Puck Tease (Sin Bin #1)

Chapter 1

I sat hunched at the cheap IKEA desk, the particle board digging into my thighs, in the corner of my bedroom.

A PDF on macroeconomics glowed on my laptop screen, a useless beacon.

The cursor hadn’t twitched in twenty minutes.

The words blurred, grey static, refusing to coalesce into meaning.

My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs, fueled by a wired mix of caffeine and pre-workout, and something heavier, a lead weight of obsession I’d buried deep for four years.

It pulsed, a constant throb behind my eyes, making the room seem to swim.

My schedule, etched in my mind, had me three miles away, buried in the hushed stacks of the library.

Jax, on the other hand, should have been a world away, at the rink, gliding across pristine ice.

A pre-season scrimmage, a press conference, some public appearance that maintained his untouchable aura as the golden boy of Michigan State hockey.

That was the script. We were planets in a terrifyingly tight orbit, navigating the worn carpet of the hallway with stiff nods, keeping the bathroom door locked between us.

We breathed the same air, yet existed in separate realities, pretending we were nothing more than two guys whose parents happened to be neighbors back in Detroit, splitting the rent on a cheap off-campus apartment.

We pretended I didn’t trace the curve of his shoulder with my gaze when he thought I wasn't looking. We pretended he didn’t feel the burn of it.

Six-foot, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of dense, heavy muscle.

I outweighed most of the linebackers on the football team, my shoulders broader than theirs.

This body was armor, a fortress built brick by brick to stop the feeling of shrinking, of being dwarfed, whenever Jax Carter stood beside me.

It hadn't worked. Jax could still stride into a room and the air thinned, the light seemed to bend towards him. My breath would catch, a knot forming in my gut, every time.

I snatched my phone from the desk. The screen glowed, empty. No texts, no courtesy "stopping by" warnings. My thumb flew to the team app—a digital leash, a shameful habit. The GPS tracker, a tiny red dot, still showed the team bus parked at the arena complex, across town.

A slow exhale loosened the vise around my chest. My shoulders dropped an inch. I was safe.

I slapped the laptop shut. The fan whirred for a moment, then died, leaving the room in a silence that felt even heavier than before.

My knees cracked like dry twigs as I pushed to my feet.

A jolt of restless energy, sharp and insistent, coiled in my gut, demanding release.

I needed to move, to burn this restless itch.

My feet carried me to the shared closet, a sliding door monstrosity that delineated our two worlds.

On my side, button-downs hung in neat, color-coded rows.

His side was a battlefield. Hoodies lay crumpled on the floor, jeans dangled precariously from single belt loops, and in the corner, a dark, bulging shadow: the laundry hamper.

It was overflowing.

A mesh bag, distended, stuffed to the brim with the detritus of his week.

My logical brain screamed repulsion. It should have been repulsive.

Instead, a gravitational drag I couldn’t fight.

It reeked of the locker room—that specific, chemical bite of treated ice, the acrid tang of old rubber, the sharp, metallic sting of stale adrenaline, and beneath it all, the overwhelming, potent musk of pure male sweat.

To anyone else, it was just dirty laundry. To me, the scent promised a rush, a dizzying high. It smelled like everything I shouldn't touch.

My gaze locked onto it. A voice, small and rational, urged retreat. Walk away, Tom. You’re a scholarship student, a grown man with a future. Not some pervert sniffing his roommate's gym clothes like a dog in heat.

My feet remained rooted to the spot, concrete blocks.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate bird flailing against a cage of bone. Just one hit. A whisper in my ear. Just to take the edge off. He wouldn’t be back for hours. The scrimmage ran until six. Then showers. Then team dinner. I had time.

My hand, a traitor, trembled as it reached out, a slight tremor betraying the cool facade I usually maintained. I plunged it into the mesh bag, pushing past the stiff, salty fabric of tube socks and a towel that still carried the chill of dampness.

My fingertips brushed against the coarse, synthetic mesh.

I pulled it out.

His practice jersey. Dark green. The number 17, stark white, peeled slightly at one corner. It felt heavy in my hand, stiff with dried sweat, the salty crust clinging to the fabric. The neckline, a darker shade of green, was stained.

I lifted it, bringing it to my face.

I inhaled.

The scent was a physical blow, a concussive force that slammed into my limbic system, bypassing thought, going straight for instinct.

It was raw, visceral. Intoxicating. It reeked of violence and pure, unadulterated effort.

It smelled, undeniably, like Jax. My stomach lurched, and a hot, shameful wave pooled low in my gut, bypassing my brain entirely, a direct current to my groin.

"Fuck," I rasped, the word muffled against the fabric.

My cock sprang to attention, instantly, painfully hard. The grey cotton of my boxer-briefs strained, tenting awkwardly, a blatant accusation.

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't.

But the scent was already deep in my lungs, a heady fog, and logic dissolved like smoke. I turned, clutching the jersey like a lifeline, and stumbled toward my bed. The mattress groaned a low protest as I dropped onto the edge.

My sweatpants pooled around my ankles, tangling with my sneakers as I kicked them off. I didn’t bother removing them completely; I just needed access.

I sat there, in my t-shirt and briefs, legs spread wide, Jax’s sweat-soaked jersey heavy in my lap. My hands ran over the coarse mesh, rough and abrasive against my palms. I imagined it was his skin, taut over muscle. I imagined the rough stubble of his jaw, the calloused grip of his hands.

My hand dove down, fumbling, into the front of my boxers.

My cock sprang free, angry, weeping with pre-cum. A clear bead sealed the tip shut. I gripped myself. My own hand felt too small, too familiar, the skin too soft. I wanted something heavier. Rougher.

I wrapped the jersey around my fist.

The mesh, initially cold against my hot skin, quickly warmed. I stroked myself, the rough fabric of his number 17 scraping against the sensitive skin of my shaft. The friction was a sharp, burning drag, the tiny holes of the mesh catching and dragging.

A groan tore from my throat. My head fell back, eyes squeezing shut.

"Jax," I breathed, the name a raw sound, a curse and a prayer.

I leaned forward, burying my nose back into the collar of the jersey, dragging the scent deep into my lungs, letting it dizzy me.

Below, my hand worked a steady, punishing rhythm.

I imagined him standing over me. Not the roommate Jax who grunted about needing more milk.

But the Captain. The monster on the ice who drove opponents through the glass for the sheer pleasure of it.

I imagined him walking in, seeing me like this, and not turning away.

I imagined the click of the lock, the heavy weight of his body pinning me down, his voice a low growl in my ear, telling me I was pathetic, disgusting, exactly what he wanted.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

The wet, rhythmic sound of my fist hitting my own thigh echoed loud in the quiet room.

I was close. Too fast. It always happened like this when it came to him. Shame, a potent accelerant, poured gasoline on the fire. I was a thief, a creep, defiling his property with my own filth.

The degradation made my hips buck, an involuntary spasm.

I stroked faster, abandoning any pretense of pacing. I twisted the jersey tighter around my dick, wringing myself out. I needed release, needed to empty this pressure before it cracked my ribs.

My breathing turned ragged, harsh pants tearing from my throat. "Fuck... Captain... please..."

I was there. The edge was a physical cliff, my toes curling over the precipice. White static bloomed at the corners of my vision. My thighs clenched, my entire body vibrating, ready to bust.

Then, a floorboard creaked.

It was barely a sound. Just the subtle shift of weight on old wood.

But in the heavy silence of the apartment, it ripped through me like a gunshot.

My eyes snapped open.

The adrenaline dump hit my heart so hard I thought it stopped beating. Blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and dizzy, a sudden emptiness in my head.

I wasn't alone.

My head snapped up.

Jax stood framed in the doorway.

He wasn’t in his gear. He wore street clothes: faded jeans, a black hoodie, arms crossed casually over his chest. He leaned against the doorframe, relaxed, as if he’d been standing there for a while.

As if he’d been watching.

Time warped, stretching thin, then snapping.

The universe compressed down to the terrifying, suffocating distance between my bed and the door.

My muscles locked, a sudden, rigid paralysis.

My hand, still wrapped around my cock, froze.

The navy-blue jersey was tangled in my fist, the stark white number 17 glaring against my pale skin.

My legs lay spread wide, sweatpants around my ankles.

Exposed. Caught. Dead.

"Jax," I choked out, the name a breathless croak, barely audible.

He didn’t move. Not a muscle twitched. His face was unreadable, a mask of stone. His eyes—those cold, glacier-blue eyes that could spot a passing lane through three defenders on the ice—were locked, not on my face, but on my hand. On the jersey.

No anger tightened the lines around his mouth. No disgust wrinkled his nose.