Page 28 of Shield
Ash, ever the observant partner, shot me a look as we prepared for another face-off. “Time to shine, Cowboy,” he muttered, a grin tugging at his lips.
The puck dropped and instinct took over. I found myself in the perfect position as a Carolina player came barreling down with the puck. Without a second thought, I leaned into a hip check; the collision was solid, sending the opposing player sprawling as I scooped up the puck, a rush of adrenaline fueling my movements.
“Beast!” Ash hollered, skating up beside me as we advanced. His praise was a fleeting distraction from the task at hand.
I didn’t have a single breath in me to glance towards the stands, to seek out Jackson’s reaction. Instead, I focused on the play, spotting Charles in the perfect position near their goal. With a flick of my wrist, I passed the puck, sending it sliding across the ice, right to Charles’ stick.
The moment stretched, the entire arena holding its breath as Charles wound up and took the shot. The puck flew past the goalie, hitting the back of the net with a satisfyingclang. The arena exploded into a roar of cheers from our fans, the score now 3–2 in our favor.
The bench erupted as we celebrated the go-ahead goal and Ash clapped me on the back, shouting over the noise.
“Told you. Beast mode activated!”
As the final seconds ticked away, and we managed to hold off Carolina’s desperate attempts to tie the game, victory was ours. The elation of winning, of overcoming a worthy opponent, was heightened by the knowledge that Jackson had witnessed it all.
When the game ended, and the cheers of the crowd began to fade, I allowed myself a moment to scan the stands. My search found him standing now, clapping, with a smile that reached across the distance between us. There was pride in his eyes, a look that said he understood the language of the game, of my game, more than I’d given him credit for. Maybe it was me hip checking that player, or the way I’d seen the play unfold. I didn’t care. I knew he’d seen me, and I was high from thinking about it.
As I skated off the ice with my teammates, celebrating our hard-fought win, I couldn’t help but feel that the victory was sweeter than usual. Not only because of the scoreboard, but because of the audience of one who had made the night unforgettable.
In the locker room, amidst the chaos of celebration, Ash nudged me, a knowing glance in his eyes. “You played out of your skin tonight, Ollie. All for the detective?”
I shrugged, a secretive smile playing on my lips. “Maybe,” I conceded, my thoughts already drifting to the moment I would see Jackson outside the arena, away from the noise, the ice, and the crowd.
Hopefully soon.
* * *
I got home at eleven.The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the noise of the television in the back room. Making my rounds first, I visited Daisy’s and Scarlett’s rooms to kiss them goodnight.
Scarlett stirred as I leaned over, her voice sleepy, but clear. “Did you win, Daddy?”
I smiled, brushing her hair back gently. “Yes, sweetheart, we won.”
She smiled, her eyes still closed. “My clever daddy,” she murmured before drifting back to sleep.
Feeling a wave of love wash over me, I stared down at her for the longest time, lost in memories of the day I’d first held her, letting the grief in when I remembered Melissa, and then, somehow feeling better that I could handle the grief.
Would you like him?I asked her as I headed downstairs and stopped at a photo of us on our wedding day. We’d been so young, only seventeen, but she’d been the center of my world. Still was, actually, given the two girls she’d gifted me. I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them to the photo. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Mel. I miss you.”
I carried on to the living room where Jamie was sprawled on the couch, watching an episode ofWho Wants to Be a Millionaire? He barely glanced up as I joined him.
“Good game?” he asked. He wasn’t a hockey fan at all, citing the fact that being a Brit meant it was his God-given duty to be a football fan, and not the one with the “funny-shaped balls”—his words not mine—but real football with his favorite team, Liverpool.
“We won.”
He made a roaring crowd noise. “Go, Storm!”
I smacked him upside the head and let the soft sofa swallow me. On screen, Jimmy Kimmel was asking which out of four U.S. Presidents appeared on Mount Rushmore. The contestant seemed confused, and Jamie threw a cushion at the screen.
“Oh my god, I’m not even American, and I know it’s Lincoln! Fuck me, this is only the one thousand question, and that’s dollars, not evenrealmoney!” He deadpanned the last of it, and it was my turn to throw a cushion at him.
Finally, the poor contestant, Jimmy from Maine, gave the correct answer, but not until he’d gone through his reasoning, which frustrated Jamie even more.
I was too distracted by my phone, eagerly hoping I’d get a message from Jackson, and giving him another ten minutes before I texted first.
I didn’t have to because, soon enough, my phone buzzed with a new message.
Jackson: You were on fire tonight.
