Page 68 of Puck Tease
Their eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on my torn shirt. They lingered on the dark, angry marks blooming across my neck. They dropped to the wet stain on my gray sweatpants, then flicked up to Jax.
They saw the look on his face. There was no trace of shame, no hint of embarrassment. Only a cold, triumphant pride.
He walked with his head held high, his chin slightly lifted, daring anyone to meet his gaze, to utter a single word. He met Tyler’s eyes across the room. Tyler, frozen mid-sip, looked at me, then at Jax, and slowly, deliberately, raised his red cup in a toast. A gesture of respect. Of understanding.
Message received.
We walked out the front door, leaving the silence and the staring behind. We walked down the driveway, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat of the party, the heat of my own body.
Jax didn’t release my hand until we were inside his truck, the engine already rumbling to life.
He turned to me, his profile softened in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “You okay?” His voice was lower now, gentler, the harsh edge gone, the performance over.
I touched my neck, my fingers tracing the raised welts. It throbbed, a dull, persistent ache.
“Everyone saw,” I whispered, the words barely audible.
“Yeah,” Jax said. He reached over, his fingers brushing against my temple, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “Now they know. No more rumors. Just facts.”
“What fact is that?”
“That you’re mine,” he said, his voice a low, possessive growl. “And I don’t share.”
He put the truck in gear, the vehicle lurching forward.
“Let’s go home. I want to finish what I started on that balcony.”
As we drove away, I looked back at the frat house. The party lights still flickered, the bass still thrummed, but the atmosphere had irrevocably shifted. I was no longer the subject of hushed whispers and anonymous posts.
I was the Captain’s property.
And for the first time, I felt a strange, fierce defiance. For the first time, I didn't care who knew.
14 – THE CHAMPIONSHIP
The Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul swallowed sound and spat it back out, a monstrous maw of noise that pressed in from every direction. Green-and-white confetti, sticky with celebratory drinks, rained from the rafters, catching the erratic blare of strobing lights. Ten minutes had passed since the final buzzer shrieked its conclusion, but the roar hadn't softened. It was a physical weight, a thrumming current against my eardrums, vibrating up from the soles of my dress shoes, rattling the bones in my feet.
MICHIGAN STATE: 4
BOSTON COLLEGE: 1
National Champions. The words hung in the air, emblazoned on the colossal jumbotron, yet they felt secondary to the thunderous reality.
I stood in the family section, the plexiglass cold and hard against my chest, jostled by a surging, joyous mob of parents, girlfriends, and scouts. My palms were flat against the clear barrier, leaving damp, sweaty prints. Inside my ribs, my heart hammered a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with pucks and nets, and everything to do with the man currently carving a celebratory circle across the ice, a thirty-pound silver trophy hoisted high above his head.
Jax.
He moved like a force of nature, a modern god of war. His helmet was gone, his dark hair plastered to his scalp with sweat and the champagne that had already been sprayed in riotous arcs from the bench. His playoff beard, thick and dark, framed a mouth pulled wide in a grin that stretched the skin around his eyes. They glittered with a raw, untamed joy, edged with the bone-deep weariness of a four-year battle. His jersey, Michigan State dark green and white, hung askew, a tear at the shoulder revealing a dark stain of blood—not his own.
He skated a solitary lap, the massive silver cup catching every arena light, turning it into a blinding beacon. His head tipped back, a guttural scream tore from his throat and clawed its way to the ceiling, a raw, primal sound that seemed to rip loose every ounce of pressure accumulated over four grueling years.
The cameras descended, a metallic swarm. Reporters, their faces desperate, shoved microphones into his personal space. His teammates, a chaotic, laughing mountain of pads and equipment, piled onto him, their hoots and shouts lost in the din.
But Jax was looking for something. His head snapped up, turning slowly, methodically. He broke free from the celebratory scrum, his skates biting into the ice as he pushed toward the glass. His blue eyes, sharp and intense, swept across the family section, cutting through the sea of shouting, cheering faces.
He found me.
In that instant, the deafening arena faded. The surging crowd became a blurry backdrop. The world narrowed, contracting to the two inches of scuffed plexiglass separating us.
