it.
Had Coach given it to her or had she been there? Jackson had been so focused on the game, on the win, and on taking down any dickhead stupid enough to throw a fist in his direction, it didn’t surprise him that he couldn’t remember Hayley being there. Still, he found himself wishing he could place her in the stands that day.
He closed his hand around the puck. Hayley wasn’t the only one who’d been caught off guard.
Careful not to disturb her more than he had to, he grabbed the corner of the quilt on the bed and dragged it up to her waist.
She stirred, but her eyes remained closed, her face relaxed. Peaceful. No narrowed eyes, flushed cheeks from him pushing her buttons or even that slow, sexy smile that seemed to precede every other witty comeback.
So why was he still so turned on? And why was the urge to slip his fingers beneath those panties so at war with a strong need to crawl beneath the covers and pull her into his arms?
Downstairs, Jackson took his time cleaning up and washing out his brushes for the next day. He left only the kitchen light on, and headed out to the dock, where he sat, removed his sandals and plunked his feet in the cool water.
The puck lay next to him, and he flipped it around in his hand, listening to the occasional owl across the lake for longer than he planned.
For the first time in years, it felt good to be back in Promise Harbor.
Before his accident he’d always been too focused on making the playoffs or waiting for the next hockey season to start to appreciate coming home. It had been easier to get his parents to visit him, and for a while there he’d gotten a little caught up in showing off the new life he’d built to both his parents and his friends from the harbor.
Maturity and the accident had given him some much-needed perspective on that front, but he’d still avoided returning to the harbor.
Sitting on Coach’s dock, his feet in the cool, dark water and a beautiful, clear night settling in around him, he couldn’t quite remember why it had been so important not to come back.
He didn’t turn around when footsteps padded down the dock behind him.
“Have you always been so stubborn?” He watched Hayley sit next to him, following the long line of her legs as she curled one beneath her and slid her other foot into the water.
If she understood he was talking about her getting up when she clearly needed the sleep, she only shrugged, then nodded to the puck in his hand. “Still stealing? Getting tased really made an impression on you, I see.”
“Why do you have it?”
“It was a memorable game.” She reached for it, but she wasn’t fast enough.
He held it out of her reach. “And you cart it around with you?”
“We all have our good luck charms.”
Jackson wasn’t buying it. “A rabbit’s foot and four-leaf clover are good luck charms.”
“Tell that to every hockey player who stops shaving during Stanley Cup playoffs.”
“Not luck,” he corrected. “Tradition. Really, what’s with the puck?” he pressed.
Gaze trained on the lake, she kicked at the water. “It was the last thing my dad gave me.”
As far as sad subjects went, she had his beat flat out. Jackson offered the unopened beer he’d brought with him. She took it, twisted off the cap and made him grin at the long drink she chugged.
Atta girl.
“It was a great game, even if the ref did have his head up his ass for most of it.”
“Coach made you leave.” The memory came out of nowhere. “You kept screaming at the ref.” How had he forgotten that?
“The ref was an idiot and wouldn’t have known the difference between an icing call and an ice cream sundae if people were throwing peanuts at him.” She took another drink. “And Gramps didn’t make me leave. I just wasn’t allowed to be within shouting distance of the players’ bench.”
He shook his head. “How did you end up going from that rebellious girl to a straitlaced cop?”
“Straitlaced? Forget about the tasing the other night already?” She laughed. “Not everyone would share the opinion of my being straitlaced.” She took another drink. “My mother, for example,” she added, when he threw her a questioning look.
Jackson remembered how much tougher Mrs. Stone had been compared to his mother growing up. There was never any pulling the wool over her eyes,