Page 6 of Puck Tease
I stood alone in the hallway, trembling uncontrollably, my cock still hard beneath the jockstrap I clutched to my chest. I looked down at it, squeezed it tight.
The game had started. The door had closed. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that I was about to lose everything.
2 – THE NEGOTIATION
Aclock hand crawls. Each second stretches, taut and humming. Five minutes. The number itself felt like a lie. In the roaring arena of a hockey game, five minutes could carve out an entire narrative: three goals screaming past the net, a flurry of fists exploding at center ice, a lead snatched away in a blink. Here, in the quiet of my own hallway, the time dissolved into nothing. The radio would play a single pop song. A commercial break would flicker to an end.
But I stood naked, the chill of the linoleum biting at my soles, clutching Jax’s sweat-stiffened practice jersey against my bare thigh, and five minutes became an eternity of suspended animation.
My phone screen glowed, a cold blue rectangle held too close to my face. 4:32 PM. I checked it again, for the tenth time, though the numbers hadn't shifted.
Two minutes left.
A tremor started deep in my chest, a quick flutter that spread outwards. The central heating hummed at seventy degrees,but my skin prickled, hypersensitive to the phantom currents stirring the air around me. My clothes lay in a crumpled heap by my bedroom door—denim jeans inverted, boxer briefs tangled in the legs. Every inch of my skin felt exposed, vulnerable. Two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle, built and honed over years, a deliberate shield against this very sensation, now felt like a thin membrane, easily pierced. Stripped bare, I waited, a supplicant for entry into a room that was half mine by right of rent.
From behind the closed bathroom door, the shower roared. Pipes groaned in the walls, a low, mechanical vibration that resonated with the clenching knot in my gut.
I looked down at the jersey in my hand. Navy mesh. White number 17. The fabric felt rough, abrasive under my thumb, the edges of the stitched numbers already fraying. Ten minutes ago, I had pressed it to my face, inhaling deeply, a slow, deliberate act of worship. Now, its damp weight felt like a stone in my hand, a silent witness. A tool.
My cock still hung heavy, a dull ache thrumming against my thigh, a traitorous pulse of blood. A cold, clear part of my mind screamed for flight. Pack a bag. Drive to the dean’s office. Request a transfer, anywhere. But another part, a dark, primal instinct that had been hammered into shape by four years of obsession, squeezed tight. It feared Jax might actually open the door and let me walk away.
The water shut off.
The shower cut off dead, and the sudden quiet slammed into me like a cross-check to the chest, leaving the hallway thick, ringing, and way too small. I heard the distinctsnickof the glass shower door sliding open, then the heavy, wetthudof feet hitting the bathmat.
"Time's up," Jax’s voice cut through the wood. It wasn't a yell. It was a flat, unhurried statement, devoid of emotion, and it carried through the door as easily as if he stood beside me.
I drew a breath, held it until my lungs burned, and pushed the door open.
The bathroom was a white-tiled box, a dense cloud of humidity that clung to my skin. Steam billowed out, thick and heavy, carrying the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood soap and the metallic tang of hot tap water. The mirror was a solid sheet of white, my own reflection swallowed whole.
Jax stood in the center of the room.
Water sluiced down his body in rivulets. He hadn't bothered to reach for a towel. His hair was slicked back, dark and wet, revealing the sharp, almost predatory angles of his face. Beads of water tracked over the heavy slabs of his pectorals, collected in the deep, defined V of his hips, then disappeared into the dark hair at his groin.
He stood like a statue, immovable, dense. Packed with hard, wet muscle. A silent, imposing presence.
And he was fully, terrifyingly hard.
His cock stood straight up against his stomach, thick and veined, a slight bobbing motion accompanying his breathing. It was engorged, flushed with blood, the head a broad, dark purple. His hands hung loose at his sides. He wasn't touching it. He wasn't acknowledging it. It was simplythere—a weapon drawn, laid bare on the table between us.
His eyes, the color of storm clouds, swept over me. His gaze was thorough, taking in my bare chest, my legs, the jersey clutched in my hand. He held no expression.
"Close the door," he said.
I stepped inside. The humid air enveloped me. My hand moved to the knob and clicked the door shut. The latch engagedwith a sharpsnickthat vibrated through the frame, a sound that made my stomach lurch.
"Lock it."
My thumb found the small turning mechanism.Click. The bolt slid home.
"Jersey," he said. He pointed to the tile floor directly in front of his feet. "Spread it out."
I hesitated. The white tile was wet, speckled with dark hairs and faint smudges from his feet.
"Did I stutter?" Jax asked softly. The words held no heat, only a low, dangerous hum.
I walked forward. My legs felt stiff, heavy, as if moving through thick water. I knelt down. The cold tile bit into my knees, a sharp shock against my skin. My hands trembled as I spread the navy mesh out on the floor, smoothing the wrinkles. The white number 17 stared up at me, bold and stark.
