Chapter 89 CHAPTER 89

Chapter 89 CHAPTER 89
Julian’s Pov

The physical paycheck didn't arrive in a heavy, cream-colored linen envelope embossed with a family crest, nor was it wire-transferred in six-figure increments by a personal wealth manager at an offshore private bank.

It was handed to me in a plain white business envelope by our equipment manager, a taciturn man named Sal who doubled as the team’s payroll clerk on alternate Mondays. He dropped it onto the low wooden bench in my stall before our post-game video session, along with a roll of clear shin-pad tape.

I sat alone on the bench after the rest of the squad had cleared out for lunch, holding the small rectangle of paper in my hands.

I slid my index finger under the paper seal and pulled out the check.

MIDWEST WOLVERINES ATHLETIC CORP.

Pay to the Order of: Julian Thorne

Amount: $542.18

Memo: Pre-Season Game 1 Per Diem & Base Strikepay

Five hundred and forty-two dollars and eighteen cents.

I stared at the black-ink numbers printed by a noisy dot-matrix printer. In my former life, five hundred dollars was less than the tip my father left on the table after a casual midweek business lunch at the country club. It was the price of a single silk tie I’d worn once to an alumni dinner and forgotten in the back of a mahogany closet.

Yet, as I held the thin slip of paper between my thumbs, my hands trembled slightly.

This wasn't an allowance. It wasn't a dividend from a trust fund designed to keep me compliant, nor was it a strategic bribe meant to ensure I smiled gracefully for corporate investors. Every single cent represented sixty minutes of ice time: four bruised ribs, two lost teeth in the scrimmage squad, a silver scar on my cheekbone, and forty-five miles of morning sprints down the seafoam-green corridors of the River District arena.

It was the first money I had ever owned in my twenty-two years that carried zero obligations, zero strings, and zero threat of repossession.

Jax stepped out of the training room, a ice pack strapped around his left elbow with a beige compression wrap. He stopped in the doorway of the locker room, leaning his broad frame against the steel jamb, his dark eyes taking in the way I was staring at the small piece of paper.

"You look like you're holding a winning lottery ticket, Jules," Jax said softly, his voice carrying that warm, low rasp that always settled my nerves.

I looked up at him, a genuine, unpracticed smile spreading across my face.

"It’s better than a lottery ticket, Jaxom," I whispered, holding the check out toward him. "It’s mine."

Jax walked over, his heavy rubber flip-flops slapping against the floorboards. He didn't look at the number. He just reached down, caught the back of my neck with his broad, warm hand, and pulled my forehead gently against his collarbone, holding me steady in the quiet room.

"Yeah, it is," Jax growled softly against my hair. "You earned every damn penny."

By four o'clock, we were pushing a squeaky-wheeled metal shopping cart down aisle four of PATERSON’S BARGAIN GROCERY, a cavernous, concrete-floored supermarket three blocks off the river docks.

The store smelled of damp cardboard, fresh citrus, and cheap floor wax. Fluorescent lights hummed loudly overhead, casting a bright, unvarnished glow over long rows of generic canned goods, bulk rice sacks, and discounted meat trays.

For someone raised with a private chef and a personal nutrition staff, navigating an industrial budget grocery store was like discovering a foreign country.

"Jaxom, why are there eight different varieties of store-brand oats?" I asked, stopping the cart in front of a sprawling shelf display while holding two identical-looking cardboard tubs. "This one says Quick-Cook, and this one says Traditional Whole Grain. They cost one dollar and ninety-nine cents each, but the weight differs by three ounces."

Jax leaned over the handle of the cart, his black thermal shirt pulled tight across his shoulders, a look of profound, affectionate amusement on his face.

"Get the whole grain, Jules," Jax chuckled, reaching into the cart to shift a two-pound bag of yellow onions. "It stays with you longer during three-period games."

"Noted," I said solemnly, dropping the tub into the cart before moving down to the cereal aisle.

That was where our first real domestic impasse occurred.

I stood in front of the brightly colored cereal boxes, my eyebrows furrowing as I examined the nutritional labels. "We need something with complex carbohydrates and low refined sugar for game mornings. This oat bran cluster brand seems appropriate."

Jax groaned, reaching past my shoulder with his long arm and grabbing a giant, family-sized bag of sweetened puffed corn with a cartoon bear printed on the foil wrapper.

"We are not eating birdseed on game mornings, Jules," Jax stated flatly, dropping the three-pound bag of sugar cereal into the cart with a heavy thud. "I’ve eaten this stuff since I was seven. It builds real muscle."

"It builds dental cavities, Jaxom," I replied, picking up the cartoon bear bag by its corner as if it were a biohazard. "The first ingredient listed is literally refined sugar. You cannot run a three-shift defensive rotation on artificial food coloring."

"Watch me," Jax grunted, snatching the bag back and tucking it securely under his arm like a football. "Besides, it’s on sale for two dollars. Your fancy oat clusters are four bucks."

I looked at the price tags on the shelf, then looked at the fierce, stubborn set of Jax’s jaw.

A sudden, lighthearted warmth bubbled up in my chest, a feeling so entirely detached from the cold, high-stakes arguments of my past that I couldn't stop the quiet laugh from escaping my lips. I shook my head, grabbing my four-dollar oat bran anyway, and tossed it right on top of his sugar cereal.

"Fine," I conceded, stepping closer to him in the narrow aisle and resting my forehead briefly against his shoulder. "But if Coach Vaughan notices a drop in your backchecking speed, I am telling him it was the cartoon bear."

Jax let out a short, booming laugh that echoed off the metal shelving, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me tight against his hip for three shameless seconds right in front of the canned soups.

At six-thirty, the small kitchen in our third-floor apartment was filled with the rich, savory aroma of roasted garlic, seared chicken thighs, and rosemary.

During our first winter together in Detroit, my kitchen skills had been a standing joke between us, an embarrassing sequence of scorched pans, set-off smoke alarms, and undercooked rice that usually ended with Jax taking over the stove while I sat on the counter feeling entirely useless.

Tonight was different.

I stood over our small gas stove, wearing an apron over my sweatpants, carefully basting two bone-in chicken thighs with a knob of butter and fresh herbs using a long metal spoon. The skin was crisp, golden-brown, and sizzling perfectly in the cast-iron skillet, while a pot of garlic mashed potatoes steamed quietly on the adjacent burner.

The front door clicked open, and Jax walked in carrying a wooden crate of pine firewood we’d bought from the hardware store downstairs.

He froze in the hallway doorway, his dark eyes widening as the rich smell hit him. He set the heavy crate down near the hearth with a dull thud and walked slowly into the kitchen, his nostrils flaring as he looked at the stove.

"Tell me I'm not hallucinating," Jax muttered, stepping up behind me. "Did you order takeout and put it in my skillet?"

"I did not," I said proudly, using tongs to flip one of the chicken thighs over to reveal a perfectly caramelized, golden crust. "I followed the recipe from the cookbook Evelyn gave us before we left. Everything was timed to the minute."

Jax didn't say anything for a moment. He just stood behind me, his broad chest warm against my back, his chin resting right on my shoulder as he watched the skillet sizzle.

"Look at you," Jax whispered, his voice dropping into a rough, tender tone that made my heart leap against my ribs. "The Ice King is a master chef."

"It's just chicken, Jaxom," I murmured, though my face felt warm with pride.

"It ain't just chicken, Jules," Jax growled softly, his hands coming around my waist, his calloused palms resting over my stomach as he pressed a slow, firm kiss into the crook of my neck. "It’s our food. In our kitchen."

When we sat down at our simple pine table, the one we had built together out of four rough planks from the river lumber yard, Jax cleaned his plate in less than ten minutes. He didn't just eat it; he celebrated every bite like I had just scored an overtime game-winner in the finals, demanding seconds before I’d even finished my first piece.

After the dishes were washed and stacked in the drying rack, the apartment settled into a quiet, sacred stillness.

Outside the three massive river windows, the first real snowstorm of the Midwest winter had begun. Heavy, white flakes drifted down through the dark night sky, swirling past the iron streetlamps and coating the red-brick warehouses, the river barges, and the distant outline of the arena in a soft, pristine blanket of white.

We dragged our foam mattress off the bed frame and laid it flat on the bare oak floorboards right in front of the bay window, covering ourselves with the thick dark blue quilt.

Jax sat with his back against the wall, his long legs stretched out, wearing only a pair of dark sweatpants. I lay between his legs, my back resting flat against his broad chest, his heavy arms wrapped securely around my shoulders, holding me tight against his warmth.

There were no security guards standing outside our door. There were no private investigators taking photos from parked sedans, no public relations managers drafting damage control statements, and no cold, conditional demands from a father who viewed his son as a corporate asset.

The mask was gone. The Thorne legacy was three hundred miles behind us, buried under the snow.

"What are you thinking about?" Jax asked quietly, his chest rising and falling beneath my shoulders in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

I looked out at the falling snow, at the dark, churning water of the river moving steadily toward the great lakes, and at the quiet, solid reality of our small room.

"I was thinking that I've never felt so safe," I whispered softly.

Jax tightened his grip around my chest, his chin resting against the top of my head, his warm breath fanning across my hair.

"Nobody's ever touching you again, Jules," Jax growled softly into the dark. "Not his lawyers, not his money, not his name. This is our house."

I reached up, my long fingers weaving into his thick, calloused hand where it rested over my collarbone, squeezing his fingers until our knuckles pressed tight together.

Ahead of us lay eighty-two games of hard-knuckle minor league hockey: cold rinks, long bus rides across frozen plains, bruised ribs, and cheap motel rooms. But as I closed my eyes and listened to the steady, unshakeable beat of Jax’s heart against my back, I knew the truth.

We had built this life out of the dirt, with our own blood, our own choices, and our own unyielding iron. And the ice ahead was entirely, beautifully ours.

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