28. Bodhi

Chapter twenty-eight

Bodhi

T his week has been a hurricane—a relentless storm of aching. I know the taste of Brayden's lips, the silk of his mouth against mine. It's etched into my senses, a craving that dares reason. The classroom becomes our battleground, and he tests me—those endless blue eyes like a vortex pulling me in. I want to touch him. Claim him. I stumble over words during my presentations. His gaze, intense, intoxicating, drives me to the edge. I ache to scream, to seize him, to make him mine in front of everyone. But we've only spoken through texts—a fragile thread connecting us. It's not enough. I hunger for more. His skin, his breath, the taste of him. He's an obsession, buried deep in the roots tangled with my sanity.

I need to see him, touch him, taste him again.

That's why I'm here.

Section 2, Row 8, Seat 24.

I couldn't go this weekend without seeing him. I knew when he arrived back from this game, he would be too tired to see me. As much as I know he would have, it wouldn't be fair. He needs to rest especially with all the classes that's why, I've kept my hands to myself. My resolve teetering on the edge, because I knew once I touch him, that would be it. My resolve would snap, and I wouldn't be able to stop. I can't, not at work, not in the classroom—there, the air crackles with our unspoken tension. My desk, once a sanctuary, now holds memories of stolen glances, of lips that never met but hungered in those moments. His scene where he lingers alone is enough to drive me insane with need.

The rink echoes with ice scraping against skates. Bodies blur—a masterpiece of speed and desire. I pull my baseball cap lower, concealing my face. And hoping no one recognizes me. I can see the top of Denny's head, which keeps pacing, and I catch the odd glimpse of his hands wailing at his players.

I wonder if he knows he's going slightly bald on top of his head. I smile to myself because there is not a chance I will be the one to bring that to his attention.

My eyes lock onto number 13 as he glides across the ice, my heart pounding in sync with each swift motion of his skates. Brayden moves with the swagger of a man who owns not just the rink, but the very air around it. Even when the puck isn't tethered to his stick, he exudes confidence, weaving through opponents as if they're mere statues, leaving a trail of awe in his wake. Each time he's hit, my heart clenches. I grip the seat edges, torn between leaping to my feet and racing down to the ice. His passion, his unwavering commitment to the team—it's magnetic. Even when he falls, my stomach twists in knots. But Brayden defies gravity, rising in an instant. The collective tension in the stadium eases; the Quake still stands.

The opposing team hungers for his downfall yet as I watch him, I realize how much he's overcome, the battles he's faced. Brayden shows resilience. He gets knocked down, he rises, unyielding. Overtime arrives, and the air thickens with anticipation. The puck finds Brayden's stick once more, and the crowd rises as one. On tiptoes, we witness the clash—the defenseman's stick, the flicker of the puck. Then, with a precision that defies reason, Brayden sends it soaring. Through the goalie's legs it slips, and the Devil Hawks' fans erupt.

And there, in that electrifying moment, my student becomes a legend. My heart swells with pride.

He's more than a player, he's more than just my student.

He's mine.

The arena pulses with electric energy as the players exit the ice. The crowd envelops me, smiles and cheers washing over me like a tidal wave. The scent of fresh Zamboni ice mingles with the tang of sweat-soaked jerseys. A few people, drawn by my baseball cap, offer excited shoulder squeezes or friendly smacks on my back.

But my anticipation isn't for them—it's for Brayden.

I linger, careful not to overstay. The stadium empties, leaving me alone in the echoing aftermath. The distant echoes of the Zamboni scraping ice and the low hum of the overhead lights create an intimate feel. I don't know this place well, but I sent Brayden a text, telling him to wait in the locker rooms while everyone else leaves. I told him I wanted to call him without prying ears around. What excuse he'll make for his teammates and Denny, I can only wonder. Hopefully, his creativity serves him well. Navigating unfamiliar corridors, I glance over my shoulder. The coast appears clear. I dash away from prying eyes. Near the tunnels, I discover what appears to be a cleaning closet. Testing the handle, I let out a sigh of relief when it opens. I slip inside, time stretching as I wait—an hour condensed into half that span. The air smells faintly of cleaning supplies, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline-laden atmosphere outside. I stay in there for what feels like an hour, but it's only been around half an hour. Voices approach, a mix of murmurs and Trayton's unmistakable booming voice. That must be them leaving. Hopefully, Brayden stayed behind. I wait five more minutes and then crack the door, taking a peek out to make sure the coast is clear. Once I'm happy it is, I slip out, walking toward the lockers. As I get closer, I take slow quiet steps and open the door quietly. There's a small walkway to walk down and the locker room opens up before me—an expanse of anticipation. I scan the area for a moment, thinking Brayden must have left, and then, as if the universe conspired to test my resolve, I see him emerge from a door.

From the showers.

A pristine white towel clings to his waist, accentuating the contours of his body. His hands move with purpose, raking through wet hair as streams cascade down his skin, tracing the chiseled lines of his abs. My eyes follow each droplet, a silent ache building within me. The towel in his hand vanishes, revealing tousled dark hair that falls across his face. Leaning down, he retrieves his phone, an unmistakable frown etching his features. The air crackles with tension—he waits, and I know it's for my call.

He stands back up and it's as if the temperature rises instantly. My balls ache, my dick fills.

Water droplets cascade from his hair as he casually brushes them away, a lone strand falling across his eyes. His abs ripple with each twisting motion, and I ache to trace my fingertips along the contours of his muscular arms. The mere thought electrifies my skin, urging me to abandon restraint—I must feel his touch. Before stepping out from behind the wall, I stand behind. I loosen my belt and tuck my dick up. It's hard as a fucking rock and I know the minute I'm near him, it's going to be leaking.

Emerging from behind the alcove, I clear my throat, and Brayden's eyes snap to mine. His gaze sweeps over me, from head to toe, as if reading secrets written on my skin. The charged air between us hums with anticipation, and I wonder if he sees the desire etched in every curve of my body for him. As the tension between us thickens, I step closer, drawn by that invisible force which is stronger than ever. His eyes lock onto mine, and the world around me comes to a halt. Everything fades away, leaving only the two of us in this charged moment. Once I'm standing in front of him, my palms cup his face, my fingers melting into his smooth skin and my lips meet his. He instantly opens up for me, allowing me to take everything I have craved over the past week. Every swipe of my tongue sends jolts to my dick as it leaks for him.

They say addiction is bad for you, but is it always? Brayden is the sweetest poison coursing through my veins. There's nothing bad about him. He's pure, He's the healthiest addiction, and I ache to overdose on him, relapsing with every heartbeat.

We stumble backward, seeking refuge against the wall. His hands explore and ignite every nerve. The world tilts on its axis as his dick, only tented by the towel, stands up straight as he rubs himself against me, against my hardness only concealed in my jeans.

"Fuck," he gasps, my lips attack his as he tries to speak.

"You're," he breaths, I moan into his mouth, pushing harder into him.

"Here," he says breathlessly, biting at my lip. I pull away and our eyes connect, keeping us still in our bubble.

"I couldn't resist seeing you." I pull back slightly, my gaze dropping to the tented white towel. Brayden's eyes lock with mine, a blush creeping up his face before a devilish smirk curves his lips.

"Are you gonna do something about that?" Everything inside me screams yes as he confidently smirks at me. I've imagined this moment—the touch, the hesitation—but now, I'm anything but hesitant. I want to feel his bare skin in my grip, watch his face as I unravel him with my hands and more. The air thickens, charged with anticipation.

I step closer, my fingers trembling with need as they trace the edge of the towel. Brayden's smirk widens, and he leans in, capturing my lips with a hunger that ignites every nerve. The world continues to stand still, leaving only the heat of our bodies, the urgency of our desire. His hand slides down my spine, and I press against him, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric. We're suspended in our bubble, where time bends and rules blur.

My body pulses with heat, our breaths mingling as if they've become one. Brayden's hands find the curve of my waist, pulling me as close as he can until there's no space left between us. His lips trail down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. I tilt my head back, surrendering to the sensation, the hunger, the longing. The towel falls forgotten to the floor. I gulp as my hands move between us and I wrap my hand around the smooth skin of his dick.

"Fuck," he rasps, tracing lazy kisses over my neck. My dick fucking weeps for him. I slowly pump my hand once and he groans as if it pains him.

"I'm not gonna last long." His voice is a tortured whisper, as though pain and longing have merged into one. The knowledge that I'm the one that's doing this to him ignites a burning flame within me.

"Sir," he groans loudly, desperate. The tingling sensation begins in my balls at that one word. There's no way I'm coming in my pants. No way. I squeeze Brayden's dick slightly, more so trying to hold off my own dick from exploding.

"Fuck," he moans again, and I lean my head back to gaze at him. His hooded eyes, full of desire, lock onto mine, threatening to unravel my composure.

"Your eyes don't leave mine, Brayden." My voice comes out raspy and he nods eagerly, his mouth open and more moans filter through. I speed up my hand, secretly loving the way his eyes close slightly and they roll back.

"Brayden," I growl, reminding him. His eyes snap back to mine and then widen slightly and his mouth opens as his harsh puff of air fans my face.

"Sir, I'm going to come," he rushes out, right before ropes of cum squirt over me and my hand. I look down, watching his dick pulse and leak and it undoes me. The word ‘Sir' and witnessing his release overwhelms me and I shudder, my body betraying me as if I'm an inexperienced teenage boy as I feel ropes of my own cum leak from my dick. A guttural grunt escapes my lips, and I squeeze my eyes shut, grateful for my jeans concealing the dampness beneath.

We both regulate our breathing, leaning our head on each other's shoulders.

"Fuck that was amazing." Brayden's croaky voice has me grinning when I lean back, his cheek flushed and hair disheveled. I've decided this is my new favorite look on Brayden.

His post-orgasm look.

His hands brush my abs as they move downward, and I react swiftly, capturing them. His frown deepens, but I shake my head.

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Besides, we're running late for dinner." I flash a grin and take a step back. If I don't put some distance between us, I won't be leaving anytime soon.

"Dinner?" He frowns, lifting the towel from the floor and draping it around himself. My eyes traces his well-defined abs, and I gulp as I stare at the dried-up cum.

"Yes, well, we're not dining out for obvious reasons. Instead, we're ordering takeout and heading to a secluded spot, I know." I smile, pleased that I've already organized our evening. His face brightens, but then his eyes widen.

"Wait, where are you staying tonight?"

"I'm driving back tonight," I reply. Brayden's face scrunches up.

"No way," he protests. "It's over a four-hour drive home. Surely you can stay somewhere and drive back tomorrow?"

"It's fine," I assure him. "I have a lot to get done tomorrow. It's best I get back tonight." Brayden nods slowly, avoiding my gaze.

He hesitates, our eyes locking, his cheeks flushed. "Did you come all this way just to watch me play?" His words hang in the air.

I lean in, my lips brushing against his. "And to kiss you," I admit, feeling my heart flutter as his cheeks turn crimson.

I love the way I can make him blush.

"You got a bit more than you hoped for, then?" He smirks, his confidence returning.

"That I did." I grin, longing to touch him more. But I need to leave; if I touch him again, we won't be leaving this locker room.

"OK," I say, snapping out of the thoughts I haven't got time to be thinking about right now. "I parked the car about five blocks away. I'll go grab it, and I'll pick you up on the corner where Walmart is down the road, OK?" He nods.

"Wait, your hat." Brayden's eyes lock onto mine as he lifts my hat from the bench. His smile, a sunbeam breaking through clouds, warms my heart.

"Did you have this made?" he asks, his voice soft, fingers tracing the embroidered 13 . I nod, my pulse racing. "You're number 13's biggest fan," he chuckles, stepping closer.

The hat settles on my head, his breath warm against my skin. I fight the urge to reach for him. "Wear it every day," he murmurs, eyes darkening. I pull it low, concealing my face, and promise that when it's just us, I will wear it every minute if he wants me to.

Brayden bites his lip, trying to conceal that beautiful fucking smile of his, and he turns around and walks back to the showers. I spin on my heels, pacing to the exit. An ache tugs in my chest, my heart begging me to turn around and walk back in there.

Fuck. My body needs to get a grip on itself. I'll be seeing him again in a little while.