Page 47 of Puck Tease
He leaned in until our foreheads touched, his skin burning hot, damp with sweat.
“I can’t play without you,” he whispered, the words a raw confession.
The admission hung in the chemical-laced air between us, heavier than the insults he’d hurled, more terrifying in its vulnerability than the rage that had just consumed him.
“I tried,” he said, his voice rough, quiet, almost hoarse. “I tried to block you out. I tried to be the machine. But the machine is broken, Tom. It doesn’t work anymore.”
He closed his eyes, resting his weight against my forehead, a silent plea.
“I need you in my head. I need you in my veins. If I don’t have this… if I don’t have you… I’m nothing out there.”
My heart, which had been hammering with fear just moments before, suddenly clenched with something painful and sharp, a surprising mix of sorrow and a strange, fierce pride.
I reached up. My hands rested on his chest, on the hard, unyielding plastic of his shoulder pads. I could feel his heart beating underneath the armor, a frantic rhythm. It was racing, just like mine.
“You have me,” I whispered, the words a promise.
Jax opened his eyes. The glacier-blue was clear now, the predatory fire replaced by a steady, unwavering focus.
“Do I?”
“Always,” I said. “You know that. You own me.”
He let out a breath, a long, shaky exhale that smelled of mint gum and, unmistakably, relief.
He kissed me.
It wasn't a sexual kiss. It was barely a touch, a firm pressure of his lips against mine, sealing a pact, a desperate, unspoken agreement. It tasted of salt and the lingering desperation in the air.
He pulled back, his gaze steady, intense.
“Third period starts in four minutes,” he said. The Captain was back. The voice was level, the frantic edge gone.
“Go,” I said.
He nodded, a sharp, decisive movement. He stepped back, his eyes sweeping over the tableau of our encounter—my torn shirt, the cum leaking onto the cold laminate of the table, the raw, red marks on my skin.
He turned to his equipment bag, which sat on a nearby bench, and rummaged inside. He pulled out a spare hoodie. Gray. With the Spartan logo emblazoned across the chest.
He tossed it to me. The fabric landed softly on the table next to me.
“Cover up,” he said, his voice firm. “And go back to the seat. Don’t hide down here.”
“Why?” I asked, my voice still hoarse.
“Because I need to see you,” he said, his gaze locking with mine. He grabbed his stick from the corner, the carbon fiber shaft glinting under the flickering fluorescent light. He tested the flex, bending the stick under his weight, the action smooth, deliberate.
He walked to the door. His hand was on the cold metal handle when he stopped and looked back.
“I need to know you’re watching when I win this for you.”
He opened the door and walked out, leaving me alone in the dim, chemical-scented room.
I sat on the table for a long moment, shaking uncontrollably, the echoes of his roar still vibrating in my bones. I cleaned myself up as best I could with a grimy shop rag, wiping away the stickiness. I pulled on his hoodie. It smelled like him—cedar and laundry detergent, overlaid with the sharp tang of sweat and adrenaline. It swallowed me whole, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem brushing my knees.
I limped back up to the concourse, each step a dull ache in my back and thighs. I found my seat just as the buzzer sounded, a shrill, piercing shriek signaling the start of the third period.
The scout next to me gave me a long, weird look, his pen hovering over his notepad. The hockey mom sniffed, wrinkling her nose, undoubtedly catching the lingering scent of sweat and sex that clung to me, despite the hoodie.
