22. JAXON
JAXON
Everything Backwards
The next days blur together as the court hearing creeps closer.
I’m up before sunrise every morning. Practice. Running the team through drills. Going over strategy for the next games.
By the time I get home, Lily is already waiting for me more often than not.
I make sure to give her my full attention. We laugh, tell stories, play—she insists on cuddling more than ever.
It’s the one part of my day that doesn’t feel like a fight.
Evenings settle into a rhythm of their own.
Zara and I on the couch, files spread across the coffee table like we’re building something piece by piece. Or maybe holding something together that’s at risk of breaking.
We sit closer than we need to, but not quite touching.
I feel closer to her than ever. The crisis has pulled us tight, bound us into something real. We’re partners. I feel it deep in my chest.
Her warmth draws me in, but aside from a few fleeting touches, that’s all it’s been.
Accidental brushes. Hands grazing. Knees pressed together a second too long.
But it’s getting harder to ignore the way my body reacts every single time. The way my chest tightens. The way my thoughts derail.
The way I want more.
Instead, I’m left taking matters into my own hands in the shower, gripped by a craving that’s turning into a constant ache.
The soap and steam do nothing to wash away the thought of her, the pull in my chest. I imagine it’s her skin instead of mine, her fingers instead of my own, pushing myself toward a jagged, solitary release just to quiet the tension.
I can’t pinpoint why neither of us has acted on what’s so obviously there. Maybe it’s the court hearing looming. Maybe it’s because crossing that line now would make it real.
Something we couldn’t come back from.
It’s ironic. We’re finally husband and wife, and since then we’ve shared nothing more than a chaste kiss at the ceremony and a brief hug.
Everything about this is backwards.
The night before the hearing, I stay late at the arena. Everyone else has already gone. I texted Zara earlier, asking if she can handle bedtime.
She tells me it’s no problem, that I can stay as long as I need.
The truth is, I’ve been done for an hour. I just couldn’t make myself go home.
It’s time.
I grab my jacket and head for the tunnel, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The arena feels different at this hour—hollowed out, expectant. Like it's holding its breath for something.
Or maybe that's just me.
I make it three steps past the locker room before I see her.
Zara stands at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against the distant lights of the lower bowl.
She wears jeans and one of my old Raptors hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuffs that I give her during a particularly cold night at the apartment.
Her curls are pulled back in that messy ponytail she defaults to when she isn't thinking about appearances, and even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Hey." Her voice is soft, carrying easily in the silence. "Are you okay?"
I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching her. "You didn't have to come."
"I know." She reaches out, her fingers brushing my jaw. "I wanted to."
The contact undoes something in my chest. All day, I’ve been holding myself together with sheer stubbornness—but here, with her hand warm against my face, I feel the cracks spreading.
“The arena’s empty,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, threaded with something that wasn’t there before. Something that has my pulse kicking up despite everything weighing on me. “Everyone’s gone.”
I let out a quiet huff of a laugh, because of course she’d say something like that right now. Because of course she’d be the one person who can cut through the pressure sitting on my chest.
“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Halberg?”
Her lips curve, just slightly. “I’m suggesting…” She takes a small step closer, closing the already minimal distance between us. “That maybe I can help you relax. Make you forget.”
I answer by kissing her.
Finally. I have her again.
It isn't gentle. It can't be, not with everything churning inside me.
I back her toward the concrete wall, swallowing her gasp as her shoulders hit the cold surface.
Her hands are already working at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders with an urgency that matches my own.
"Here," she breathes against my lips. "Right here."
We stumble down the corridor, past the empty equipment room, until we reach the edge of the lower bowl.
The ice stretches out before us, pristine and waiting, the overhead lights casting everything in a blue-white glow.
I turn her in my arms, pressing her back against the concrete barrier that separates the seats from the ice.
I pull her hips against mine, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
Zara's breath hitches, and she rocks forward, grinding herself against the hard length of me. The friction is maddening—even through layers of fabric, I can feel the heat of her.
Zara's hands slide down my chest, her fingers deft as they work at my belt.
The metal clinks softly in the quiet arena, the only sound besides our ragged breathing. She doesn't fumble, doesn't hesitate—just works with a single-minded determination that makes my cock twitch in anticipation.
She pushes my pants down just enough, her palm pressing flat against my stomach before her fingers wrap around my shaft.
I hiss at the contact, my hips jerking forward of their own accord. She lingers there for a heartbeat, squeezing gently, before sliding her hand toward the tip to find the excess skin. She brushes up and down—once, twice, three times.
“Enough,” I growl.
“Someone’s eager,” she murmurs, a trace of her usual playfulness slipping through.
“Someone’s been hard since our wedding day,” I counter, and her grip tightens in response.
Then she's sinking to her knees, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath her.
But she doesn't seem to care—her eyes are fixed on my cock, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in anticipation.
The sight of her like this, on her knees in the empty arena, sends a fresh wave of arousal crashing through me.
"Zara, you don't have to—"
"I want to." She looks up at me through her lashes, and the raw desire in her gaze steals the words from my throat. "Let me do this for you. Let me take care of you."
She leans forward, her breath warm against the head of my cock.
Then her tongue traces a slow path from base to tip, and my hands fist at my sides, every muscle in my body tensing against the urge to thrust into her mouth.
She takes her time, exploring every inch of me with lips and tongue.
She presses wet, open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, her hand working what she can't reach.
When she finally wraps her lips around the head, I have to brace one hand against the concrete barrier behind her, my knees threatening to buckle.
"Fuck," I groan, the word torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
Zara hums in response, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure racing up my spine.
She takes me deeper, her throat relaxing as she swallows around me. The wet heat of her mouth is overwhelming, and I can feel myself already edging toward the precipice.
Her hands grip my thighs, her nails digging into the muscle through my pants.
She sets a rhythm, bobbing her head with a steady, relentless pace that has my breath coming in sharp gasps.
Each stroke of her tongue, each tight suction of her lips, pushes me closer to the edge.
I force myself to look down at her, to watch my cock disappearing between her lips.
Her eyes are closed now, her expression one of pure concentration—like she's savoring this, like giving me pleasure is its own reward.
"Zara." Her name comes out strangled, warning. "I'm close. If you don't stop—"
She doesn't stop.
If anything, she redoubles her efforts, taking me deeper until I can feel the back of her throat.
The orgasm builds slowly at first, a tightening in my lower belly that spreads outward.
Then it crashes over me all at once, and I'm spilling into her mouth with a groan that echoes through the empty arena.
She swallows around me, taking everything I give her, her throat working as she milks every last drop.
When she finally pulls back, her lips are swollen and glistening. She looks up at me with hooded eyes, and I can see the arousal written across her features—she's just as affected as I am.
"Good?" she asks, her voice rough.
I answer by pulling her to her feet and capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss.
I can taste myself on her tongue, salty and bitter, and it only makes me hungrier.
I groan into her mouth, my fingers working the button of her jeans. She helps, shimmying the denim down her hips along with her underwear, and then she is bare from the waist down, the cold air raising goosebumps on her thighs.
I lift her, setting her on the narrow edge of the concrete, and she wraps her legs around my waist like she'd done it a thousand times.
She reaches down to grip my cock again. To my surprise, I'm already starting to harden beneath her touch—something that rarely happens this quickly.
"I need you inside me," she says, her voice firm despite the tremor running through her body. "Now, Jaxon. Please."
I don’t need telling twice. I reach for my wallet, fumbling for a moment before tearing into a foil packet. My breath hitches as I roll the latex down, the friction of my own hands nearly undoing me.
Once protected, I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging against her opening. Then, in one smooth thrust, I bury myself inside her.
Her head falls back against the concrete, a moan escaping her throat that echoes through the empty arena.
I hold still for one agonizing moment, feeling her stretch around me, feeling the way her body welcomes mine like we are made to fit together.
"Move," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Jaxon, I need you to move."
I pull back until just the tip remains inside her, then snap my hips forward.
The sound of our bodies meeting echoes through the arena, obscenely loud in the silence.
I set a punishing pace, each thrust driving her harder against the barrier.
"Is this what you wanted?" I growl against her ear, my hand finding her clit. "Wanted me to fuck you right here where anyone could see?"
Zara’s response is a soft moan before her teeth sink lightly into my shoulder.
"Answer me," I demand, my fingers pressing harder against her clit.
"Yes," she gasps. "God, yes. I've wanted this for—ah—weeks."
The confession sends a surge of primal satisfaction through me. I increase my pace, driving into her with a desperation I haven't felt in years.
The pressure that's been building in my chest for weeks—the stress of the job, the loneliness of being a single father, the weight of expectations—all of it fades away, replaced by the singular focus of this woman in front of me.
Her walls start to flutter around me, and I know she's close.
I can feel my own orgasm building at the base of my spine, but I force myself to hold back.
"Look at me," I command, and her eyes fly open, gray and wild and locked onto mine. "I want you to see exactly who's making you feel this."
"I see you." Her voice breaks on the words. "I always see you."
Something cracks in my chest. Something I've been protecting for years, holding at a distance from everyone except Lily.
Zara has slipped past all my defenses without even trying, and now she is here, wrapped around me, taking everything I have to give.
I slide one hand between us, my thumb finding her clit again, and she cries out—loud enough that if anyone has been left in the building, they would've heard.
I don't care. Let them hear. Let the whole damn world know.
"Come for me, Zara," I murmur against her neck, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Let go."
She does.
Her whole body tenses, her back arching as the orgasm tears through her. I feel her clench around me, rhythmic pulses that push me over the edge right along with her.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, spilling inside her with a groan that seems to come from somewhere outside myself.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Our breathing is ragged, fogging in the cold air. Her forehead presses against mine, her fingers still tangled in my hair.
"Well," she murmurs eventually, a hint of that sunshine smile breaking through. "I'll never look at center ice the same way again."
I huff a laugh, the tension in my shoulders finally—finally—releasing. "That makes two of us."
I pull back slowly, both of us hissing at the sensation. Zara looks up at me, her hair mussed, her cheeks flushed.
She looks thoroughly fucked, and the sight is the biggest boost for my ego.
We clean up as best we can, stealing kisses between adjustments to clothing and attempts to look somewhat presentable.
On the way to my car, my phone buzzes with a message from my ex-wife.
Rachel:
Tomorrow, 9 AM. Don't be late.
A taunt dressed as a reminder.
I show Zara the message, watching her jaw set in that stubborn way that means she is preparing for battle.
"Tomorrow," she says firmly. "We face it together."