Page 43 of Puck Tease
As soon as the doors closed, the silence returned, thick and suffocating.
Jax started the engine, the truck rumbling to life. He turned to me, his eyes dark, unblinking.
"Take your pants off."
"What? Now?" My voice was a choked whisper.
"Yeah. I don't want cum on my upholstery."
I sighed, the sound heavy, defeated. I unbuckled my belt. My fingers trembled as I shimmied out of my jeans and boxers,the fabric sticking to my skin. I balled them up, a sticky, heavy bundle, and threw them onto the back seat.
I sat there, naked from the waist down, shivering slightly on the cool leather seat, exposed and vulnerable.
Jax put the truck in gear. He reached over, his hand resting on my bare thigh. He squeezed, his fingers pressing into my skin.
"You did good tonight," he said, his eyes on the road ahead.
"I almost died." The words were a bitter protest.
"But you didn't. You trusted me."
He drove out of the lot, the truck picking up speed on the empty streets. His thumb began to rub slow, possessive circles on my skin.
"Next time," he said, his voice low, almost conversational, "I think we try the back of the plane."
My heart skipped a beat, a sickening lurch in my chest. A cold wave of terror washed over me, immediately followed by a rush of heat, a strange, undeniable thrill that made my breath catch.
"Jax..." The protest was weak, a mere whisper.
"Hush," he said softly, his thumb continuing its hypnotic circles. "Just rest. I've got you."
And as we drove through the empty, pre-dawn streets, naked and exposed in the cab of his truck, his hand a warm, heavy weight on my thigh, I knew he was right. I was his. Completely. My body, still aching, still sticky, finally slumped against the seat, a deep, terrifying submission.
9 – THE EQUIPMENT ROOM
The scoreboard hung above the ice, a monstrous neon-red tombstone. Each glowing digit felt etched into the air, a declaration of death for the Spartan hopes.
MICHIGAN: 3
MICHIGAN STATE: 0
The second intermission had swallowed the arena in a thick, uneasy quiet. This wasn't just any game; it was the Duel in the D, the annual blood feud played on neutral ice in Detroit, and we were being dismembered, piece by agonizing piece.
I was a tightly wound spring in the family section, wedged between a nervous hockey mom whose knuckles were white around a rosary, her lips a silent flutter of prayers, and a scout from the Blackhawks. The scout’s pen scratched furiously across his notepad, a relentless whisper of judgment. I didn't need to lean closer to know those scrawled lines weren't filled with praise. The air in the arena felt thick and corrosive, coating my tongue. Spartan fans were ghosts, slumped deep in their seats, their faces ashen. Across the divide, the Wolverine faithful werea howling, rabid tide, their insults a physical force, crashing and echoing off the high rafters, a mocking chorus to our demise.
And down on the ice, Jax Carter was not merely losing; he was unraveling.
I’d never witnessed such a frantic demolition. Usually, Jax was a glacier of precision, a machine of cold, calculating strikes. But tonight, he was a raw, exposed nerve ending, flailing. He collected idiotic penalties, his stick work sloppy, his passes sailing wide. In the first period, after a wide-open net lay before him, he'd missed, then snapped his stick over the crossbar with a crack that had reverberated through the glass, a sound of splintering wood and rage. Later, in the second, a tangle at center ice had escalated. He’d thrown a wild punch, a blur of dark green glove aimed at a Michigan face, but it had whistled harmlessly through the air, earning him two minutes in the penalty box. From there, he’d watched, a statue of shame, as Michigan buried their third goal. His shoulders had sagged, his head hanging low.
His movements were jerky, untethered. His eyes, even from my distance, looked hollow, devoid of their usual predatory focus. He was adrift, and I knew, with a sickening lurch in my gut, exactly why.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It had been a constant companion all game, a phantom thrumming against my thigh, but this one was different. This wasn’t a ghost. This was real. Long. Persistent. The buzz seemed to drill into the bone of my hip.
I pulled it out, angling the screen instinctively away from the scout’s perpetually scribbling pen.
Jax:Now.
One word. No pleasantries. No location. Just a stark, absolute command, carrying the crushing weight of his entire crumbling world. The message felt like a live wire in my palm.
