All Chapters of The Hockey Playboy's Plus Size Obsession : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

**MILA'S POV**"Jax," I whispered, the name catching in my throat as my eyes locked onto that rhythmic, blinking red light. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."Jax didn't answer. He was already moving, his athletic frame vaulting over the control console. His face was a mask of cold, hard focus, the terror of a bomb threat eclipsed by the singular, burning need to keep the people in this building alive."Stay here," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument."Like hell I will!" I shouted, grabbing my radio. "If that’s a bomb, we need to clear the arena. Now!"I didn't wait for him. I clicked the frequency to the internal arena security channel. "This is Agent Santiago. Initiate code red evacuation of Frost Bank Arena immediately. I repeat, full evacuation. Bomb threat on center ice. Move!"The arena erupted. Alarms began to blare—a deafening, rhythmic scream that echoed off the high rafters. Jax didn't try to stop me this time; he knew me too well. He dove through the servi

The world was a kaleidoscope of soft white lights, the rhythmic, electronic *beep-beep-beep* of a heart monitor, and the lingering, antiseptic scent of a hospital room. When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing I saw wasn't the ceiling. It was Jax.He was sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chair squeezed right against the side of the hospital bed, his massive frame hunched over. His forehead was resting against the edge of my mattress, and his hand was gripping mine with a desperate, crushing intensity. He hadn't changed out of his practice jersey; it was stained with ice-melt and salt, and his dark hair was a wild, tangled mess.I shifted slightly, and the movement was instantaneous. He jerked his head up, his emerald eyes bloodshot and wide, vibrating with a raw, terrifying level of concern."Mila?" His voice was a wreck—hoarse, thick, and trembling. He didn't wait for a reply; he just stood up and leaned over me, his hands cupping my face with a gentleness that betrayed how

​The morning of the wedding didn't break with a soft, cinematic light. It broke with the frantic, beautiful energy of a hurricane.​By 10:00 AM, my suite at the hotel was a graveyard of discarded garment bags, half-empty champagne flutes, and the frantic screeching of three different hair stylists. My dress, a custom ivory silk gown that hugged my curves and accommodated the small bump of our baby, hung on the closet door like a promise.​I was sitting in the makeup chair, trying to breathe, when the door opened and my mother, Tanya, walked in. She was wearing a stunning emerald green gown, her hair swept up in a sophisticated style that still held a hint of her trademark sass.​She walked over to me, her expression uncharacteristically soft. She didn't have her usual clipboard or a list of demands. She just stood behind me, looking at my reflection in the mirror.​"You look like a queen, baby," she said, her voice thick with emotion.​"I’m nervous, Mom," I admitted, my hands gripping

The bliss of the wedding night had lasted exactly two weeks. By the start of the third, my hormones decided to turn my entire personality into a high-stakes hockey game where the rules changed every ten minutes.It wasn't just being "emotional." It was a volcanic shift in my internal climate. One minute, I was staring at a bowl of strawberries, weeping because they looked "too lonely," and the next, I was convinced that the way Jax was buttering his toast was a deliberate, passive-aggressive slight against my intelligence."You’re doing it again," I snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the toast. "You’re spreading it with that specific aggressive scrape. You’re mad about the nursery paint, aren’t you?"Jax froze, the butter knife hovering in mid-air. He looked exhausted, his dark circles a testament to the fact that he’d been catering to my every whim since the sun rose. "Mila, sunshine, I love the 'Cloudy Grey' paint. I really do. I’m just trying to make breakfast.""Don't call me

The house was a ticking clock of muffled groans and the heavy, rhythmic thud of pacing.​It had been five days. Five days of Mila’s abdomen tightening like a clenched fist, the sensation rolling over her in relentless, punishing waves that refused to subside into a proper labor pattern. She sat on the oversized leather sofa in the living room, her body curved around the massive weight of their son, her knuckles white as she gripped the armrests.​Every ten minutes, her breath hitched. Her eyes would glaze over, her jaw would lock, and her entire frame would strain against the invisible pressure squeezing her from the inside out.​Jax was a blur of motion. He had a damp cloth in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, his face a landscape of exhausted terror. He wasn't the goalie anymore; he was a man witnessing a slow-motion collision he couldn't deflect. He knelt before her, his large hands hovering just inches from her knees, not daring to touch her until the wave passed.​"Breathe