8. Chapter 6

The Dunkin" Donuts Center vibrates with anticipation as the Titans glide across the ice in their pristine white away jerseys, their skates carving elegant paths through the fresh surface.

Raiyne, some of the guys from our team, and I grabbed an early breakfast before heading over to scope out the competition.

It"s a common tactic, watching other teams play, looking for weaknesses to exploit or strengths to counter. And yet, my focus isn't on Crestwood University's hockey team. It's entirely on one player, his name a drumbeat in my head, a fever I can"t shake.

Jackson Reed.

My eyes track his every move. He"s poetry in motion, all coiled power and deadly precision, and I can"t look away. My heart beats out of control, as if someone injected me with a liter of adrenaline.

When his head snaps my way, his light green eyes locking onto me like a targeting system, my breath catches in my throat. For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of us. But then his lips twist into a scowl and he pivots sharply, skating to the far end of the rink like he can"t get away from me fast enough.

"Damn, that's new." Trembley claps my shoulder. "Since when does Reed avoid us?"

Since we rutted against each other like animals in heat, our hands desperate and greedy, our mouths hot and filthy. Since I came harder than I ever have in my life, my vision whiting out with the force of it.

Since I kicked him out of my room with his cum still cooling on my skin.

It was a dick move, but my head was spinning, and I had no idea when Trembley was coming back. Last thing I needed was to try to explain having a sexual encounter with our biggest rival while I'm still trying to figure it out myself, including the fact that I apparently like men.

And that I specifically really like Jackson.

Maybe I only like him.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "Who knows what goes on in that guy"s head?"

It"s a weak deflection, but Trembley just shrugs, his attention drifting back to the ice as the game gets underway. I try to focus on the play, on the clash of bodies and the spray of ice, but my mind keeps circling back to last night, to the heat of Jackson"s skin against mine, the ragged sound of his breath in my ear.

My thumb lightly grazes over the bruise on my forearm as I shift in my seat, my jeans suddenly feeling too tight. I can still feel the ghost of his hands on me, the bruising grip of his fingers, the hot slide of his tongue.

It"s like he"s branded me, left some indelible mark I can"t scrub away no matter how hard I try.

And believe me, I"ve tried.

I spent an hour in the shower after he left, the water scalding hot, my hand working between my legs, chasing the high of his touch. But even as I shuddered through my release, biting down on my fist to muffle my cries, it wasn"t enough. It was like an itch I couldn"t scratch, a hunger that gnawed at my bones.

I"m jolted out of my spiraling thoughts by a roar from the crowd. The Titans' goalie goes into a front split, blocking the puck, then catches the rebound.

"Novotny is on fire. We need to figure out a weakness. Seems he's been working on not committing too hard to the right side anymore," Raiyne says.

We could always capitalize on the Titans' goalie committing to the right side, but so far he's balanced, making him harder to beat.

Viktor Novotny is awesome. Even got drafted to the Islanders during the second round. Not sure why he hasn't signed yet. Unless it has to do with his behavior. The motherfucker is as unhinged as they come.

And proud of it.

My eyes snap back to Jackson as he cuts through Cornell"s defense like a hot knife through butter, his skates flashing as he dekes left, then right, leaving his opponents grasping at air. He passes the puck to Walsh with a flick of his wrist and Walsh one-times it toward the net.

The Cornell goalie makes the initial save, but he can"t control the rebound. The puck bounces off his pads and straight onto Jackson"s waiting stick.

Jackson doesn"t hesitate. With a quick snap of his wrists, he buries the puck in the back of the net, the red goal light flashing as the crowd erupts in cheers.

I want to cheer too, want to celebrate the sheer artistry of the play, but I can't. So, I settle for watching the fierce joy on Jackson"s face as he rounds the net, his teammates crashing into him in celebration.

He"s magnetic, incandescent, and it makes something clench deep in my chest, something that feels an awful lot like longing.

God, I"m so fucked.

The game wears on, the two teams trading blows like heavyweight boxers. The Titans are dominating, their skill and cohesion evident in every play, but Cornell refuses to go down without a fight. The hitting is fierce, bordering on dirty, and the ref"s whistle seems to be glued to his lips as he calls penalty after penalty.

"One of the d-men should take Reed out. Little trip close to the boards, make him think twice about dangling like that."

Not sure which of my teammates said it, but my fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise, and it takes everything I have to not spin around and deck someone.

It"s irrational, this sudden surge of protectiveness. Jackson"s more than capable of taking care of himself. But that doesn"t stop the snarl that builds in my throat, the harsh "Fuck off" that spills from my lips before I can bite it back.

Raiyne blinks at me, his brows furrowing. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just didn't sleep well."

It"s not a lie, exactly. I slept for shit, tossing and turning until the sheets were tangled around my legs because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jackson"s face, felt the weight of his body on mine.

Raiyne"s expression softens. "Heard you talking to your mom when I passed by. Wanted to make sure you got away after the prank. Didn"t want to eavesdrop, so I left, but is everything okay with her?"

I swallow past the lump in my throat, my chest tightening with a complicated mixture of love and guilt and gratitude. Raiyne's a good friend, the best, and I hate lying to him. But I"m not ready to talk about this thing with Jackson.

"Yeah, she"s doing all right," I manage, my voice rough. "Having a few good days, which makes it easier to be up here, you know?"

It"s the truth, mostly. Mom"s health is as stable as it ever is, her good days outnumbering her bad ones for a change. But I called her because I needed to hear her voice, needed her steady reassurance and unconditional love. I needed to know that even if everything else in my life is shifting beneath my feet, she"ll still be there to catch me if I fall.

And she was.

She listened patiently, all too happy to hear about what was going on with Jackson—more so than I'm comfortable with. The woman even teased and asked when I was bringing him by to meet her, referring to Jackson as my boyfriend.

Like that would ever happen.

But she held no judgment, just listened, assured me she'd support whatever I decided was right.

On the ice, the Titans are up by three goals by the end of the second period. Jackson made some errors, including a blind pass that ended up with Cornell scoring.

"Are they even trying? Looks like they're playing as if it's just a practice." Trembley stretches, then pulls the bill of his cap down as if he's about to take a nap. "Expected more from them. This shit's kinda tame."

"Next period will be brutal. Things always go sideways when one team is getting their ass whooped."

Raiyne's not wrong. And, true to his prediction, the third period is chippy as hell.

Unfortunately for Cornell, that means the Titans' leashes came off. Both teams have two men in the penalty box consistently. Minor and major penalties are being handed out like candy on Halloween.

And with the amount of blood being spilled on both sides, you'd think this was a blood drive instead of a hockey game.

Petrov sends the puck into the offensive zone and Jackson chases it down in the corner. Then Cornell's biggest defender charges and cross-checks him into the boards, the hit vicious and dirty. Jackson crumples to the ice, his body going limp, and for a moment I swear my heart stops beating entirely.

I jump to my feet, a bit too fast to come across as curious. Bile creeps its way up my throat when Jackson doesn't get up right away. Fuck, he may be knocked out.

Then the defender brings his stick down on Jackson's side in a brutal slash.

A menacing sound, almost like a roar, bellows up from deep within my chest as I punch the plexiglass. "Motherfucker, I will end you!"

I don't even see Jackson anymore, my focus solely on the shithead who's grinning. "You're dead, you hear me? You're fucking dead!"

I slam my fist against the plexiglass again, and again, and again, the pain barely registering through the haze of my fury. I want to rip that smug motherfucker apart with my bare hands, want to make him bleed and beg and hurt for daring to touch what"s mine.

Raiyne lays a hand on my shoulder. "Killian?"

"Jesus, Blackwell. You okay?" Trembley juts his chin toward the glass, and fuck, there's blood on it.

I look down at my hand and sure enough, I split my knuckles open. My teammates look at me, a mixture of concern and curiosity on their faces. But not the good kind. More like the ‘you have some explaining to do' kinda way.

My body shakes and I turn back to the ice. Jackson's staring at me, his eyes full of confusion, shock, and something else, something raw and vulnerable that makes my breath catch in my throat.

But then he blinks and it"s gone, his expression shuttering closed as he pushes himself to his feet, shrugging off his teammates" concerned hands.

"I need to get out of here." I shove past my teammates and exit the arena before I do something stupid because seeing Jackson hurt, seeing him vulnerable, unleashed something dark and possessive and terrifying inside me.

Something that roars mine, mine, mine and makes me want to rip the world apart to keep him safe.

I snort and shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatshirt.

Just because some of my cum marked him doesn't make him mine.

Only, the primal part deep inside calls bullshit. The same part that wants revenge against Cornell because no one gets to hurt Jackson but me.