Heading out?

Jax’s POV

The rink lights buzzed overhead like they always did before a home game, casting that sharp white glow across the ice. I laced my skates tighter than usual, the familiar pull of the laces grounding me even as my mind refused to settle. 

Warm-ups had gone smooth — shots crisp, passes connecting, the team feeding off the crowd energy already building in the stands. But every time I glanced toward the front row, my focus fractured.

Lila sat there exactly where I’d told her to. Coat buttoned high, scarf loose around her neck, glasses reflecting the lights. 

She looked small against the sea of jerseys and screaming fans, but she was there. Visible. Mine — at least for show.

My stick tapped the ice once, twice, as I pushed off for another lap. The cold air burned my lungs in the best way, sharpening everything except the knot in my chest.

She kissed me back.

Not just endured it. Not pulled away like I half-expected. Her hand had fisted my hoodie, tentative but there, and for those few seconds the quad had disappeared. Coffee and winter and her. The taste still lingered somewhere in the back of my mind no matter how many water bottles I’d drained since lunch.

I shook it off, circling back to the bench where Coach was barking last-minute adjustments. Jett leaned against the boards nearby, arms crossed, watching me with that twin radar he’d had since birth. Same face, but his eyes always saw too much.

“You good?” he asked when I glided closer, voice low enough to cut under the noise.

“Focused,” I lied, tapping my helmet into place.

He didn’t buy it. A smirk tugged at his mouth. “She’s cute when she’s trying not to look nervous. Front row was a power move.”

I didn’t answer. Just grabbed my water bottle and squirted a stream into my mouth, the chill sliding down my throat. Power move. That’s what I’d called it when I texted her the seat number this morning. 

Make it believable. Shut down the whispers for good. But sitting across from her at lunch, feeling her shoulder pressed against mine, watching her lips part slightly when I pulled back from that kiss… believable had started feeling a little too real.

The buzzer sounded for the anthem. I lined up with the team, skates scraping ice as we stood for the national anthem. My gaze kept drifting to her. 

She wasn’t cheering like the others — just sitting straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes on the flag but occasionally flicking toward the ice. Toward me.

When the music ended, the crowd roared. I tapped gloves with the guys and took my position at center. The puck dropped, and the game swallowed me whole for a while.

Hits landed clean. I threaded a pass that led to the first goal midway through the first period. The arena exploded, my name echoing off the rafters.

But every shift change, every time I coasted back to the bench, my eyes found her again. She clapped when we scored. Smiled — small, private — when I glanced her way during a timeout. It did things to my focus I didn’t want to name.

By the second intermission, we were up by two. Sweat soaked my jersey as I dropped onto the bench, helmet off, hair sticking to my forehead. Jett appeared at the boards again, handing me a fresh towel.

“Nice assist,” he said. Then quieter, “She’s watching you like you’re the only one on the ice.”

I wiped my face, the rough fabric scraping my skin. “That’s the point.”

“Is it?” His tone stayed light, but the question carried weight. “Or are you finally admitting you never stopped caring what she thought?”

I tossed the towel back at him harder than necessary. “Drop it, Jett.”

He caught it easily, laughing under his breath. “Whatever you say, Captain. Just don’t blow the lead because you’re distracted by a fake girlfriend.”

The words landed like a glove to the face. Fake. That was the deal. Protection in exchange for public performances. No real feelings. 

No complications. I’d repeated it to myself the entire drive home last night, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally pulled me under.

Yet here I was, heart rate elevated for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

Third period started fast. We pushed hard, cycling the puck in their zone. I took a hit along the boards that rattled my teeth but kept possession, firing a shot that clanged off the post. Close. Too close. The crowd groaned, then cheered when we recovered.

With two minutes left, the other team pulled their goalie for an extra attacker. Chaos on the ice. Sticks clashing, bodies colliding. 

I won the face-off, dished the puck to a winger, and watched as he buried it in the empty net. Game over. The final horn blared, and the stands erupted.

Team celebration swallowed me — helmet taps, back slaps, shouts of victory. But as we skated off, I broke away early, heading straight for the front row where Lila still sat.

She stood when I approached the glass, cheeks flushed from the cold or the noise or both. Her eyes met mine through the barrier, wide and uncertain.

I didn’t think. Just pulled off my glove and pressed my bare palm flat against the glass. She hesitated only a second before lifting her hand to match it, fingers aligning with mine on the other side. The cold surface did nothing to dull the warmth that shot up my arm.

“You came,” I said, loud enough for her to hear over the fading cheers.

She nodded, a small smile breaking through. “You told me to.”

The simple words hit harder than any check. I wanted to vault the boards, pull her close right there in front of everyone, and kiss her again — not for practice, not for show, but because the urge had been building since lunch.

Instead I kept my voice steady. “Wait for me after. We’ll walk out together.”

Her breath fogged the glass slightly. “Okay.”

I lingered a moment longer, memorizing the way her eyes softened behind her glasses. Then the team called my name, pulling me back toward the locker room.

Inside, the noise was deafening — music blasting, guys yelling stats and replaying highlights. I stripped off my gear on autopilot, showering quickly, the hot water doing little to wash away the buzz under my skin.

When I emerged, hair still damp, jacket zipped over a clean hoodie, Jett was waiting by the exit, keys in hand.

“Heading out?” he asked.

“Yeah. With her.”

He studied me for a beat too long. “Be careful, Jax. Fake or not, she’s not like the others. You break her again and…”

“I know,” I cut in, sharper than I meant. The guilt I’d been shoving down all day clawed higher.

Jett just nodded and clapped my shoulder once before disappearing into the crowd.

I found Lila near the side entrance, away from the main rush. She’d pulled her scarf tighter, hands buried in her pockets. Snow fell heavier now, fat flakes catching in her hair.

“Ready?” I asked, offering my arm.

She took it, her fingers curling lightly around my bicep. The contact grounded me and unsettled me at the same time.

We walked toward the parking lot in silence at first, boots crunching fresh powder. Her shoulder brushed mine with every step. The quiet felt loaded — not awkward, but full of things neither of us was saying.

Halfway to my truck, she spoke. “You played really well tonight.”

“Thanks.” I glanced down at her. “Having you there helped.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not completely.

She looked up, searching my face. The streetlights caught her features, soft and open in a way that made my chest ache.

For a second I considered telling her everything — the stupid decisions from freshman year, the way I’d let fear of losing status push her away, the real reason I couldn’t stand watching her hurt anymore.

But the words stuck.

Instead I stopped under a lamppost, turning to face her. Snow dusted her lashes. My hand rose on its own, brushing a flake from her cheek with my thumb.

The touch lingered.

Her breath hitched, just like at lunch.

This time when I leaned in, it wasn’t practice. It wasn’t planned.

It was slower. Deeper. Her lips parted under mine, and the world narrowed to the taste of winter air and the soft sound she made in the back of her throat.

When we broke apart, foreheads still close, I whispered against her skin, “This is getting harder to fake.”

Her eyes fluttered open, vulnerable and questioning.

My pulse thundered.

Because the scariest part wasn’t that I’d said it.

It was how much I meant it.