Page 43 of Blocked Shot
“Thank you, Jess,” she murmurs, her throat thick. “I love it.”
The gift opening winds down with Jesse and Tristan launching balled-up tissue paper at each other, their laughter filling the air. Mila lets out a squeal when one of the errant projectiles smacks her cheek.
Natalie finds Jake sitting in an armchair, away from the noise andMila’s playful admonishments in the living room. She hands Jake a flat, neatly wrapped package with a shy smile.
“I thought you might like this,” she says, her voice soft, tentative. Jake raises an eyebrow, curious, before tearing open the paper to reveal a book—a hardcover ofProject Hail Mary. His face lights up, eyes crinkling with a genuine smile.
“It’s by the same author asThe Martian,” Natalie explains quickly. “Surviving the odds and all that. No Matt Damon unfortunately. Shame.”
“Thank you” he says, his voice warm with gratitude. “It’s perfect.”
“I—” Natalie begins, pausing to gather her thoughts. “I’m really glad you stayed. Merry Christmas, Jake.”
“Merry Christmas, Nat,” he replies, his voice a low, soothing rumble that seems to wrap around her, filling the space between them with warmth.
Their eyes meet, and something soft stirs within her, a tenderness that spreads like a gentle warmth through her chest. Every moment slows, each breath more deliberate, as if she doesn’t want to break the peaceful calm that has settled over them. She suppresses the urge to reach for him, instead she sinks into the couch, her eyelids fluttering closed as she lets herself savor the quiet, perfect stillness of the moment.
CHAPTER 20
JESSE
Mac, we’re going to Huckleberry’s tonight for wings. You in?
JAKE
Nah man. Be home by 11. Early morning skate tomorrow
JESSE
Yes boss
JAKE
Jake steps onto the rink, the crisp smell of the ice filling his lungs. The holiday warmth has faded, replaced by the relentless grind of the season. Practice is in full swing, and the Whalers are preparing for the second half of the season. A particularly brutal stretch of games approaches that will test every ounce of their endurance.
He should be locked in, focused. But his mind keeps drifting.
The Christmas dinner at Jesse’s apartment had been one of the best nights he’d had in a long time. Good food, easy laughter, and for a few hours, the game hadn’t beeneverything.
And Natalie.
She had been there, sitting across from him, her face lit with warmth, her laughter like something he wanted to hear again and again.
He knows deep down that she isn’t messing with his head on purpose. Natalie’s not manipulative. There’s no calculation in her. She probably doesn’t even know what she’s doing to him, he reasons. And yet, he’s still falling… and falling hard.
A whistle blows sharply, yanking him out of his thoughts. He skates hard, throwing himself into drills, pushing his body past exhaustion. The team is, in a word, shit. They’d gone into the holiday break with more losses than wins, and the tension in the locker room is thick enough to cut with a skate blade. Jesse, despite his relentless effort, hasn’t broken through offensively yet, and Jake can see the frustration building in him. He reminds Jake too much of himself at that age—desperate to prove something, to make his mark. He keeps reminding Jesse to breathe, to trust himself, but the kid is wound tight.
“Pick it up, MacDonald!” Barbier’s voice cuts across the ice, sharp and impatient.
Jake grits his teeth and digs in, noticing the burn in his legs, the protest of muscles that haven’t fully recovered from the last game. This is his job. His life. He’s been doing it long enough to know that there’s no room for distractions, especially not ones with big brown doe eyes and a sexy ass.
When practice ends, he strips off his gear slowly, every movement a reminder of how much the game takes from him now. Sweat clings to his skin, and the dull throb in his shoulder spreads like wildfire through his body. The ache isn’t just in his muscles—it’s in his spine, his joints, the places ice has lived for years. He used to shake it off, bounce back with a cold shower and a protein bar. Now, every hit lingers, every blocked shot feels like a hammer.
He rolls out his shoulder, pressing his fingers into the knotted muscle. He should talk to the trainers about it, but he knows what they’ll say. Ice. Rest. And rest is not an option.
Jesse drops onto the bench next to him, running a towel over his face. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Jake lies, because what else is he supposed to say?
