Chapter 10
Sunday afternoons draped the apartment in a heavy, unnatural quiet.
The air itself seemed to hum with a residual dullness, a lingering echo of Friday night’s reckless shouts and Saturday’s strained silence, all preceding the looming grind of Monday’s early alarm.
Usually, these hours offered a reprieve, the apartment walls a solid promise of undisturbed solitude.
Not today.
Sunlight, strained and dusty, bled through the drawn blinds, striping the carpet in precise, geometric bars. The air hung warm, thick with the sharp, clean scent of lemon cleaner, a frantic, underlying musk of my own nervous sweat cutting through it.
Jax occupied the leather sofa, a picture of casual command.
Ripped denim hugged his powerful thighs, a black t-shirt stretched taut across the planes of his chest. His bare feet, calloused from weeks on the ice, rested atop the very coffee table I was meant to be polishing.
His gaze, heavy-lidded and slow, tracked my movements, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
He tapped the edge of his phone against his thigh, the soft click echoing in the stillness.
"Missed a spot," he said, his voice a low rumble, the phone tapping once more as he pointed a thumb toward the black entertainment unit.
I shifted my weight, the flesh of my ass jiggling with the movement, a cool whisper of air currents caressing my skin. I walked toward the unit, the Windex bottle growing slick in my palm. Bending at the waist, I reached for a glass shelf, a fine film of dust visible under the slanting light.
"Lower," Jax instructed, the words drawn out, deliberate. "Really get in there. Bend your knees."
My knees flexed, the motion pulling at the deep ache in my thighs—a persistent reminder of Friday’s equipment room session. I squatted, the cold glass pressing against my fingertips as I scrubbed, a faint squeak accompanying each swipe of the paper towel.
"Tyler's coming over," Jax announced, his tone as flat and casual as if he were commenting on the weather.
The paper towel froze against the glass. A sudden chill snaked its way up my spine, chasing away the warmth of the room. "What?" The word emerged as a choked gasp.
"Tyler. He's bringing the new FIFA. Wants to play a few rounds before video review tomorrow."
I straightened, the Windex bottle pressed hard against my chest, a flimsy, transparent shield. "Jax... I'm naked." The words felt small, pathetic.
"I know." His voice held no inflection, no surprise.
"You said... you said if I cleaned the apartment, we could watch a movie. You didn't say anyone was coming over." A tremor ran through my voice.
"Plans change." Jax shrugged, a lazy, dismissive lift of one shoulder. He picked up a PS5 controller, its black plastic cool against his fingers. "Besides, the place looks better with you like that. Decorative."
"I'm going to my room," I said, my voice rising a half-octave, my bare feet already shuffling backward across the carpet.
"No, you're not."
Jax’s voice remained even, but the playful edge vanished, replaced by a sudden, metallic sharpness. His eyes, previously lidded, snapped open, pinning me where I stood. The easy boredom that had softened his features evaporated, revealing the coiled tension of a predator.
"You're not done cleaning. The baseboards are dusty. The windows need wiping."
"Jax, I can't be out here like this with Tyler. He's the Assistant Captain." My voice was a desperate plea.
"Exactly. He's my right hand. He knows the score."
Jax pushed off the sofa, his movements fluid, unhurried.
He closed the distance between us in three long strides.
He plucked the Windex bottle from my hand, the plastic cold where my skin had warmed it, and set it with a soft clink on the entertainment unit shelf.
Then, his fingers closed around my chin, tilting my head back, forcing my eyes to meet his.
"He knows you're mine," Jax said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, the words vibrating through my jaw. "He saw the mark at the party. He knows what we do."
"Knowing is different than seeing," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.
"Is it?" Jax’s mouth curled, slow and filthy, the “I’m going to fuck you senseless” smirk that always made my gut drop. "I don't think so. I think you want him to see. I think you liked it on the bus when everyone was watching the blanket move."
A hot flush crawled up my neck, spreading across my cheeks, setting my ears alight. He wasn't wrong. The memory of the bus—the daring risk, the silent, shared thrill—still sent a shameful, undeniable twitch through my dick.
"Here's the deal," Jax continued, his thumb stroking the curve of my jaw. "Tyler comes in. We play FIFA. You keep cleaning. You don't speak unless spoken to. You don't make eye contact. You're just... background."
"Background?" The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
"Yeah. Like a piece of furniture. A very fuckable piece of furniture."
A heavy, insistent *pound* rattled the front door. My heart slammed against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against my bare sternum.
"Go," Jax said, a sharp command, his hand shoving me lightly toward the kitchen area. "Do the dishes. Bending over the sink gives a great view from the couch."
"Jax—"
"Door's opening, Tom."
He turned, his back a solid wall of muscle, and walked toward the apartment entrance.
I scrambled into the kitchen, the cold linoleum biting at the soles of my feet.
The apartment’s open-concept design offered no sanctuary; the kitchen island, a smooth expanse of granite, was the only perceived barrier between the culinary space and the living room. It offered zero actual protection.
I fumbled with the faucet, twisting the cold tap. The rush of water, loud and sudden, drowned out the click of the lock turning, but Tyler's booming voice cut through the white noise with startling clarity.
"Cap! Brought the beer. And I swear to god, if you beat me with that bullshit corner kick glitch again, I'm putting you through a wall."
"Get better defense," Jax drawled, his voice pitched to carry.
I heard the heavy thud of the door closing, followed by the distinctive clump-clump of heavy boots entering the hallway, moving across the entryway rug.
"Where's the roommate?" Tyler asked, his voice closer now, laced with a mild curiosity. "Usually he's sitting here with a book looking like he wants to die."
"He's around," Jax said, his tone flat. "Busy."
The heavy footsteps moved, closer, then stopped. I could feel their presence, a shift in the air pressure in the open space.
I stood frozen at the sink, a wet sponge clutched so tightly in my hand my knuckles turned white.
My back faced them, my gaze fixed on the hazy reflection of the apartment complex beyond the window above the faucet.
My body trembled, a fine, uncontrollable vibration.
I was naked. Completely, utterly stripped bare.
Tyler stopped walking.
The silence that fell over the room was absolute, so profound it hummed, pressing against my eardrums.
"Holy shit," Tyler breathed, the words thick, expelled on a shuddering exhale.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a knot forming in my stomach. My ears burned with a fierce heat. I could feel his gaze, a physical weight that started at my heels, crawled up my calves, lingered on the curve of my ass, and traced a scorching path up my spine to the nape of my neck.
"Cap," Tyler whispered, his voice a strangled rasp. "Is he..."
"Doing the dishes," Jax finished calmly, his voice unwavering. "Sit down. Grab a controller."
"He's naked, man. I can see his…everything." Tyler's voice was barely a sound.
"Yeah. He likes the breeze."
I heard the distinct rustle of leather as Jax settled back onto the couch. A soft beep signaled the console powering on.
"Tyler," Jax said, his voice dropping, a low, guttural warning threaded through it. "Eyes on the screen. Or eyes on him. I don't care. Just sit the fuck down."
The leather of the sofa creaked as Tyler finally sat.
"This is... wild," Tyler muttered, his voice still thick with disbelief. I heard the sharp crack-hiss of a beer can opening. "Does he do this often?"
"Only when he needs to learn his place," Jax said, his tone devoid of humor. "Turn on the TV."
Electronic cheering erupted, followed by the overly enthusiastic voice of a sports announcer, filling the oppressive silence with simulated stadium noise.
I forced my hands to move, picking up a plate. My movements were stiff, robotic, each clink of ceramic against porcelain echoing too loudly. I was terrified to move, terrified to draw attention, and yet acutely aware that my very existence, every subtle shift of my weight, was a spectacle.
"So," Tyler said, his voice disjointed, pulling himself back to the conversation with visible effort. "Coach wants to change the lines for the Minnesota series. Thinking about moving Mills up to first."
"Mills is too slow," Jax said, a click of a button following his words. "Pass."
"He's got hands, though."
"He's got stone hands."
They talked hockey, the familiar jargon of strategies and power plays and ice time filling the air, a surreal counterpoint to my nakedness. I stood ten feet away, scrubbing a frying pan, my balls swinging with each arc of my arm.
But the conversation was stilted, punctuated by unnatural pauses.
Tyler wasn't focusing; I could hear it in the way his words would trail off, in the slightly delayed responses.
I could feel him glancing over, his attention snapping to me every time I shifted my weight, every time I rinsed a dish beneath the running water.
Jax knew it. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played at the corner of his lips. Jax was loving it.
"You're losing, Ty," Jax taunted, a hint of amusement in his voice. "2-0. Focus."
"Yeah, well, the view is a little distracting," Tyler muttered, his voice strained.