Page 14 of Power Forward

My heart is in my throat as the camera pans onto Jackson, his face appearing on the jumbotron. His brows are pinched slightly as he tilts his head up to the screen. A light sheen of sweat coats his skin, and the scruff lining his jaw makes my fingers twitch with the need to touch it. To feel it between my thighs and the sensitive skin on my neck.

A shiver travels down my spine at the thought.

I’m on the edge of my seat as Jackson takes the face-off. He wins, passing it to Blaine, who’s finally out of the penalty box, but Boston are quick to take back possession. I stop breathing when Jackson intercepts the puck, and then he’s on a breakaway. Even at thirty-six, he’s one of the fastest skaters on the team. The sheer power in his legs propels him up the ice, and within seconds, he’s taking a shot on the net. It sails past the goaltender’s shoulder, sinking into the top right corner. The lamp lights, and there’s a collective groan throughout the arena while the Thunder fans celebrate.

I’m on my feet, clapping so hard my palms burn. Mysmile threatens to crack my face in two. Pride is blooming in my chest when Jackson skates past the bench, tapping his gloves against his teammates’. I’m so fucking proud of him.

The final buzzer sounds, and Chicago wins 3-2.

My eyes stay locked on Jackson until he disappears down the tunnel. I manage to sneak out of the arena unnoticed, and on the drive back to the hotel, I type out a message to him. I end up deleting and retyping it three or four times. Because how can I say, “Please meet me for coffee,” without sounding like I’m desperate?

I mean, I am desperate, but he doesn’t need to know that.

By the time I make it back to my hotel suite, I’m tired, and my body aches from the chilled air inside the arena. I strip out of my suit, hang it in the closet so it doesn’t get creased, then take a quick shower to warm up. Once I’ve dried myself off, I put on a pair of clean boxer briefs and slide into bed with my phone.

I managed to get Jackson’s number from Peyton under the guise of “needing to send him something” after Blaine and Alex’s wedding. Luckily, the Thunder’s newly appointed captain isn’t the kind of guy to ask questions, so he sent it over without me needing to think up some excuse. It’s been burning a hole in my contacts list since the day after my visit with Roberta, but I’ve been waiting for the right time.

I type out another message, hoping it sounds light and breezy and not at all desperate. My thumb hovers over the Send button, and I quickly press it before I can spiral further into procrastination.

Hey Jax, it’s Hayden. Great game tonight! That goal in the third was a beauty. Can we meet for coffee before you head to Washington? Say 9AM at Rafe’s? I won’t take up much of your time.

My pulse quickens as three dots appear on the screen, letting me know he’s typing.

Holy shit. It’s kinda embarrassing how happy I am at the sight of three bouncing dots.

The phone trembles in my hand as minutes go by and that bubble keeps disappearing and reappearing again. Is he going to tell me to fuck off? That there’s no way on this earth he wants to have coffee with me?

Before my mind can enter that dark spiral, my phone vibrates with a new message, and my breath whooshes out of me in a rush.

Jackson

Hey. Thanks, it felt pretty good too. Yeah, okay. See you at 9.

I stare at the screen for several minutes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Is he going to ask me where I got his number? Or respond that he thought I was someone else and can no longer make it?

But then I realize I’m getting myself worked up over nothing. Because he said yes.

He said yes.

I roll over to put my phone on charge, and I fall asleep with Jackson on my mind and a smileon my face.

Rafe’s is a family-run coffee house that makes the best bagels in Boston. We used to come here all the time when I had a condo around the corner overlooking the harbor, and it became part of our morning routine. We would come down here, pick up coffees and a bagel. Sometimes we’d eat them in bed or in the car on the way to practice. Every time I’ve been in Boston for a work-related trip since I retired, I always come and order a hazelnut latte. Jackson used to drink it all the time, and I would tease him for it. But nowIdrink it all the time because it reminds me of how his mouth used to taste when I would steal kisses from him at every opportunity.

My knee bounces under the table, and nerves pool in my stomach. I knew it was a big risk when I sent that text last night. I’ve been working up to that moment for months.Baby steps.That’s all I need to remember. This was step one, and in my mind, it was the biggest. Jackson could have said no to meeting up. He could have left me on read and ignored me completely. But he didn’t.

He said yes. He said he was going to show up.

I take a sip of my coffee and glance at the time on my phone. 9:02 a.m. He should be here any minute now. I open up one of the apps I use when I need to distract my brain when the bell jingles above the door. My head snaps up so fast I get a twinge in my neck. Jackson’s hulking figure is in the doorway, dressed in a charcoal wool coat and light gray toque, his eyes scanning the cafe before landing on me. The corner of his lips tip in a small smile, and it takes everything in me not to fist bump the air.

He came.

I’m unable to take my eyes off him as he weaves aroundthe tables. He places his coat on the other chair, then sits down.

“Hey,” he says with a slight apprehension in his tone.

“Hey.” I smile, hoping like hell it’s relaxed, considering my entire body has gone tense with anticipation. I slide the coffee I got for him across the table. “I got you a hazelnut latte. I wasn’t sure if you still drink it.”

He accepts it, and his eyes widen a fraction in surprise. “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

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