Page 23 of Body Check

Inside are two tickets to I’m-not-really-sure.

“There’s an event tomorrow morning at an art gallery,” Jackson says as I squint to read the text on the tickets. “A National Geographic photography showcase.” He pauses, and each indrawn breath that I hear him pull into his chest is mimicked by my own as I struggle not to let my scattering emotions wear me down.

I want to cry.

I want to throw the damn tickets at his face.

I want to hop into his lap and tell him thank-you in the way he’s always appreciated most—with my lips wrapped around his cock and my hands cupping his balls.

“Figured you and Carmen can slip away for an hour before you have to report for duty,” he continues. “Sports 24/7 will have us covered at morning practice. Y’all can swoop in later tomorrow night and do what you gotta do with the team.”

“Jackson, you didn’t have to do this.”

I wish he hadn’t. I want that dividing line. I want a permanent aisle.

He’s slow to answer. Seconds tick past, and then he’s moving his big body into the aisle. He lifts a hand. I’m halfway convinced that he’s about to graze his knuckles along my cheek, but then his hand drops back to his side. His fingers curl into a tight fist that he knocks twice against his outer thigh. “Thank you for comin’ on board with this, Holls. Just”—he exhales, and it sounds as though he’s physically removing the pressure off his shoulders—“thank you.”

He’s gone before I can edge out another word.

The back of my skull collides with the headrest and I lift the envelope again to stare at the two tickets peeking out. Photography. My favorite candy. Headphones. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Jackson is trying to woo me.

It’s such a ludicrous thought that I snort out loud.

Our divorce was a mutual agreement, but he was the one to bring it into the discussion first.

With two fingers, I tap the tickets back into the envelope—and then spot my ex-husband’s handwriting on the inner flap. The black ink against the red envelope is tough to read in the dim light and I poke Carmen in the shoulder.

“Give me your phone,” I whisper, “I know you’ve been listening this whole time.”

She doesn’t even bother to deny it as she sits up. “Get those romantic thoughts out of your mind, girl. He’s not the guy for you.”

He was, once.

“Phone, Carmen. You can lecture me after I’ve had coffee.”

With a grumble, she slips me her phone, and I turn on the flashlight app and aim it at the envelope.

My chest inflates with a sharp breath as I read the words he’s written for me:

We aren’t married, not anymore. But I won’t forget what you’re doing for me, Holly. I needed this and I neededyou. When you need me next, don’t hesitate to ask. We’re family, even if it’s not the way we always envisioned, and I learned a long time ago to never take family for granted. Jackson.

I’m ashamed to admit that my nose grows itchy and tears tease at the corners of my eyes, demanding release into the world.

We’re family.

For as long as I can remember, my family was a unit of four with my grandparents at the helm and my brother, Sam, and I taking up the rear. I have no disillusions that I was loved, though it was the sort of love ruled with an iron thumb and a stern voice and a warning to not turn out like my irresponsible parents. Affection wasn’t something I knew firsthand until Jackson came into my life.

He knows how much that F-word means to me, and I hate him for utilizing it now and for bending my steel resolve. More than anything, though, I hate the warmth that fills my chest as I clutch the envelope to my chest.

That warmth feels like hope, and I refuse to feed it any more life than Jackson already has this morning.

9

Jackson

The Nashville Predators are playing like a bunch of pussies tonight.

It might be preseason, and there might be more rookies than vets on the ice, but, fuck. It’s like they’re dainty ballerinas being forced to crawl through the mud during army basic training and are terrified of getting their damn slippers wet. They dance out of the way when Beaumont comes barreling toward them; drop out of a scuffle for the puck against the boards with Henri Bordeaux way too easily.

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