Chapter 6
The campus stretched out, a silent, concrete expanse under the sodium vapor lights.
The plaza, usually a churning river of students, lay empty between the dorm towers and the athletic complex, the amber glow painting long, distorted shadows that danced with the cold wind.
The wind cut through the thin cotton of my hoodie, raising goosebumps on my arms, yet a sheen of sweat slicked my palms, and a cold bead traced a path down my temple.
My phone vibrated against my thigh, a single, insistent tremor.
I didn't reach for it. My fingers remained laced together in my pocket, knuckles white. The words were already burned into my mind, the urgent command echoing in the silence: *Jax: Back door is propped. Don't let the janitor see you.*
I kept my head down, chin tucked into the collar of my hoodie, and lengthened my stride. My sneakers squeaked against the pavement, the sound unnervingly loud, a stark punctuation in the vast quiet. Each squeak seemed to ricochet off the silent buildings, announcing my presence.
I shouldn't have been here. The Munn Ice Arena was a fortress after hours, its doors locked, its lights dimmed. Practice had ended three hours ago. The team had scattered, their bags slung over shoulders. The coaches had driven away, their cars crunching on the gravel lot.
But Jax hadn't gone.
He had stayed behind. "Extra conditioning," he’d typed into the group chat, a lie that tasted like ash in my mouth. He wasn't conditioning his legs. He was conditioning me, meticulously, brutally.
I reached the service entrance, a nondescript metal door tucked away behind the arena's hulking concrete mass.
The air here was thick with the reek of rotting cardboard and stale soda, emanating from the overflowing dumpsters that formed a grimy shield.
My eyes flickered up. A security camera, a single red eye, blinked above the door, a slow, hypnotic pulse.
I pulled my hood lower, the fabric scraping against my ears, obscuring the angles of my face.
I gripped the handle. It turned with a soft click, the heavy slab of metal swinging inward into the deeper dark of the building. A gust of cold air, metallic and damp, spilled out.
I stepped inside.
The smell hit me first, a sharp, distinct aroma that immediately clawed at my senses: the frigid tang of refrigerant, the earthy scent of rubber mats, the cold, wet concrete.
It was colder inside than out, a bone-deep chill that clung to the air.
The silence was a physical weight, broken only by the distant, low thrum of the massive compressors, the unseen heartbeat of the ice-making machinery.
My footsteps were swallowed by the thick rubber flooring, designed to cushion the lethal edges of skate blades.
I moved down the hallway, a shadow among shadows.
The equipment room, its racks of helmets and pads invisible in the gloom, loomed on my right.
The trainer’s office, a sliver of light under its door, hinted at a lone occupant, but I knew it was empty.
The visitors' locker room, a place of transient defeat, was a dark maw.
A strip of light, a faint yellow bleed, spilled from under the door of the Spartan Locker Room at the end of the hall.
I paused, pressing my back against the cool concrete wall. I listened, straining my ears.
From somewhere above, a faint clank-squeak, then another, drifted down.
A mop bucket. The night cleaning crew. They were probably up on the concourse, scrubbing dried beer stains and crushed popcorn into oblivion, but the sound sent a jolt of ice through my veins.
My breath hitched, a thin, reedy sound in the quiet.
My pulse hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
If they caught me here…
The video. The threat usually hung over my head, a digital blade poised to sever my life.
But tonight, standing in the forbidden hallway of the varsity complex, the usual terror felt distant.
My fear wasn’t for that public humiliation; it was for the tremor that ran through my limbs, the tightening in my chest, the hot flush creeping up my neck.
It was for the coiled spring inside me, waiting to snap.
I pushed the locker room door open.
A wave of warmth enveloped me, humid and thick, carrying the cloying scent of athletic tape and wintergreen.
The main room was empty, the air still and heavy.
Jerseys hung in their stalls like silent, headless ghosts.
Equipment bags, zipped tight and bulging, sat beneath them, each a sleeping beast.
"Jax?" I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
"Showers."
His voice, deep and resonant, echoed off the tiled walls, bouncing around the cavernous space. It sounded hollow, like a stone dropped into a deep well.
I walked through the locker room, my eyes fixed on the floor. I stepped instinctively over the Spartan logo woven into the carpet, a reflex I’d learned just by being around him. You didn't step on the logo.
I rounded the corner into the shower block.
It was a large, communal space, a concrete box lined with three walls of showerheads. A central drain swallowed the runoff from the sloped tile floor. Steam filled the room, a thick, white fog that swirled and billowed, obscuring the far wall, creating an eerie, shifting landscape.
Jax was there.
He stood under the farthest showerhead, his back to me. The water, a roaring torrent, pounded against his shoulders and spine, disappearing into the drain.
He was naked.
One hand was braced against the tiled wall, fingers splayed, the other hung loose at his side.
His head was bowed, dark hair plastered to his skull, water streaming over the roped muscles of his back, carving rivulets through the taut skin.
His posture, rigid and still, suggested either a man in profound agony or one lost in fervent prayer.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice a low growl, still without turning.
"I... I can't," I stammered, my voice thin and reedy in the steam-choked air. "There's no lock on the locker room door."
"Then you better be quiet."
He turned slowly, a deliberate pivot.
He looked feral. His eyes, dark as bruised plums, were red-rimmed, whether from the scalding water or a deeper exhaustion, I couldn't tell.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His lips, taut and chapped, peeled back slightly from his teeth.
His chest heaved, lungs visibly working beneath his slick skin.
He looked massive in the small, steamy space, the water highlighting every vein and scar, every ridge and valley of his formidable physique.
A heavy, purplish column jutted from his groin, straining against the steam, dark veins tracing its swollen length. It pulsed, a dark, throbbing sentinel, demanding attention, an explicit declaration of his readiness.
"Strip," he ordered, the word cutting through the roar of the water.
I stood by the entrance, fully clothed in my jeans and hoodie. The humid air was already soaking into the cotton, making it cling to my skin.
"Jax, the janitors. I heard them." My voice trembled.
"Good," he muttered, that cocky, wolfish grin sliding into his face. "More thrilling. Makes it hit harder."
He stepped away from the wall, the water sluicing off his body. Drops clung to his chin, his nose, his elbows, gleaming in the dim light. He stopped three feet away, close enough that the radiating heat from his body cut through the damp air, a tangible force.
"You think I care if they hear us?" he asked softly, his voice a dangerous purr. "Let them hear. Let them wonder what the Captain is doing after hours."
He reached out, his hand closing around the drawstrings of my hoodie. He yanked hard.
"Take it off. Now."
My fingers fumbled with the clothes, clumsy and shaking. I kicked off my shoes, the laces catching for a moment before my feet slid free. My jeans dropped to the floor, pooling around my ankles. I peeled off my socks on the wet tile, feeling the cold, rough surface beneath my soles.
I stood naked in front of him, exposed. My own skin, unblemished save for the fading bruises on my hips from Tuesday’s session, felt soft, vulnerable, almost translucent against the sharp angles and rigid planes of his frame.
Jax's gaze swept over me, a slow, deliberate appraisal. His eyes lingered on the purpling bruises blooming on my hips, the red marks still visible on my wrists.
"You're healing too fast," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "I need to leave a better reminder."
He grabbed my wrist. His grip, though slippery with water, was iron-strong. He pulled me forward, dragging me into the torrent of the shower spray.
The water was scalding, a shocking blast against my skin.
"Fuck!" I hissed, the word torn from my throat as I tried to pull back. "Jax, it's too hot!"
"You'll get used to it." His voice was flat, unyielding.
He shoved me against the tiled wall. The ceramic was cold, a stark contrast to the boiling water that slammed against my chest, stealing my breath. The shock made me gasp, a choked sound.
Jax crowded in, pressing his entire body against mine, pinning me to the wall. His wet skin slid against mine, friction reduced to zero, a slick, primal contact. He was heavy, solid, an unyielding mass. His cock, hot and demanding, pressed against my stomach, a thick rod of muscle and blood.
"You kept me waiting," he growled, his face inches from mine, water running off his eyelashes onto my cheeks.
"I came as fast as I could." The words were breathless.
"Not fast enough. I've been standing here for twenty minutes, hard, thinking about breaking you open."
He reached down, his fingers calloused and rough. He didn't bother with foreplay. He didn't bother checking if I was ready. He grabbed my thigh and hiked it up, hooking my knee over his hip, forcing my stance wide.
"Jax, wait—"
"No waiting."