by Luis, Maria
For the third season in the last five years, Jackson has led the Blades to victory as their head coach after Coach Hall retired. Without waiting for the board’s permission, Hall promoted Jackson because he refused to pass his team into anyone else’s hands. If you ask any of the other teams in the league how they feel about the Blades’ winning streak, there’s sure to be a host of four-letter words being bandied about.
If you ask a Blades player or fan, Jackson is a god among men.
“Man just keeps getting better with age,” Kammer told a journalist a few years back. “Let’s get real here for a sec, he wears a goddamn cape during playoffs and no one—not a single person judges him for it. Instead, they’re selling capes out of the gift shop. That, my friend, is the power of Jackson Carter.”
It’d be funny if it weren’t also true.
And, as I’ve told my husband during late nights while he watches clips and I edit footage for Carter Photography, it’s also damn sexy.
“Mommy? Cereal?”
I spare the Cup one more glance. “Can you pull the Frosted Flakes out while I wake up Daddy?”
My words fall on deaf ears as Mikey all but sprints to his special cupboard. Stanley tosses me a look, then trots after his favorite person.
There’s no loyalty in this house, I tell you. Since Mikey’s birth, I might as well be chopped liver to the Dane. But as Stanley stands over my son, always watching his back the way he’s done for four years, I merely fumble for my phone and snap another picture of the two of them together.
The picture isn’t perfectly angled or aligned, but it’s the content that matters to me most.
After settling in Mikey with a bowl that is not the Stanley Cup—Kammer’s a player and, knowing him, I have no doubt that Lord Stanley has been through some debauchery during the twenty-four hours where Josh had the trophy—and propping him in front of the TV with one of his favorite shows, I head up our worn stairs to the second floor.
We sold Jackson’s condo the month Mikey was born. Living in the city worked when it was just the two of us, but we wanted more space. We’re on the South Shore now, just twenty minutes outside of Boston, but with a house on the oceanfront for Jackson and an outdoor mother-in-law suite that we converted into a studio for me.
The old Colonial shows its bones in the most beautiful ways, and as I ascend the circular stairwell, I run my hand along the oak balustrade.
On quiet feet, I head for our master bedroom at the end of the hall.
This season was harder on Jackson than the last few. The Blades finally overhauled their team, as Steven Fairfax had predicted ages ago, and it wore my husband down to the bone.
When I push open our door, it’s to find him still tangled in the bed and shoved into one corner. My mouth turns up at the thought of Stanley from this morning, his ass near our faces and his giant paws shoving Jackson and I to the ends of the earth.
I leave the door ajar in case Mikey calls for me, then climb into the bed beside my husband.
He groans in his sleep and rolls over, his arms instinctively reaching for me. “Holls?”
The Texan drawl is softer now, like an age-old blanket that’s been used down to the threads. When he’s angry or excited or ready to tear my clothes off, the accent always makes a delicious comeback.
He’s naked beneath the sheets and I sling one leg over his waist. “Time to wake up, Mr. I Am The Champion.”
His erection brushes my core as he rolls on top of me. “Don’t start quoting Queen at me this early in the morning.” He nuzzles the crook of my neck; his stubbled jawline makes me shiver. “I already had to deal with Carl calling me yesterday. Wanted to know if I was interested in going to a Celine concert next month.”
Laughter climbs my throat. “You’d think that after all these years he’d realize you can’t stand Celine Dion.”
He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Our one night of karaoke together sealed the deal forever. Do you know how many concerts I’ve been to with him at this point?”
My hands skim down over his hard obliques to the firm curve of his butt. “Seven?”
“Twelve, Holls. Twelve. He keeps count.”
Just to see his eyes narrow, I begin to hum the chorus to My Heart Will Go On.
Poor Jackson. It’s like a needle in his skin now. The minute I start humming, he’s singing the words right along with me. He breaks off with a pained groan. “I’m going to tell Carl I’d rather eat my own toenails than go to another of her concerts.”
I pat his back in mock-sympathy. “You want me to go with you this time? Or am I off the hook?”
“You’re so not off the hook.”
Warm lips find my collarbone, pressing soft kisses there until Jackson is rolling my nipple between his fingers and my panties are being shoved to the side. He dips his fingers into my wet heat, then drags them to my clit, which he rubs in tight, little circles.
“Mikey—” He grinds out, looking over his shoulder at the door. “Is he watching TV?”
I nod, already wrapping my hand around Jackson’s hard-on. “Are you sure you feel okay?”
“Never been better, sweetheart.”
It’s his standard answer when I ask about his headaches. They come and they go, as they always have, but the researchers at Boston University, along with Dr. Mebowitz, are convinced that it will be many years—maybe decades—before Jackson experiences anything worse than his current symptoms. It’s not a perfect diagnosis and I’d be lying if I said there haven’t been nights when the stress of those blasted what-ifs have worn my confidence down.
But Jackson is adamant that he’s doing better than he ever has. When the season grows busier, it’s easy for me to see that his anxiety rises along with it—and that anxiety, as we’ve learned, is another indicator of CTE. When the panic rises, I’m right there with him to ride out the storm.
And when he pulls off another win for his hockey family, like he did a month ago, I know that he believes that everything has worked out as it’s fated to be.
Trust me to fall in love with a man who will tear a guy a new asshole on the ice and then, hours later, spend the evening with me on the balcony as we search for shooting stars.
My breath catches in my throat as Jackson eases me onto my stomach and fits an arm between me and the bed. He urges me up on my knees, tipping my butt in the air, and then his cock is pressing into me.
I moan his name into a pillow, my hands fisting the sheets.
His thrusts are slow, languid, like he has all the time in the world to make love to me. Big, masculine hands follow the line of my spine, and, God, it feels so good. Jackson reads me like I’m a language only he understands.
When he fists my hair, I arch my back and beg for more.
When the pump of his hips picks up speed, I sink downward and meet him thrust for thrust.
His damp chest connects with my damp back, and he returns his arm to fold over my belly. I feel every drag of his cock. Every drag, every pump, every time he can’t help himself from kissing my shoulders as he brings us both to the edge.
“Fuck,” he groans behind me.
With every ounce of energy that I have, I lift onto my hands and twist to stare at him over one glistening shoulder. He’s every inch the man I fell in love with nineteen years ago, but so much more after everything we’ve been through together.
I flip my hand over, palm up.
Jackson’s dark gaze drags off my face to my waiting hand, and he shifts his weight to settle a palm over mine. The angle changes, his hips pistoning faster and faster, and I burst apart the second he circles my hips and presses down on my clit.
He pumps once more, twice, and then his rugged face twists with pleasure as he empties himself inside me. “Damn,” he breathes out, holding up his weight so he doesn’t squash me. “I could go for some pancakes.”
“Well, the Cup is in the house,” I tease, wriggling my butt under him, “I suppose I could cook pancakes in celebration instead of head
ing to South Street and our favorite diner.”
“You’re a goddess.”
“Damn right I am. Don’t you forget it.”
Jackson’s mouth finds mine. The kiss is familiar now, a high that reminds me of home and safety and love but is no less exciting than the very first one he gave me so long ago. I pull back and brush my finger over the crooked slope of his nose and then trace the white scar on his left cheek.
“Do you have any regrets?” I ask softly.
“For the season?”
“For life.”
“None,” he says, rolling me onto my back so he can stretch out alongside me. “I love you, Holly Belliveaux Carter. I love Stanley, our firstborn, and I love Mikey. He reminds me so much of you—always so inquisitive.”
“He’s already in skates, Jackson. I’m pretty sure that he’s got future hockey star written all over him.”
Jackson’s nose nuzzles mine. “I’m gonna make a change, sweetheart. I won’t let what happened to me happen to our son.”
“I know.”
And I do.
Only, I don’t have the chance to expand on that because my heart rips out of my chest when I hear Mikey scream.
Jackson and I are out of the bed in a heartbeat. I’m mostly dressed still, and as I sail down the steps—my husband hot on my tail—I think of everything that could have gone wrong. Did I leave the stove on? Was there a knife on the table? Did my baby fall and hurt himself?
“Mikey!” I call out. “Mikey, baby, Mommy is right—”
I skid to a halt.
Blink.
My son’s sitting on the couch where I left him, eating his favorite Frosted Flakes, and staring at Stanley peeing on Stanley.
As in, my Great Dane pissing on the Stanley Cup.
I hear Jackson’s arrival before I see him. “Well, shit,” he mutters, “that’s got to be blasphemous on so many different levels.”
“Let’s never speak of this moment again?” I ask.
“Lips are sealed, sweetheart. Lips. Are Sealed.”
Unfortunately, it only takes the arrival of Beaumont, Harrison, Hunt, and their families later that afternoon for Mikey to spill the beans to anyone who’ll listen to him retell the story of furry Stanley lifting his leg and going to town all over the greats of the NHL marked on the Stanley Cup—including Mikey’s own father, Jackson Carter.
I lock eyes with my husband across the room as we watch our son demonstrate the events of the morning. Jackson drags his thumb across his bottom lip in that familiar way of his as he watches me, humor lighting his rugged features.
“Always you,” he mouths for me only.
I don’t shush my heart, the way I may have done years ago. Instead I curl my hand into a fist and kiss my first knuckle, then mouth back, “I love you too.”
The End.
* * *
Do you want to know a secret? We won’t be seeing the end of one character from BODY CHECK - Dominic DaSilva, the sports analyst from Sports 24/7! We’ll be seeing more of him in my upcoming series, Put A Ring On It. Be sure to sign up for the alert to learn more!
Author’s Note
Behind the Book: the NHL & CTE
The Blades is the series that was never meant to be a series—but I don’t think I’ve ever been so grateful for inspiration striking me like a shovel to the face. (Elegant, I know). Of all the couples I’ve written—and this is my 10th book!—Holly & Jackson truly spoke to me on so many different levels.
More specifically, this book needed writing for so many different reasons. We’ve all been in Holly’s position, fighting for our happiness and discovering who we’re meant to be. As for Jackson . . . from page one, I knew that I wanted to bring light to a controversial topic that has been a “plague” to the NHL (and other sports) for a number of years now.
Players like Larry Zeidel, Gary Leeman, Derek “Boogeyman” Boogaard, Dave “The Hammer” Schultz, Stephen Peat, Steve Montador, and so many others, have all suffered TBI or CTE to varying degrees. In 2016, 100 former and current NHL players sued the league when the NHL refused to acknowledge the link between concussions and CTE. Some players joined the petition, then dropped out, no doubt fearing that linking their name to a cause such as this might have a negative effect on their careers.
As Gary Leeman once put it, “‘The protocol was, ‘Can you go? If not, we’ll replace you,’ Leeman said. ‘The team’s response was, they asked me if I could play. . . . You felt like you needed to retain your spot in the roster, or you’re going to lose it. If you got hit in the head, there was no time for you to figure out what was going on’” (The Washington Post).
Below, I have attached a list of sources about the NHL and CTE, should you find your interest piqued and would like to know more.
For now, I just wish to say that—as this is fiction—I’d like to think Jackson lives a long, healthy life where he makes a change within the NHL. He has a voice, as Holly said, and he intends to use it. Writing Body Check was always meant to focus on the psyche of Jackson as a player, and not on the medical treatments that no doubt follow his diagnosis.
This is a romance, after all, and I so hope you enjoyed Holly & Jackson’s love story!
Sources about the NHL & CTE
“After Former Player’s Death, Concussion Litigation Against N.H.L. Gains Heft.” John Branch. New York Times. 18 February 2015. Access here: https://nyti.ms/2wR6iZX
“Derek Boogaard: A Boy Learns to Brawl.” John Branch. New York Times. 3 December 2011. Access here: https://nyti.ms/2Q7WoeF
“Former Players are Suing NHL over Concussions but Remain Loyal to Hockey.” The Washington Post. 25 May 2016. Access here: https://wapo.st/2NtDBfv
“I Love Everything About Hockey…Except for the Preventable Traumatic Brain Injuries.” Lisa Patrick. The Good Men Project. 8 January 2017. Access here: http://bit.ly/2NSZSQK
“I Punched Out: The Death of Derek Boogaard.” Times Documentaries, New York Times. Access here: https://nyti.ms/2QbGAaW
“The Fight to Save My Brain | Daniel Carcillo.” The Real Athlete. Spring 2018. Access here (Facebook only): http://bit.ly/2M6wPr7
For more information on CTE - its symptoms and the research that exists on the disease - there is no better source than the CTE Center at Boston University. You can access the website at the following link and learn more about brain injuries. Access here: http://www.bu.edu/cte/
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Dear Fabulous Reader
Hi there! I so hope you enjoyed BODY CHECK, and if you are new to my books, welcome to the family!
In the back of all my books, I love to include a Dear Fabulous Reader section that talks about what locations from the book can be visited in real life or what sparked my inspiration for a particular plot point. (I like to think of it as the Extras on DVD’s, LOL).
As always, we’re hitting it up bullet-point style. Enjoy!
There are so many snippets in this book that I’ve tried to be selective—otherwise we’ll be here for days! To begin, it’s best to admit that Trinity Church, where Zoe and Andre marry, is a real church in Boston! It is stunning and should you ever have the chance to visit, I hope that you will! Fun fact: in the 70s when the towering John Hancock building was erected, its glass windows were - ahem - not so secure. Many of them crashed down on the church!
Getting Pucked, anyone? My inspiration came straight from Hard Knocks over
on HBO and also my love for reality TV. It seemed like a perfect fit to bring the two of these lovebirds back together after all they’d been through!
Do you remember that crazy tale Jackson tells Holly about the Playboys and Christmas lights? Well, I’m here to admit that . . . the story is true. Well, partly true—I had to take fictional liberties, obviously. The owner of those Christmas lights and Playboy magazines? Mr. Luis’ father. Two years ago, Mr. Luis and I were helping his dad move when Mr. Luis propped a massive box at the top of the attic ladder and told me to ease it down. There was no easing, let me just tell you that. It burst apart from old-age within seconds and the next thing I knew, it was raining glass bulbs and breasts everywhere. I don’t think Mr. Luis has ever laughed harder and to this day, I like to remind his dad that he tried to do me in. Don’t worry, all parties are aware the story made it into the book! His dad, one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, laughed and said, “Not exactly the way I thought I’d be remembered, but I’ll take it.”
At one point in the book, Jackson mentions a video he watched where a NHL player breaks down in a mini-documentary while talking about the effects of brain injuries. That video is one I watched in real-life, narrated by former NHL player Daniel Carcillo about his personal experiences, and can be found here. It is heartbreaking but well worth a watch if you have the time. (Please note that the video is exclusive to the Facebook platform).
If you’re in the mood for some late night diner food while visiting Boston, I highly recommend South Street Diner, where Holly & Jackson went after their shenanigans in the parking lot. The food is on point and it’s open twenty-four hours, seven days per week.
Random fact: the Safe Space thread with the Blades boys actually came from a group chat that Mr. Luis belongs to. It’s his video game peeps but it is titled “Safe Space” and you can bet I put it in this book just as my little amusement. Now you’re on in the inside joke too!