Page 81 of Puck Tease
It swung open.
Jax walked in.
He looked expensive. That was the biggest change from college. Gone were the hoodies and the frayed jeans. He was wearing a custom-fitted Italian suit, navy blue, cut to accommodate the width of his shoulders. The tie was already undone, hanging loose around his neck. The top button of his white dress shirt was popped.
He carried a leather duffel bag in one hand and his suit jacket in the other.
He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a fresh cut on his cheekbone that had been glued shut by the team doc.
He dropped the bag.Thud.
He dropped the jacket. It pooled on the floor.
He didn't say hello. He didn't look at the view.
He looked at me.
His eyes swept over the room, taking in the dim lighting, the clean surfaces, and finally, his prize waiting in the center of the rug.
He closed the door and threw the deadbolt.
He walked toward me. The sound of his dress shoes on the hardwood was sharp and authoritative.
He stopped in front of me. I stared at his belt buckle.
"Look up," he said. His voice was gravel—rougher than usual, scraped raw from the dry rink air.
I looked up.
"Hi," I whispered.
"Hi."
He didn't smile. He reached out and placed his hand on top of my head. His palm was heavy, warm. He stroked my hair once, a possessive, petting motion.
"You watched?" he asked.
"Every shift."
"I played like shit in the first."
"You had two assists, Jax."
"Sloppy," he dismissed. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
"By knowing you were sitting here. Waiting."
He moved his hand from my hair to the collar. He hooked a finger under the steel, tugging gently. The metal bit into my neck.
"Were you good?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How long have you been kneeling?"
"Twenty minutes."
