Page 56 of Puck Tease
His hand slid into his pocket. Slow. Deliberate. My gaze followed the movement, a cold dread snaking up my spine. He pulled out his phone.
The weapon.
"You want to fail?" he asked softly, the quiet menace more terrifying than any shout. "Fine. Let's see how you do on your midterm after the entire faculty sees you choking on my cock."
His thumb tapped the screen, a faint glow illuminating his face in the dim hall light. He held it up, the small device a black rectangle of menace. His thumb hovered, a millimeter above the 'send' icon.
"Last chance, Tom. Knees. Or I hit send."
My eyes flickered to the phone, to the black screen reflecting my own exhausted, desperate face, a distorted mask of panic. Then, to Jax.
And suddenly, the fear was gone. It evaporated, a sudden lightness in my chest, replaced by a deep, bone-weary apathy that settled over me like a shroud.
"Do it," I said, the words surprisingly steady, devoid of tremor.
Jax froze. His thumb twitched, a tiny, involuntary spasm. "What?" he whispered, his voice laced with confusion.
"Do it," I repeated, my voice growing stronger. I pushed away from the wall, the dull ache in my back a distant thrum. "Send it. Post it to Instagram. Send it to my dad. Send it to the Dean."
I walked past him, each step a declaration, and entered the bedroom.
Jax followed, a radiating heat of confused anger trailing behind him like a physical presence.
"You think I'm bluffing?" he demanded from the doorway, his voice tight.
I ignored him. I reached under the bed, dragging out my duffel bag. The zipper screamed as I yanked it open. Jeans. T-shirts. Boxers. I started stuffing them in, haphazardly, violently.
"I don't care if you're bluffing," I said, not looking at him, my hands still moving, a blur of motion. "I'm done. I'm going to a motel. I'm going to study, I'm going to take my test, and then I'm requesting a room transfer."
"You can't leave.” The words were a flat statement, a command.
"Watch me." My voice was clipped, sharp.
I shoved my laptop into the bag, the heavy thud echoing in the small room. The zipper grated shut.
"Send the video, Jax," I said, turning to face him, my eyes locked on his. "Go ahead. Ruin my life. I'll lose my scholarship. I'll get kicked out. Whatever."
I took a step toward him, the duffel bag a heavy weight in my hand.
"But think about what happens to *you*."
Jax stood there, the phone still clutched in his hand, a dark rectangle of power. He blocked the exit, a hulking obstacle in the doorway.
"What are you talking about?" The anger in his voice was laced with genuine confusion.
"You're the Captain," I said, a harsh, jagged laugh bubbling from my chest. "You're the Golden Boy. The NHL draft is in two months. You think the scouts want a PR nightmare? You think the Blackhawks are going to draft a guy who blackmails his roommate into sex?"
My laughter felt like broken glass in my throat.
"You post that video, and you go down with me. Mutually assured destruction. So go ahead. Pull the trigger. Blow us both up."
I shouldered my bag, the strap biting into my skin.
"Move."
Jax didn't move.
He stood in the doorway, filling the frame, his chest heaving, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His eyes darted from his phone to me, then back to the phone.
