Page 39 of Body Check

He doesn’t heed my warning. “—I prefer to think of myself as a king.”

I shake my head, hating the way I can’t help but smile at his dry tone. “Your ego, Jackson.”

“It’s big, I know.”

“I was going to say that it’s impenetrable, actually.”

“And big.” Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I swear he’s grinning. “Big like my—”

“Don’t you dare go there.”

“What?” He’s all boyish innocence now. “Bigheart, Holls, that’s where I was going. Damn, would you get your mind out of the gutter?”

My heart beats a quick tattoo, and I pull back from the window a scant few inches. Focus on my hazy reflection staring back at me in the glass instead of the cityscape beyond it. I’m grateful for the shadows—without them, I’m sure it’d be hard to ignore the blush that’s warming my cheeks, thanks to his playful teasing.

Since I’ve always given as good as I’ve gotten, I don’t stop now. “My mind is being airlifted out as we speak, thank you so much for your concern.” I lower my voice. “I’m glad to be rescued. It was scary down there—downright terrifying.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah.” I meet my gaze in my reflection, the blue of my eyes muted to a dull gray in the shadows. “There was chanting and incense and hockey players galore, and in the very center of it all . . . their king.”

He pauses. Then, “How did I look?”

“A lot like Andre Beaumont.”

Surprised laughter erupts on the other end of the line. “Touché. My ego deserved that.”

I push away from the window. “It probably deserves a lot more if we’re going for full transparency. It’s out of control.”

“Comes with the territory of being captain.”

“Comes with the territory of you beingyou.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, then pause at my office door, reluctant to get off the phone when I’ve . . .Be honest with yourself at least. And the honest truth is—I’ve missed this. The quick back-and-forth, the laughter, the feeling that someone out there gets me and my humor. I misshim.

There, I said it.

I miss him, Jackson, my ex-husband.

“I should probably go,” he says softly. “We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.”

Right. Of course. Two days ago, the Blades went skate to skate against Toronto at home, but starting tomorrow, it’s two straight away games to wrap up preseason. First up, the Philadelphia Flyers and then the Chicago Blackhawks. Carmen, Adam, and I will no doubt be quarantined to our hotel rooms in order to get all footage edited ahead of our deadline or face the wrath of Mark Fillmore.

I scrub my hand over my jaw, swiping it down over my mouth as dread filters in. “I hate early mornings.”

“I remember.”

My chest inflates with a deep inhale. “Some things never change.”

“No, some things don’t.” The line goes silent, and I’m pulling open the door when he adds, “In case I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m proud of you, Holls. What you’re doing with the team? The show? I’m just . . . yeah, I just wanted you to know. You’re doin’ great.”

Maybe I shouldn’t let his praise swell my lungs with air and push my shoulders back with confidence, but I do. “Thank you,” I whisper, my fingers tightening their hold on my phone, “that means a lot to me.”

“Good.” More silence. “Okay, right. I’ll see you in the morning. Night, Holly.”

“Night, Jackson.”

Pulling my phone away from where it’s been cradled against my ear, I finally click the red telephone—but not until I note the time we spent talking on the phone together.

Thirty-one minutes and one second.

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