Page 69 of Puck Tease
He offered no smile. No wave. He just skated, a direct, unwavering line, until his chest was flush against the boardsdirectly in front of my face. His gloved fist rose, then slammed against the plexiglass.
Thump.
The sound, sharp and singular, cut through the remaining roar. My own heart leaped, then pounded. His gaze, locked on mine, held a silent command. He pointed a finger at me, then jabbed it toward the ice.
Get down here.The words resonated in my skull, clear as if he'd spoken them aloud.
I moved. Security guards, their faces grim, tried to block me at the gate near the Zamboni tunnel. Jax’s head snapped up. His eyes, still fixed on me, flickered to the guard. He skated over, bearing down on the guard with lethal intent. His voice, though lost to me, was a sudden, sharp bark. The guard’s shoulders slumped, his eyes widening, and he took a quick, involuntary step back. The heavy metal gate, a moment ago an impassable barrier, swung open with a screech of hinges.
My dress shoes, polished for a post-game dinner, were no match for the slick surface. I stepped onto the ice, my feet sliding immediately, my arms windmilling for balance. I nearly went down.
Jax was there in an instant, a blur of dark green and white. His hand shot out, catching my arm, an iron-hard grip that steadied me. His glove, bulky and wet with melted ice, felt like a vice around my bicep.
"We did it," he rasped, his voice a raw, shredded sound, torn by four years of shouting and the last hour of unbridled celebration.
"You did it," I yelled back, my own voice straining against the persistent roar of the crowd. "You were unbelievable. Every shift. Every hit. It was incredible."
"No," he countered, his grip tightening. He hauled me closer, ignoring the cameras that swung in our direction, ignoring thethousands of eyes trained on us. He leaned down, his forehead pressing against mine, the stubble on his cheek rough against my skin. He smelled of sweat, sharp and clean beneath the faint tang of rubber from his equipment, all overlaid with the cloying sweetness of cheap sparkling wine. "We did it. You got me here."
He loosened his grip on my arm, reaching instead for the massive trophy that Tyler, his teammate, held awkwardly nearby. Jax took it, hoisting the gleaming silver cup above his head for a brief, triumphant moment.
Then, with a deliberate shift of his weight, he lowered it. He extended his arms, offering the trophy to me.
"Take it," he ordered, his voice still a rasp.
"Jax, I can't," I protested, my voice barely audible. "It's for the team."
"You are the team," he said, his eyes drilling into mine. "Take it."
I took the cup. It was heavier than I’d imagined, cold against my fingers. I held it awkwardly, my muscles tensing, terrified I’d drop it, that this symbol of ultimate victory would crash to the ice.
Jax’s grin spread, a flash of white in his sweat-streaked face. He moved behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his hands covering mine on the trophy handles. He lifted it with me, the massive cup rising high above our heads.
The crowd erupted anew, a fresh wave of sound washing over us. Flashbulbs popped like a sudden lightning storm, momentarily blinding us.
"Mine," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting against my ear, the word carrying over the chaos. "The trophy. The game. And you."
He pressed a quick, rough kiss to my cheek. It was a fleeting, almost violent press of lips, but for anyone watching on national television, it was a declaration of war.
???
The party at The St. Paul Hotel erupted before the team bus had even unloaded. The lobby had transformed into a zoo, a crushing, swarming mass of alumni, frenzied fans, and aggressive press. The air already smelled of spilled champagne, and the glittering shards of a broken vase crunched underfoot near the revolving doors.
Jax navigated the chaos like a battering ram, the trophy tucked securely under one arm, his other hand clamped firmly on the back of my neck, guiding me through the human tide. He moved with a relentless purpose, his eyes fixed on some unseen destination. He shouldered people aside without a word, his gaze unwavering. He ignored the outstretched hands, the urgent questions from reporters, the shouts for high-fives.
"Elevator," he barked, his voice still raw, at a startled security guard.
We were ushered into a service elevator, smelling faintly of cleaning supplies and stale cigar smoke. The heavy doors slid shut with a pneumatic hiss, instantly severing the din.
The silence that followed wasn't quiet. It rang, a dull, insistent hum in my ears, a stark contrast to the pandemonium we’d just escaped.
Jax leaned back against the cool metal wall, his shoulders slumping slightly. He closed his eyes for a second, a long, audible exhale escaping his lips. He was still in his suit pants and the crisp white dress shirt from the post-game press conference, though the tie was long gone, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a tanned expanse of chest. His jaw was tight, his muscles still vibrating beneath his clothes.
He opened his eyes. They were no longer wild with victory, but held a darker, more focused intensity as they fixed onme. The raw edge of adrenaline hadn't faded; it had shifted, sharpened, hardening into something hungry.
"Room," he said, the single word a low growl.
"Don't you have to go to the team dinner? The donors..."
