can do this on your own. You’re a big boy, Jackson.”

Hands falling from the counter, he faces me completely. Thick, muscular legs spread to balance his weight. Strong chest stretching the fabric of his T-shirt. That elusive strip of bare skin now gone since he’s standing upright.

If he’s trying to prove that he’s not a “big boy” but rather “all man,” he’s unfortunately missed his window of opportunity. I became aware ofthatparticular fact years ago. Physically, he’s massive—and the energy he radiates, just by breathing, only makes him seem that much more intimidating.

“Take the gig,” he orders, voice low and compelling.

My chin lifts defiantly. “Regardless of how you feel about the show, the fact remains that Carter Photography wouldn’t even be on Sports 24/7’s radar if it weren’t for youneedingme behind the camera.”

“And yet, me needing you entails a six-figure check landing in your bank account. Explain to me how you’re on the bad end of this bargain again?”

Right or wrong, Jackson’s manipulation of Sports 24/7’s interest makes me feel . . . God, it makes me feel as though I’m right back where I started, scraping together a business on the back of someone else’s success—hissuccess, considering he was the one to beg the Blades’ management to let me photograph the team in the first place. More specifically, though, it’s a sharp reminder of the sacrifices I made to be with him.

Dropping out of Cornell—to my grandmother’s horror—so that I could follow him to Boston after the Bruins drafted him.

Finishing my degree online at UMass Boston, so that I never worried over missed classes when I flew across the country to each and every one of his games.

Marriage is compromise in its greatest form. Our last-hurrah therapist told us that, but she was wrong. Marriage is compromise, yes, but never at the expense of who you are. Which is where I failed. Me, not Jackson. I lost myself so deeply that by the time I realized there might be a problem, I was already on the verge of drowning.

Jackson wasn’t a bad husband.

He was good down to his core; always wanting to help others, to help me, but in living within his shadow for so many years, I became a returning secondary character on the Jackson Carter Show, simply known as “the wife.”

Now I’m “the ex-wife,” so I guess not much has changed.

Taking theGetting Puckedgig is the equivalent of starting all over again and I can’t do that.

Not even for him.

Meeting his gaze, I say the words that I know he doesn’t want to hear: “I don’t need the six-figure check. Not everything is about the money.”

I turn on the balls of my feet, ready to get the hell out of his condo before I do something I’ll regret—like caving in to the vulnerability heating Jackson’s gaze.

I don’t get far.

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