Chapter 5 Jamie
Jamie
My thighs are burning. My shoulders ache like someone beat me with a steel pipe.
I peel my hoodie off, muscles pulling, sweat drying sticky on my skin.
Hockey leaves you high like nothing else, but afterward, it grinds you down to dust. The rink feels like it’s still in my veins, my lungs still pumping against that cold air, the thrum of skates, the slap of the puck ringing in my ears.
Miles ditched me. We’d made loose plans—grab a drink after class, bullshit about practice, maybe talk about that new play Coach wants us to run—but then his uncle called, and Miles never ignores his uncle.
He packed up, slung his bag over his shoulder, muttered an apology that didn’t sound sorry, and was gone.
So here I am. Alone. Tired. And stuck in class.
I lean back in the uncomfortable wooden seat, my ass already numb.
The lecture hall smells like coffee and paper, that faint tang of chalk that never quite leaves the air.
The professor’s voice drones at the front, words spilling like marbles bouncing across a table.
Economics. Supply curves. Marginal returns.
Shit I should probably understand, but it swims right past me, bouncing off my brain like I’m made of Teflon.
I drag my phone out under the desk, thumb swiping the screen.
A string of texts from the group chat. The boys are already laughing about practice, ripping into one another. A meme from Jack. A photo of Miles at the gas station, flipping off the camera. I grin, shake my head.
Then the one that makes me groan out loud.
Dad: Shift at The Crest after school. Don’t be late.
The Crest. Our family’s bar. The place smells like stale beer and fry oil no matter how many times I scrub the counters.
Dad loves it. Lives for it. Thinks it’ll be my legacy one day, like pulling pints and mopping floors is the dream.
I’m not in the mood tonight. Not after practice.
Not after dragging my body across the ice for two hours. But saying no isn’t an option.
I drag a hand down my face, glance back up at the front. The professor is sketching lines on the whiteboard now, arrows and curves and symbols that look like a foreign language. My brain taps out after three seconds.
That’s when I catch her.
Second row. Dark hair falling over her shoulders, lips painted red today. She’s in band—clarinet or flute, I can’t remember which—but I know her mouth. We’ve hooked up a few times. Nothing serious. Just bodies meeting in the dark when neither of us wants to be alone.
Her eyes flick up and meet mine.
I grin slow, leaning back, and let my mouth curve. Then I wink.
She bites her lip.
Perfect.
I drop my gaze to my phone, thumb flying. Wanna ditch? Meet me in the bathroom?
Her reply is almost instant. Why? Followed by a winky emoji.
My grin widens. To discuss class, I shoot back.
I don’t wait for her answer. I push my chair back, stretch like I’m bored out of my mind, then slip down the aisle and out the door.
The hall is quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above. My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I head toward the nearest bathroom. I lean against the wall outside, tapping my phone, waiting.
A few minutes later the door cracks open, and there she is. She steps out, hair tucked behind her ear, lips already parted in a smile meant just for me.
“Hey,” I murmur, voice dropping low.
“Hey.” She leans up, pressing her mouth to mine. Her kiss tastes faintly of mint gum, hot and eager.
I wrap a hand around her wrist, tug her gently but firmly toward the bathroom. The door creaks as it shuts behind us, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off tile. It smells like disinfectant and cheap soap, the kind of place no one really wants to linger. Perfect.
I push her gently against the wall, mouths colliding again. My hands roam—waist, hip, the curve of her thigh. She makes a small noise, low in her throat, and it sparks something sharp in me.
Her hand slides down, unhurried, practiced. My breath stutters. She smirks, eyes dark, and drops to her knees in one fluid motion.
Yeah. This. This is one of the perks. Playing hockey for this school means attention, and attention means options. And right now, I’m not in the mood to think about The Crest or Dad or lectures I don’t understand. Right now I just want to feel good.
Heat coils low in my stomach, my back pressing into the cold tile wall. My hand finds the edge of the sink, gripping hard. The world narrows down to sensation—her hand, her mouth, the wet slide, the tight pull. My breath grows ragged, sharp, like I’ve been sprinting on ice again.
I’m close. Too close. My body tenses, my jaw locking as I tip my head back, chasing that edge—
The door bursts open.
I freeze.
She pulls back, startled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. My chest heaves, sweat cooling instantly as my eyes snap to the door.
A girl. Blonde. Not just blonde—sunlight blonde, the kind that looks too soft to be real. Hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Huge green eyes, wide as if she’s seen a ghost. Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips parted like she’s about to speak but can’t find the words.
She’s in a pale blue cardigan that hangs open over a white top tucked into a pleated skirt, the hem brushing her thighs. White sneakers. A notebook clutched against her chest like a shield. She looks like she doesn’t belong here, like she wandered into the wrong world by accident.
Shock flares across her face. Embarrassment follows fast, flooding her cheeks until they glow. And then something else—something that twists in my chest. Her eyes shine. Wet.
Was she crying?
She stumbles back, almost dropping the notebook, mutters something that doesn’t make it out as words, and then she’s gone. The door swings closed behind her with a hollow thud that echoes in the silence.
I just stand there. Breathing hard. Staring at the space she’d been like maybe if I blink enough, she’ll still be there.
I’ve never seen anyone that pretty. Not at a game, not at a party, not in the beds I’ve tumbled into at night. Pretty doesn’t even cover it. She looked like she’d been carved out of something delicate, something that shouldn’t exist in a place like this.
And crying. Why the hell was she crying?
The other girl straightens, brushing her hair back, frowning at me. “What’s your problem?”
But I barely hear her. My mind is still on that flash of green eyes, wide and wet, and the way my chest twisted like someone had shoved their hand inside and squeezed.
I don’t even know her name.
“Are you serious, Jamie?”
Her voice slices through the silence like a blade, sharp enough to snap me out of the haze.
She’s standing there, arms folded tight across her chest, glaring at me like I just kicked a puppy.
Lips swollen from kissing me, hair a little mussed, her breath coming faster than she wants me to see. But the look in her eyes? Pure fire.
I drag a hand through my hair, lean back against the sink, and let my mouth twist into that grin I know makes girls crazy. “What?”
She blinks. Her jaw tightens. “What?” she repeats, mocking, like I’m the dumbest guy alive. “Some random blonde walks in, and suddenly you forget I exist? You freeze like she’s the Virgin Mary and I’m what? Practice?”
“Practice isn’t bad.” I smirk, tilting my head, giving her the slow once-over. “Practice makes perfect.”
She doesn’t laugh.
I sigh, push off the sink, close the space between us. My hand catches her wrist before she can turn away. Her skin is warm, pulse beating fast beneath my fingers. She jerks a little, but she doesn’t pull free.
“Hey.” My voice drops lower. Softer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend like I don’t want you.”
Her mouth twists, caught between anger and wanting to believe me. “Sometimes I think I’m just—” she breaks off, shakes her head. “Reliable. That’s what I am, right? The one you text when you’re horny. No strings. No expectations. Just easy.”
I should lie. I should tell her no, that she’s different, that I’ve been thinking about her all day.
But I don’t lie well. Not with my face. Not with my eyes.
So instead, I let my thumb slide over the delicate skin of her wrist, rubbing circles into her pulse point, and I smile like the bastard I am.
“Easy?” I repeat, stepping closer, my body brushing hers. “Baby, there’s nothing easy about you. You drive me fucking insane. You know how hard it is to sit through class with you biting that lip like you know what it does to me?”
Her eyes flicker. Doubt giving way to heat.
“Don’t play with me, Jamie.”
I lean down, lips brushing her ear, voice husky. “Who’s playing?”
Her breath stutters. That’s my in. My fingers trail down her arm, slow, deliberate, until my palm rests at her hip. She shivers. Her body wants me even if her pride doesn’t. I press closer, pinning her lightly against the wall.
“You think I text you because it’s convenient?” My mouth grazes the edge of her jaw, not kissing yet, just close enough to tease. “I text you because I can’t fucking focus when I know you’re two rows away. Because every time you tilt that clarinet—”
“Flute,” she interrupts, a little breathless.
“Flute,” I correct smoothly, grinning against her skin. “Every time you tilt that flute, I’m imagining all the other things those lips could be doing.”
Her hands push at my chest, weak, conflicted. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah.” My grin widens. “But I’m your asshole.”
Her laugh breaks through, sharp but unwilling. I can feel her melting, pride giving way to want. My hand slips lower, dragging over the curve of her thigh, under her skirt. She gasps when my fingers find her, already damp.
“Fuck, baby,” I murmur, biting my lip. “Don’t tell me you don’t want this.”
Her eyes flutter closed as my fingers work slow circles, teasing, dipping, pulling back just to hear her whimper. She grips my shoulders, nails digging in, body rocking against my hand.
“You always do this,” she breathes, voice breaking. “Make me forget I should hate you.”
“Then don’t forget,” I growl softly, slipping a finger inside, her body clenching tight around me. “Hate me while you come. I can take it.”
Her moan is muffled by my mouth on hers. Desperate, wet, teeth clashing. My fingers pump harder, faster, the slick sound filling the bathroom. She grinds against my hand, chasing it, trembling as her knees threaten to give out.
When she breaks, she breaks hard. Body arching, nails raking down my back, lips parting on a silent cry. I hold her through it, murmuring filthy little praises against her skin, dragging it out until she collapses against me, panting.
Her face presses into my chest, cheeks flaming. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re addictive,” I counter, pulling my slick fingers free, wiping them slowly against the inside of her thigh just to watch her squirm.
She glares up at me, half-embarrassed, half-turned on again. Then she pushes me back, drops to her knees like she belongs there, and gives me a look that makes my cock twitch.
“Still worked up?” she asks sweetly.
“Always.”
Her hand wraps around me again, steady this time, determined. Her mouth follows, hot and wet, sliding over me in a rhythm that steals my breath. I grip the sink, head falling back, a groan ripping from my chest.
But even as pleasure rockets through me, even as I teeter on the edge, my mind betrays me.
Green eyes. Wide. Shining. Shocked.
That blonde.
That angel who walked in and saw me like this.
Her face flashes behind my eyes as release tears through me, pleasure so sharp it borders pain. My body jerks, shuddering, and I curse.
The other girl doesn’t notice. She swallows, wipes her mouth, smirks like she’s won something. I force a grin, pull her up, kiss her messy and rough.
But inside? I’m reeling.
Because no matter how good this was, no matter how hot, no matter how hard I came—
I’m still thinking about her.
Who the hell was she?