6. Jax
Chapter six
Jax
Iget back to my room.
Close the door.
I’m hard before my jacket hits the floor.
No point pretending otherwise. Four seconds of contact—her arm under my hand, her pulse jumping once against my palm—and now I’m standing in a hotel room in Pittsburgh trying to act like I’m still in control of anything.
I’m not.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
I should ice the shoulder.
I don’t.
I get my hand around my cock because this is a problem with one obvious fix and I’ve always been a practical man. Handle it. Get some sleep. Reset.
Simple.
Except the second my hand moves, she’s there.
Not vague. Not half-formed. My brain goes straight for detail like it’s been waiting for this all night.
Her eyes in the hallway. That flash of green going wide before she pulled it back under control. That half-second where she just stopped. Mid-sentence. Mid-breath. Looking at me like I’d knocked something loose.
My grip tightens.
That hoodie on her. Brody's number. Hitting mid-thigh.
The way she went still when I touched her. Not pulling away. Not leaning in. Just there. Waiting. Deciding.
I’m already thick and aching and I haven’t been at this thirty seconds.
I slow down.
Deliberately.
Because even in my head, I’m not rushing her.
I think about the inch I didn’t take.
What would’ve happened if I had.
If I’d leaned down. Closed the space. Let her finish deciding whatever she was deciding.
My cock gets harder at that and I drag slow, feel everything in my legs go tight.
I back off.
Not yet.
Her mouth—fast, sharp, always moving when her guard’s up. And then not. Just that one break in it.
I think about putting her on her knees. About her mouth going soft for me. About those green eyes looking up while I feed her my cock slow and make her take it.
My hips jerk off the bed.
I grit my teeth and breathe through my nose because there are teammates on both sides of these walls and I have approximately one shred of dignity left.
Barely.
I back off the edge twice before I let myself go.
I think about her pulse under my palm.
One beat. Just one.
Jumping against my hand like her body told the truth before she could stop it.
That’s what does it.
Not the hoodie. Not the hall. Not even the inch I didn’t take.
Her pulse.
I come hard, jaw locked tight against the sound that wants out, cock pulsing in my fist. I grab the towel off the nightstand just in time and bury it there, holding on while everything goes white for a few seconds and her name sits under my ribs like a problem I can’t shake.
I lie there for a while.
Ceiling. Towel. The quiet of a Pittsburgh hotel room after midnight.
I fold the towel and leave it by the door with the rest of the linens because I’m not an animal.
I text Josie—my cat sitter, the only person Brick tolerates besides me—to check in tomorrow morning because I won’t be back until Thursday and Brick has opinions about his feeding schedule that I am not prepared to deal with remotely.
She texts back immediately.
Josie: On it. He gave me the look today but ate everything.
That’s Brick. Judges you. Eats the food anyway.
I put the phone down and drop to the floor. Push-ups, one after another until my arms shake and everything burns and there's nothing left but effort and breath and hotel carpet under my palms. It takes longer than it should.
I get maybe three hours of sleep. I was still awake at two. The alarm goes off at five. Shower. Gear. Back to work.
I'm a professional. That has to count for something.
Morning skate is light—systems work, no contact, keep the legs moving after travel.
I run my crease rotations with the focused efficiency of a man whose body knows the job even when his brain is being an asshole.
My brain’s being an asshole.
She’s in the press area. I know this without looking. I’ve known where she is in every building she’s been in since the first practice.
I’ve stopped fighting it. That’s not the same thing.
She’s talking to Brody again. Brody, who looks unreasonably awake for six a.m. and is already doing the thing with his hands that means he’s telling a story he has no business telling a journalist.
“You’re going to get us all in trouble,” I tell him when he skates past.
“I’m building relationships,” Brody says.
“You’re giving her material.”
“Same thing.”
I turn back to the net and run the drill.
Then she comes to the boards during the water break, recorder out, notebook ready, those green eyes giving absolutely nothing away.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I say.
She pauses like she might add something.
Doesn’t.
Moves on to Sebastian.
I watch her go.
That should help.
It does not help.
I turn back to the net and do my job.
The charter home is quieter than the one out. Post-game tiredness settling over everything.
Brody’s asleep before we hit cruising altitude. Liam has his eyes closed—probably not sleeping, just done talking for the day.
She’s in the aisle seat across from me.
Working. Laptop open. Earbuds in.
Not looking at me.
I have one earbud in. Same song I’ve listened to before games since I was nineteen.
I don’t know why I started. I don’t examine why I keep going.
Some things you don’t touch.
She glances up once.
Just enough to catch me looking.
“You always listen to the same song?” she says.
I don’t look at her. “Before games.”
“That’s… comforting.”
“It works.”
She nods once like she’s filing that somewhere. Goes back to her screen.
I look out the window.
Florida coming up through the clouds—flat and green and home.
Brick is going to give me the look for being gone three days.
I’m going to deserve it.
I text Josie to let her know I’m landing in two hours.
Josie: He’s been sitting on your side of the couch since yesterday. Just FYI.
I look at that for a while.
My side of the couch.
I look across the aisle.
She’s asleep now. Laptop closed on her tray. Head tipped back slightly.
Without the recorder and notebook and all that professional distance, she looks softer. Less defended.
That gets under my skin in a way I’m not examining at thirty thousand feet.
I look back out the window.
Florida. Home.
I close my eyes.
Her name is still right where I left it.
Back home that night.
I dig the arnica out of my kit bag and work it into my shoulder—slow circles, base of the neck down through the joint, until the heat builds and the ache backs off enough that sleep feels possible. I wipe my hands. Get into bed.
Brick is on my chest before I’ve even pulled the covers up. He crosses the house like he’s been waiting three days to do exactly that and sits down on my sternum like he owns it. I scratch behind his ear until his eyes go heavy.
The house is quiet. Familiar. Mine.
Except her name is in it now.
That’s the problem.
I fall asleep before I figure out what the hell to do about it.