Page 199 of Iced Up Love: Part Two
They’ve pulled him straight into it. Of course they have. Rookie. Face of the team.
The one they push forward when they need something polished, something easy, something people can consume without thinking too hard about it.
He’s standing there in front of the cameras, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling just a fraction too fast for someone who’s supposed to look composed.
I can see it immediately.
The tension.
The strain.
It’s subtle, buried under everything he’s learned about how to present himself, how to play this part, but it’s there in the way his shoulders sit just slightly too tight, in the way his smile doesn’t fully land.
He doesn’t want to be there.
Not right now.
“So, Jackson,” one of the reporters says, leaning in just enough to push, “you’ve been absent for the past couple of weeks. Can you tell us what’s been going on?”
There’s a pause. Small. Controlled. Then he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Family stuff,” he says easily. “Had to take some time to deal with it. Everything’s sorted now.”
Another question follows before the moment can settle.
“You’ve also been pretty quiet on social media lately. That’s not something we’re used to seeing from you. Should we expect you to be more active again?”
There it is. The shift. Barely there. But I see it.
The way his jaw tightens. The way his shoulders lock for half a second. The way his eyes flick, like he’s looking for something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he says, still smiling. “I’ll be back on there soon.”
It’s exactly what they want. And I can see how much he fucking hates it. My attention drags back to her. She hasn’t noticed. Or maybe she has and she’s choosing not to look.
She’s still writing. Still lost in it. Still chasing something that looks a hell of a lot like herself.
And the thought hits, sharp and unavoidable.
He’s out there being pulled in a direction he doesn’t want. She’s in here trying to find her way back to herself. And I’m standing in the middle of it, holding everything too tight.
My phone vibrates in my hand. The sound cuts clean through everything.
I don’t hesitate.
I answer.
“Yeah.”
“There’s movement,” Christian says.
Everything in me sharpens instantly.
“What kind of movement?”
“The head of the Vargas family just landed in Houston.”
The words settle in.
