Page 26 of Puck Tease
A strip of light, a faint yellow bleed, spilled from under the door of the Spartan Locker Room at the end of the hall.
I paused, pressing my back against the cool concrete wall. I listened, straining my ears.
From somewhere above, a faint clank-squeak, then another, drifted down. A mop bucket. The night cleaning crew. They were probably up on the concourse, scrubbing dried beer stains and crushed popcorn into oblivion, but the sound sent a jolt of ice through my veins. My breath hitched, a thin, reedy sound in the quiet. My pulse hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
If they caught me here…
The video. The threat usually hung over my head, a digital blade poised to sever my life. But tonight, standing in the forbidden hallway of the varsity complex, the usual terror felt distant. My fear wasn’t for that public humiliation; it was for the tremor that ran through my limbs, the tightening in my chest, the hot flush creeping up my neck. It was for the coiled spring inside me, waiting to snap.
I pushed the locker room door open.
A wave of warmth enveloped me, humid and thick, carrying the cloying scent of athletic tape and wintergreen. The main room was empty, the air still and heavy. Jerseys hung in their stalls like silent, headless ghosts. Equipment bags, zipped tight and bulging, sat beneath them, each a sleeping beast.
"Jax?" I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
"Showers."
His voice, deep and resonant, echoed off the tiled walls, bouncing around the cavernous space. It sounded hollow, like a stone dropped into a deep well.
I walked through the locker room, my eyes fixed on the floor. I stepped instinctively over the Spartan logo woven into the carpet, a reflex I’d learned just by being around him. You didn't step on the logo.
I rounded the corner into the shower block.
It was a large, communal space, a concrete box lined with three walls of showerheads. A central drain swallowed the runoff from the sloped tile floor. Steam filled the room, a thick, white fog that swirled and billowed, obscuring the far wall, creating an eerie, shifting landscape.
Jax was there.
He stood under the farthest showerhead, his back to me. The water, a roaring torrent, pounded against his shoulders and spine, disappearing into the drain.
He was naked.
One hand was braced against the tiled wall, fingers splayed, the other hung loose at his side. His head was bowed, dark hair plastered to his skull, water streaming over the roped muscles of his back, carving rivulets through the taut skin. His posture, rigid and still, suggested either a man in profound agony or one lost in fervent prayer.
"Lock the door," he said, his voice a low growl, still without turning.
"I... I can't," I stammered, my voice thin and reedy in the steam-choked air. "There's no lock on the locker room door."
"Then you better be quiet."
He turned slowly, a deliberate pivot.
He looked feral. His eyes, dark as bruised plums, were red-rimmed, whether from the scalding water or a deeper exhaustion, I couldn't tell. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His lips, taut and chapped, peeled back slightly from his teeth. His chest heaved, lungs visibly working beneath his slick skin. He looked massive in the small, steamy space, the water highlighting every vein and scar, every ridge and valley of his formidable physique.
A heavy, purplish column jutted from his groin, straining against the steam, dark veins tracing its swollen length. It pulsed, a dark, throbbing sentinel, demanding attention, an explicit declaration of his readiness.
"Strip," he ordered, the word cutting through the roar of the water.
I stood by the entrance, fully clothed in my jeans and hoodie. The humid air was already soaking into the cotton, making it cling to my skin.
"Jax, the janitors. I heard them." My voice trembled.
"Good," he muttered, that cocky, wolfish grin sliding into his face. "More thrilling. Makes it hit harder."
He stepped away from the wall, the water sluicing off his body. Drops clung to his chin, his nose, his elbows, gleaming in the dim light. He stopped three feet away, close enough that the radiating heat from his body cut through the damp air, a tangible force.
"You think I care if they hear us?" he asked softly, his voice a dangerous purr. "Let them hear. Let them wonder what the Captain is doing after hours."
He reached out, his hand closing around the drawstrings of my hoodie. He yanked hard.
