42. Clara
Clara
Game day feels like stepping into a storm I asked for. The rink is alive with noise and bodies—students in blue and white, alumni in pressed coats, the air sharp with sweat, popcorn salt, and beer. My pulse beats in sync with the stomping feet in the bleachers.
Zoe hooks her arm through mine, practically vibrating. “God, I live for this energy. Half the student body’s drunk, the other half’s horny, and all of them are screaming for Hale.”
“Mostly the drunk half,” Genny mutters, but her mouth quirks.
Talia glances sideways at me, her eyes catching on the jersey I’m wearing. “You sure about this?” she asks, quiet enough that it doesn’t cut through the roar. “His name on your back is one thing in private. In here, it’s… bold.”
I tug Adrian’s jersey tighter. It hangs heavy, an armor and a brand at once. HALE, 17. His name, his number. The weight of it is both protection and target, and every time someone’s eyes flick to it, to me, I feel the claim settle deeper.
Zoe grins, unabashed. “Bold is the point, Tal. Look at her—she’s glowing. And don’t even try to act like Hale isn’t about to light this place on fire just because he knows she’s watching.”
I flush as Genny steps away to take a call near the tunnel entrance. As she slides her phone back into her blazer, she nearly collides with Coach Addison, who is making his way toward the ice.
"Ms. Laurent," he says, stopping.
"Coach," Genny replies, her tone perfectly even. "They looked sharp in warm-ups tonight."
He doesn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. "They'd better be." His gaze is intense. "My daughter speaks very highly of you. Says you're a good influence."
Genny's mouth curves into a cool, knowing expression. "Talia is a smart girl. She knows loyalty is a valuable asset. You should know that better than anyone."
The coach holds her gaze for a beat too long, a silent, weighty conversation passing between them. He just nods once and continues down the tunnel. Genny returns a moment later, her expression unreadable as she settles back into her seat.
Before I can ask what that was about, the team bursts onto the ice in a roar of blades and collisions.
My breath catches when I see him. He skates like war personified—fast, brutal, precise.
His shoulders cut through the defense like they’re ornamental.
Every pivot, every snap of his stick, is for me. I know it in my bones.
Zoe whistles low. “Told you. Man’s possessed.”
Genny leans forward, arms folded. “More like unhinged. But if it works for the scoreboard, I’m not complaining.”
Talia doesn’t say anything, her sharp eyes flicking from Adrian on the ice to me, as if already calculating the fallout.
The final horn blares. Victory. The crowd detonates.
Before I can blink, he’s there—pushing past teammates, ripping his helmet off, his hair damp and wild. His eyes find me instantly, sharp and unerring.
“Oh my God,” Zoe breathes, clutching my arm. “He’s coming over here.”
“Of course he is,” Genny mutters, her tone holding more awe than judgment.
Talia shakes her head, her mouth tight. “Clara—”
But then he vaults the barrier and his hand fists in my hair, hauling me forward.
His mouth crashes onto mine before I can breathe.
The kiss is brutal, unashamed, tilting me up so I can’t retreat.
The taste of sweat, ice, and Adrian floods me, drowning out the roar around us.
My knees nearly give, but his hold is iron.
The crowd explodes. Phones flash. Zoe shrieks with laughter. “Holy shit, Clara! You’re in SO much trouble tomorrow!”
Genny’s voice cuts through, low and amused. “Forget tomorrow. She’s already ruined.”
And Talia—quiet, almost resigned. “Everyone saw that.”
When Adrian finally pulls back, his breath is rough against my lips, which are swollen from the force of the kiss. That predator’s satisfaction glints in his eyes. Claimed. Sealed. Mine.
The crowd is still screaming when he tears his mouth from mine, his eyes black with triumph. “Locker room,” he mutters, a low growl no one else can hear. “Twenty minutes.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by teammates and cameras.
Zoe fans herself with both hands. “Okay, I know he’s terrifying, but that? That was cinematic.”
“Obsessive is more like it,” Genny says dryly. “He just branded you in front of half the school.”
I wipe my mouth, still breathless, lips tingling. “Good,” I whisper.
Talia watches me, unreadable, but then she nods once. “Then own it.”
I give her a sharp, determined nod and slip away from the group.
Twenty minutes, he said. I navigate the maze of echoing corridors, every step pulling me deeper into his world until I find the door.
The locker room air is a heavy concoction of sweat, damp gear, and disinfectant.
Showers hiss in the distance. I find the secluded, empty row, my heart hammering against my ribs as I wait.
A forceful grip encircles my wrist, yanking me deeper into the shadows.
A small gasp is all I manage before Adrian has me pinned, his body a formidable cage against the cool metal.
His mouth descends with a raw, violent hunger, a kiss that is less embrace and more primal declaration, his tongue delving deep as if to reclaim the very essence of me.
He pulls back just enough for his voice to rumble against my lips. “You think I can kiss you like that in front of everyone,” he rasps, “and not fuck you after?”
A tide of heat surges through me. My fingers fist in his jersey, pulling him closer. “Then do it,” I breathe, the words a desperate plea and a defiant challenge.
A low, dark chuckle vibrates against me.
He spins me, pressing me chest-first against the cold locker.
His body pins mine, the cold steel biting into my cheek as his hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head back to expose my throat.
His other hand slides between us, the rasp of my zipper shockingly loud in the quiet.
“You wore my name,” he rasps, his voice thick with possessive satisfaction as he drags the denim down my thighs. “You let them all see. Good girl. Now let me show you what it means.”
My jeans pool at my ankles. A single tug and my panties follow, leaving me bare before I can catch my breath. His calloused fingers trail over me, a teasing exploration, before pressing inside to test my readiness.
A choked gasp escapes my lips as I arch into his touch. “Adrian—”
“Already wet for me,” he snarls, a triumphant, feral sound. He withdraws his hand only to shove down his own gear, the blunt head of his cock sliding against me, hot and heavy. “Fuck, Clara. You’re mine.”
“Always,” I whisper, a heartfelt vow.
He thrusts in one brutal stroke, filling me so suddenly I cry out, the sound muffled as his hand clamps over my mouth.
The stretch burns in the best way, the cold metal of the locker pressing against my cheek, his body hot and relentless at my back.
My fingers claw at the steel, seeking a grounding point in the tempest.
“Shh,” he hisses, grinding into me. “You want the whole team to know I’m splitting you open in here?” My muffled moan betrays me. His chuckle is sharp, pleased. “Yeah. You do.”
His hips slam into me, each thrust a powerful beat that drives me harder into the locker, the clang reverberating through my chest. My nails scrape helplessly against the steel as he pounds into me, driving me to the brink.
“You like this?” he growls in my ear. “Being taken where anyone could walk in? Being ruined in my jersey?”
“Yes,” I gasp, the word torn from my throat the moment he lets my mouth go. “God, yes.”
“Say it,” he demands, fucking me deeper. “Say you love being mine where they can hear it.”
“I love it,” I choke out. “I love being yours.” The words are a vow, a confession.
His hand slides between my thighs, fingers circling my clit in a ruthless counterpoint to his thrusts. The dual sensations are overwhelming. “Good girl. Come for me. Come so loud they know who you belong to.”
The orgasm rips through me, sharp and unstoppable. My cry bounces off the cold metal, echoing down the empty row. He slams into me twice more, then shudders, a guttural groan escaping as he comes hard, his teeth sinking into my shoulder to muffle his own release.
For a long moment, we just breathe, sweat cooling on our skin, the scent of sex and adrenaline thick in the air. He presses a kiss over the bite mark, softer now, reverent. “Perfect,” he murmurs against my neck, sealing our illicit moment.
Later, back in my dorm, my phone buzzes. It's Zoe.
Zoe: Front page, baby. Chronicle beat the Instagram girls to it.
I click the link. The photo is everywhere already—Adrian, helmet off, mouth on mine, hand in my hair, my body straining toward him in his jersey. The caption reads: Captain Claims Victory On and Off the Ice.
My stomach flips. Some comments are gleeful. Others drip jealousy. Donors will see it. Professors. His father. I should be afraid. Instead, I trace the picture with my fingertip, feeling my lips burn with phantom pressure. I love that he did it. That he wanted the world to see.
Still, in the quiet of my room, one thought lingers like smoke in my chest: proof is also a weapon.