Chapter 1 #2
He looked... bored. A heavy-lidded gaze, a slight slump in his shoulders that suggested he found the scene tedious.
"Don't stop on my account," he said.
His voice was calm, conversational, utterly devoid of emotion. It terrified me more than any scream could have, chilling me to the bone.
My hand flew off my cock like I’d been burned, searing pain where the jersey had been. I scrambled backward on the mattress, a clumsy crab, fumbling to yank the jersey over my lap, desperate to hide the raging, throbbing evidence of my guilt.
"I—I thought you were at the rink," I stammered, my voice jumping an octave, cracking on the words. "The app said—"
"Practice got cancelled. Ice problem," he cut in, pushing off the doorframe. He took a single step into the room. Then another.
His gaze never left my crotch. Even covered by the jersey, the tent in my briefs was undeniable. I was still rock hard. The paralyzing fear hadn’t killed it; God help me, the fear had spiked it higher.
"That my away jersey?" he asked, a slight tilt of his head towards the bundle in my lap.
I looked down. The white 17 stared back at me, a silent, blazing accusation.
"I... I was doing laundry," I lied, the words sounding hollow and pathetic even to my own ears. It was the worst lie in the history of mankind, transparent as glass. "I found it and..."
"And you decided to fuck it?" Jax finished for me, his voice flat.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, a solid wall of indifference. He loomed. Even with the two years of punishing workouts, the muscle I’d packed on specifically to avoid this feeling, he still made me feel small, shrunken. The air pressure dropped—heavy, suffocating—just from his presence.
"I wasn't—"
"Shut up, Tom."
The command was soft, a mere murmur, yet it snapped my mouth shut instantly, my jaw clenching.
Jax pulled his phone from his hoodie pocket. His thumb moved across the screen a few times, his expression still bored, then he turned the phone toward me.
It was a video.
The angle was from the doorway, shaky at first, then steady. It showed me sitting on the edge of the bed. It showed my face buried in the jersey. It showed my hips bucking. It showed my mouth open, my ragged breaths, my whispered name. *Captain... please...*
The audio was crystal clear. The wet, slapping sound of my hand against my thigh. The raw, desperate edge of my breathing.
He’d been filming.
He hadn’t just walked in. He’d stood there, watched me, pulled out his phone, hit record, and waited.
"Delete that," I whispered, the words rasping in my throat. The blood rushed back to my face, a searing flush that made my skin prickle, my stomach churn. "Jax, please. Delete that."
He tapped the screen again, pausing the video. A close-up of my face filled the frame, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent, pleading O.
"Why?" he asked, glancing at me from the phone. A slight, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. "It’s good footage. Lighting’s a bit shit, but the audio? Top tier. The guys in the group chat would lose their minds. 'Look at the little nerd, getting off on the Captain's sweat.'"
My stomach bottomed out, a sickening lurch. The room tilted, spun. My vision tunneled.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
His gaze sharpened, boring into mine. I saw it then: the cold, calculating intelligence, the predatory gleam behind his eyes.
He wasn't the roommate anymore. He wasn't the friend I'd grown up with. He was the shark I’d seen on the ice, circling a wounded player, waiting for the referee to look away before delivering the crushing elbow.
"Jax, I'm begging you," I pleaded, my voice breaking on the last word. Hot, humiliating tears pricked the corners of my eyes, a fresh wave of shame. "My scholarship. My dad. If people see that..."
"Yeah," he agreed, his voice flat. "It would be pretty bad. Career-ending, probably. Social suicide definitely."
He slid the phone back into his hoodie pocket, the gesture deliberate, final.
"Stand up."
I hesitated, a tremor running through me. "What?"
"Stand. Up." His voice, though still soft, carried an undeniable edge of command.
I pushed myself up, my sweatpants tangling around my ankles, forcing me to kick them off completely. I stood there, in my t-shirt, my cock half-hidden by his jersey, my legs bare and shaking.
Jax’s eyes swept over me, a slow, clinical assessment. He inspected me like a piece of equipment he was considering buying but wasn't quite sure was worth the price.
"You got big," he noted, his tone devoid of warmth, a mere observation of mass. "Gym's been paying off."
He took a step closer. He invaded my personal space, bringing that scent—the real scent, not the stale laundry version—right to my nose. He smelled of cedarwood soap and cold air, a clean, sharp scent that cut through the lingering locker room musk.
"Drop the jersey."
I gripped the fabric tighter, my knuckles white. "Jax..."
"Drop it. Or I send the video to Tyler right now."
He pulled the phone halfway out of his pocket, his thumb hovering over the screen.
My fingers went slack.
The navy mesh fell to the floor with a soft rustle, a pathetic puddle at my feet.
I stood there, fully exposed. My cock, still semi-hard, twitched with a confused mix of terror and adrenaline. The cool air from the vent brushed my bare skin. I wanted to cover myself, to curl into a ball and vanish.
Jax’s eyes dropped to my crotch. He stared at it for a long, uncomfortable silence, his gaze unwavering.
"Pathetic," he muttered, a low growl. "Four years we’ve lived together. Four years I’ve slept ten feet away from you. And this whole time, you’ve been a closet case sniffing my jockstraps?"
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me!" His voice cracked, a sharp, sudden thunderclap. He stepped in, closing the distance, and grabbed my chin. His grip was hard, fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my head up, pulling my gaze to meet his.
He stared into my eyes, his pupils blown wide, his gaze was a flat, dark void.
"You're a pervert, Tom. A little freak. You get off on being close to the talent, don't you? You like the smell of the locker room but you're too soft to play the game."
He released my face with a brutal shove.
"Here's the situation," he said, stepping back, crossing his arms again. His tone shifted, becoming flat, businesslike. "I'm stressed. The draft is in three months. The scouts are watching every move I make. Coach is riding my ass about leadership. My shoulders are tight. My head is foggy."
He gestured vaguely at my naked lower half, a dismissive flick of his hand.
"And clearly, you have a lot of... pent-up energy. And a fixation."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying we can help each other."
He turned, walking over to his dresser. He picked up the laundry hamper—the very one I’d raided—and upended it. A cascade of clothes spilled onto the floor.
He kicked through the pile with the toe of his sneaker until he found what he was looking for.
His jockstrap.
The grey, elastic waistband was frayed, stretched. The cup pouch bore a faint, yellowish stain. He picked it up by a strap, dangling it between two fingers.
He walked back to me, holding it out. It swayed inches from my face.
"You like my gear so much?" he asked softly, his voice a silken trap. "You want it?"
I stared at the jock. My heart rate kicked up again, a frantic flutter. Every rational cell in my body screamed in protest. I shouldn't want it. I should punch him. I should pack my bags and leave.
But the video.
And the smell.
And the way he was looking at me—a cold, possessive gaze that stripped me bare, that knew exactly which buttons to press to make me break.
"What do I have to do?" I whispered, my voice a thin thread.
Jax smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a slow, arrogant curl of his lip, a flash of triumph in his eyes, the smile of a man who’d just realized he held a winning lottery ticket he hadn't paid for.
"You do what I say," he said, his voice dropping, "When I say it. No questions. No complaining. You become my stress ball. You take whatever I need to dish out to get my head right for the season."
He leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear.
"You be my bitch, Tom. And in exchange, the video stays in the vault. And maybe... I don’t know... I let you sniff the gear fresh off my body instead of digging it out of the trash like a rat."
He pressed the jockstrap against my chest, the rough fabric a shocking contrast to my bare skin.
"Do we have a deal?"
I looked at him. My eyes flickered to the phone in his pocket. My gaze dropped to the jockstrap pressed against my skin.
A cold dread settled in my chest. I knew this was a bad idea. I knew this would ruin me in ways the video never could, in ways that would hollow me out from the inside.
But God help me, I didn't want him to leave.
My hand, numb, reached up and took the jockstrap. My fingers brushed his, a fleeting spark of contact.
"Deal," I rasped, the word a confession.
Jax’s grin widened. He patted my cheek, a stinging, condescending tap.
"Good boy."
He turned and walked toward the door, his back to me.
"Where are you going?" I asked, my voice thin, clutching his underwear to my chest.
"Shower," he said without looking back. "Practice wasn't cancelled. I just got kicked out for fighting. I'm full of adrenaline and I need to come down."
He stopped at the bathroom door.
"Give me five minutes," he called back over his shoulder. "Then get your ass in here. Naked. And bring the jersey. You're going to clean it."
"Clean it?" My voice hitched.
He looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark, unreadable.
"Yeah. With your tongue. While I watch."
He stepped into the bathroom and shut the door with a soft click.
I stood alone in the hallway, trembling uncontrollably, my cock still hard beneath the jockstrap I clutched to my chest. I looked down at it, squeezed it tight.
The game had started. The door had closed. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that I was about to lose everything.