Chapter 9 #3
“You have me,” I whispered, the words a promise.
Jax opened his eyes. The glacier-blue was clear now, the predatory fire replaced by a steady, unwavering focus.
“Do I?”
“Always,” I said. “You know that. You own me.”
He let out a breath, a long, shaky exhale that smelled of mint gum and, unmistakably, relief.
He kissed me.
It wasn't a sexual kiss. It was barely a touch, a firm pressure of his lips against mine, sealing a pact, a desperate, unspoken agreement. It tasted of salt and the lingering desperation in the air.
He pulled back, his gaze steady, intense.
“Third period starts in four minutes,” he said. The Captain was back. The voice was level, the frantic edge gone.
“Go,” I said.
He nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. He stepped back, his eyes sweeping over the tableau of our encounter—my torn shirt, the cum leaking onto the cold laminate of the table, the raw, red marks on my skin.
He turned to his equipment bag, which sat on a nearby bench, and rummaged inside. He pulled out a spare hoodie. Gray. With the Spartan logo emblazoned across the chest.
He tossed it to me. The fabric landed softly on the table next to me.
“Cover up,” he said, his voice firm. “And go back to the seat. Don’t hide down here.”
“Why?” I asked, my voice still hoarse.
“Because I need to see you,” he said, his gaze locking with mine. He grabbed his stick from the corner, the carbon fiber shaft glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. He tested the flex, bending the stick under his weight, the action smooth, deliberate.
He walked to the door. His hand was on the cold metal handle when he stopped and looked back.
“I need to know you’re watching when I win this for you.”
He opened the door and walked out, leaving me alone in the dim, chemical-scented room.
I sat on the table for a long moment, shaking uncontrollably, the echoes of his roar still vibrating in my bones.
I cleaned myself up as best I could with a grimy shop rag, wiping away the stickiness.
I pulled on his hoodie. It smelled like him—cedar and laundry detergent, overlaid with the sharp tang of sweat and adrenaline.
It swallowed me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem brushing my knees.
I limped back up to the concourse, each step a dull ache in my back and thighs. I found my seat just as the buzzer sounded, a shrill, piercing shriek signaling the start of the third period.
The scout next to me gave me a long, weird look, his pen hovering over his notepad. The hockey mom sniffed, wrinkling her nose, undoubtedly catching the lingering scent of sweat and sex that clung to me, despite the hoodie.
I didn’t care. My gaze was already fixed on the gleaming expanse of ice below.
Jax came out of the tunnel. He looked different. The frantic, wild energy was gone, replaced by a still, focused intensity that radiated from him like heat. He skated with a smooth, deadly precision, each glide purposeful. He lined up at center ice for the faceoff, his posture rigid, composed.
He looked up. His eyes, glacier-blue and sharp, found me in the surging crowd instantly, cutting through the noise and the faces.
He tapped his stick against his shin pads. Once. Twice. A private signal, a confirmation.
Then the puck dropped.
And Jax Carter went to war.
He scored forty seconds in. A clean breakaway, a quick wrister top shelf that beat the Michigan goalie clean and left him sprawled on the ice looking stupid.
3-1.
He assisted on the next one, threading a pass through three defenders that defied physics, a green and white streak that landed perfectly on his teammate’s stick.
3-2.
The whole building flipped in a heartbeat. One second it was dead quiet, the next the place erupted, Spartan fans on their feet losing their minds.
One minute left. Jax ate a monster hit in the corner, shoulder driven into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. He popped right back up, puck still taped to his blade, spun off the check, and snapped a no-look pass to Tyler at the point. Tyler ripped it. Tie game.
3-3.
Overtime.
I sat there, clutching the thick hem of his hoodie, vibrating with his energy, with the raw, exhilarating force of his will. He wasn’t playing for the trophy anymore. He wasn’t playing for the scouts in the stands.
He was playing because I was watching.
In overtime, it took three minutes. Jax caught a rebound in front of the net. He didn't shoot immediately. He waited, held the puck on his stick for a heartbeat, freezing the goalie, his gaze unwavering, before roofing it with a flick of his wrist.
GAME OVER.
The team swarmed him, a chaotic pile-up of green and white. Gloves flew into the air like confetti. The mass of bodies crushed against the glass, a joyous, triumphant heap.
But as Jax was pressed against the boards, his face mashed against the plexiglass, he wasn’t looking at his teammates.
He was looking through the glass, up at section 104.
He found me.
He winked.
And as I sat there, sore and used, still wearing his oversized hoodie, a wave of profound understanding washed over me.
The anger in the equipment room, the brutal, desperate act, hadn't been hate at all.
It had been fear. The raw, terrifying fear of a man realizing he was no longer a solo act, that his performance, his very essence, was inextricably tied to another.
He had broken me in the dark so he could shine in the light.
And damn it, a hard, stupid surge of pride hit me square in the ribs, impossible to ignore.