Page 123 of Pucking Daddy

My breath catches.

“I think we make a pretty damn good team,” he says, voice low and sure.

22

JAXON

Everything Backwards

The next days blur together as the court hearing creeps closer.

I’m up before sunrise every morning. Practice. Running the team through drills. Going over strategy for the next games.

By the time I get home, Lily is already waiting for me more often than not.

I make sure to give her my full attention. We laugh, tell stories, play—she insists on cuddling more than ever.

It’s the one part of my day that doesn’t feel like a fight.

Evenings settle into a rhythm of their own.

Zara and I on the couch, files spread across the coffee table like we’re building something piece by piece. Or maybe holding something together that’s at risk of breaking.

We sit closer than we need to, but not quite touching.

I feel closer to her than ever. The crisis has pulled us tight, bound us into something real. We’re partners. I feel it deep in my chest.

Her warmth draws me in, but aside from a few fleeting touches, that’s all it’s been.

Accidental brushes. Hands grazing. Knees pressed together a second too long.

But it’s getting harder to ignore the way my body reacts every single time. The way my chest tightens. The way my thoughts derail.

The way I want more.

Instead, I’m left taking matters into my own hands in the shower, gripped by a craving that’s turning into a constant ache. The soap and steam do nothing to wash away the thought of her, the pull in my chest. I imagine it’s her skin instead of mine, her fingers instead of my own, pushing myself toward a jagged, solitary release just to quiet the tension.

I can’t pinpoint why neither of us has acted on what’s so obviously there. Maybe it’s the court hearing looming. Maybe it’s because crossing that line now would make it real.

Something we couldn’t come back from.

It’s ironic. We’re finally husband and wife, and since then we’ve shared nothing more than a chaste kiss at the ceremony and a brief hug.

Everything about this is backwards.

The night before the hearing, I stay late at the arena. Everyone else has already gone. I texted Zara earlier, asking if she can handle bedtime.

She tells me it’s no problem, that I can stay as long as I need.

The truth is, I’ve been done for an hour. I just couldn’t make myself go home.

It’s time.

I grab my jacket and head for the tunnel, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The arena feels different at this hour—hollowed out, expectant. Like it's holding its breath for something.

Or maybe that's just me.

I make it three steps past the locker room before I see her.