Page 58 of Cross Check Daddies
“Poly, open, fluid—whatever the setup is—none of it works without transparency. Jealousy can be managed, but only if no one’s playing games or hiding behind what-ifs. Talk. Ask what she wants. Tell her what you need. Anything else is just romantic landmines.”
I stare into my coffee, the advice echoing louder than I expected. She’s right.
I either run from this or walk into it with both eyes open.
And if I’m walking in, it better be with the truth. From all of us.
I text her an hour after breakfast with Daisy.
>> You and Jackson want tickets to tonight’s game? We’re playing the Vancouver Titans. Seats behind the bench.
The dots appear almost immediately, disappear, then come back again. My phone buzzes.
>>He’s already putting on his jersey. Yes. See you there.
By puck drop, I’m on the bench, headset in place, clipboard in hand, and already barking directions. It’s a tight game.
The Titans play rough, fast, more showboat than strategy, which makes them exactly the kind of team that screws with our rhythm. I glance up at the second period and spot her.
Brooke’s sitting behind the glass with Jackson in her lap. He’s bouncing. Full-on bouncing. When he catches me looking, he waves with both hands and practically glows through the plexi.
She looks good. Better than she should in a damn hoodie and jeans. Her smile’s small, but it reaches her eyes, and that’s enough to settle something that’s been tight in my chest all week.
Third period, we take the lead by two and hold it. As the final horn sounds, the guys flood off the ice in a pile of back slaps and sweaty grins. I pull my headset off and turn to see Jackson already on the steps, racing toward the player exit.
“Ace!” he yells like he’s part of the coaching staff.
I scoop him up before security can say a word. He smells like popcorn and cotton candy. He’s gripping a foam finger in one hand and a mini jersey in the other.
“You liked the game, little man?”
He nods hard. “You yelled a lot.”
“Gotta keep the boys in line.”
“I like yelling too,” he says, grinning.
“Good. You’ll make a hell of an assistant coach.”
The guys come out of the tunnel, still laughing, trading chirps. Deke slaps my shoulder and tosses Jackson a signed puck. Jackson’s eyes light up like Christmas and Fourth of July merged into one.
Brooke joins us outside the locker room, her expression softening when she sees him in my arms.
“He didn’t stop talking about the Zamboni for an entire period.”
I hand her Jackson. He latches onto her neck like a koala.
“You want to grab pizza with us?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “With the team?”
“No. Just me. You. Jackson. Deke might show, but only if the bar doesn’t steal him first.”
She nods. “Alright. One condition. He gets extra cheese.”
“I’ll allow it.”
We hit a family place not far from the arena. It's casual, noisy enough that no one looks twice at the half-drunk hockey players in the corner. Jackson sits between us, stealing olives off my plate and asking me rapid-fire questions about everything from helmet sizes to whether I’ve ever punched a ref.
