My new plaything

JAXON POV

Ooh-la-la," I muttered under my breath, my jaw instantly slacking as the glow of my phone screen lit up the pitch-black room.

I sat upright against my headboard, every muscle in my torso tightening. The image on my screen was a masterclass in shadow and curve, a high-definition shot capturing a full, soft waist, the explicit arch of thick hips, and pale skin that looked softer than silk against dark shorts. No face. No background markers. Just raw, unfiltered, breathtaking confidence cut off right below the collarbone.

My thumb lingered on the image before I caught myself and snapped out of it.

"Well, well, well," I whispered, a slow, dark grin pulling at the corner of my lips. "I guess the quiet poet has a filthy side."

Just twenty-four hours ago, this anonymous texter had sent me a long, bleeding confession about watching home games from the top row of the stands, feeling invisible, and finding solace in how I played on the ice. At first, I’d assumed it was just another Crestwood groupie looking for a way into my bed, or worse, a cruel prank orchestrated by someone on the team. But her words had contained a quiet, aching sincerity that had caught me off guard. And now, she was dropping nuclear bombs on my phone at midnight.

She clearly wasn't the bone-thin, plastic socialites I was used to hanging around in Chloe’s circle. She had weight to her, real curves that filled out the frame with an intoxicating, shameless pride. Her sheer nerve was staggering.

My pulse hammered against my ribs, a sharp spike of adrenaline burning through the midnight fatigue. I kicked off the heavy silk sheets, sitting up straight. If she wanted to play a dangerous game, I was more than happy to show her how the master played it.

I unbuttoned my dark pajama pants, pulling them down low enough to expose the hard line of my V-taper and the sharp cuts of my lower abs. Standing near the full-length mirror by my balcony doors, I angled the camera down, catching the broad width of my bare chest in the faint moonlight.

Click.

I didn't hesitate. I attached the photo and sent it straight back to her.

[[phone]]: You tell me. Do you like what you see, or are you just teasing, Secret Girl?

I stared at the screen, my thumb tapping against the polished casing. Five seconds passed. The typing bubble appeared instantly.

[Secret Girl]: I... wow. I didn't think you'd actually send one back.

A quiet chuckle escaped my throat.

[[phone]]: You set the rules of the game when you sent that picture. I’m just keeping up. But let’s be honest for a second—a body like yours doesn’t belong in the shadows. Why hide the face?

[Secret Girl]: Because the moment you see my face, the fantasy ends. Out there, in the real world, guys like you don't look at girls like me. You look right through us. Or worse, you laugh.

I frowned, the sharp arrogance in my chest dimming just a fraction. There was a raw, familiar bitterness in her words, a defense mechanism I recognized all too well because I built the exact same walls around myself every single day.

[[phone]]: Try me. I’m not most guys. And trust me, nobody is laughing at what you just sent. In fact, it's sexy. 

[Secret Girl]: Easy for you to say, Captain. You’re Blake Reed. The star #88. The golden boy of Crestwood. You could have any girl on campus with a snap of your fingers.

I froze.

The room went dead, heavy, and dead silent. The blood in my veins ran ice-cold, the smug smile vanishing from my face as if it had been wiped away with a blade.

Captain.

Blake Reed.

#88.

My eyes scanned those words over and over until they burned into my brain. The long paragraphs from last night, the deep confessions about watching the ice, the praise about playing like nothing else mattered, the adoration, weren't meant for me.

She wasn't texting Jaxon Hayes. She thought she was texting my best friend.

A flash of confusion hit me, followed immediately by a lightbulb going off in my head. How the hell did she get this number?

Then it hit me, and a dry laugh escaped my throat.

Two months ago, Blake had lost his phone during an away game in Chicago. Desperate to stay in touch with his girls and the team, he had borrowed my secondary burner phone for two weeks. To keep things clean for the athletic department's records, he had registered his name under that line in the university's internal system so the coach could reach him. When he bought a new phone, he handed the line back to me, but he had completely forgotten to change the name back on the public athletic registry. Only a handful of executive staff and team members even knew that number had ever belonged to Blake.

She must have sneaked a peek at the executive log to steal his number, completely unaware she was copying down a recycled line that was currently resting in my hand.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type out the truth: You've got the wrong guy, sweet face. You're talking to Jaxon.

I raised my thumb to send it. But then I paused.

I looked back up at the picture she had sent, the soft, gorgeous curves, the sheer vulnerability of her texts, the intoxicating mix of her sharp wit and deep insecurities. Blake was my brother, my best friend, but he was also a total golden-boy player who threw fan letters in the garbage bin without reading them. If I told her the truth, she would panic, block the number, and disappear into the darkness forever. I would never find out who she was.

Besides, the idea of secretly entertaining a mystery girl who thought she was flirting with Crestwood's star captain was far too tempting to pass up. It was a harmless opportunity to have a little fun at Blake's waste. 

A dark, dangerous thrill settled deep inside my chest.

[[phone]]: You shouldn't put me on a pedestal, Secret Girl. Blake Reed has plenty of flaws. But on this phone... it's just you and me.

[Secret Girl]: Good. Because I like this version of you better than the one I see in the hallways.

I leaned back against the headboard, a slow, predatory smirk returning to my face.

"You have no idea who you're talking to," I whispered to the empty room. "But let's see how long this game lasts."

The next evening, the atmosphere inside the Crestwood Hockey Fraternity house was thick with the smell of expensive bourbon, cigar smoke, and loud bass thumping from the surround-sound speakers.

I sat on the center leather couch in the private VIP lounge upstairs, a glass of crystal amber liquid resting casually between my fingers. Across from me, Chloe Mercer was curled up on an armchair, swirling a glass of white wine while checking her manicured nails. Leaning against the dark oak bar was Blake Reed, still wearing his sharp Crestwood athletic jacket, tossing an ice cube up and down in his hand.

"I'm just saying, Jax, you've been entirely too intense lately," Chloe said, setting her glass down with a delicate clink. "Ever since your father brought that woman and her pathetic daughter into your house, you've been walking around campus like you're ready to murder someone."

I took a slow sip of my bourbon, my jaw tightening at the mention of Victoria and Aria. "They're parasites, Chloe. Victoria is executing a classic long-con on my father, and her oversized, silent daughter is just along for the free ride. I hate the way they parade the house like it's theirs.”

Blake let out a loud laugh, tossing the ice cube into a sink behind the bar. "Man, Aria really gets under your skin, doesn't she? I mean, yeah, she’s a total outcast and dresses like she's hiding a body under those giant sweaters, but she’s harmless, Jax. She barely speaks."

"She doesn't belong in my house," I snapped, my gray eyes flashing with lethal coldness. "She takes up space where my mother’s memory belongs. I want her gone. I want both of them broken so badly they pack their bags and run back to whatever gutter they crawled out of."

Blake raised an eyebrow, stepping away from the bar with a wicked, arrogant grin. "You're taking it too seriously, bro. You want to get rid of her? You don't bully a girl like that out of your house. You destroy her from the inside out."

"And how do you propose doing that?" I asked softly, setting my glass on the table.

Blake leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of a chair. "Simple. Girls like Aria, insecure outcasts who have never had a guy look at them twice, are desperate for affection. You play the long game. You make her fall in love."

Chloe gasped, a malicious, delighted smile lighting up her face. "Oh, Blake, that is utterly evil but I love it."

"Think about it," Blake continued, his ego flaring bright. "I turn on the charm. I start talking to her, making her think Crestwood's star captain actually cares about a girl like her. She gets hooked. She drops her guard. And then, at the mid-semester gala in front of the entire university and your father's high-society friends... I publicly dump her and expose her as the desperate joke she is."

I stared at Blake, my eyes narrowing. He was my best friend, but his arrogance was legendary—and completely predictable. He had no idea that while he was plotting to break Aria in person, a mysterious girl was already blowing up my secondary phone believing I was him.

"Talk is cheap, Reed," I said smoothly, pulling my customized car keys from my pocket and slapping them onto the marble coffee table. The silver keychain of my custom, vintage 1969 matte-black motorcycle glinted under the chandelier light. "Let's put real stakes on it."

Blake’s eyes went wide. He had been begging me to sell him that bike for two years.

"My vintage bike," I said, my voice dropping to a low, commanding drawl. "Plus one million dollars in cash from my personal fund. You make Aria Vance fall madly, hopelessly in love with you by the night of the gala. You pull off the public humiliation, and it's all yours."

Blake stared at the keys, his chest rising as greed and pride took over. "And if I fail?"

"You hand over your captain's spot on the roster without a fight," I replied coldly. "Do we have a deal?"

Blake grinned, stepping forward and extending his hand. "Deal."

We shook on it. Chloe clapped her hands in delight, pouring another round of drinks to celebrate the bet.

As they toasted to the plan, my phone vibrated inside my pocket. I pulled it out casually, keeping the screen hidden from Blake’s line of sight.

[Secret Girl]: I'm sitting in my room thinking about what you said last night... Do you really mean it when you say nobody is laughing at me?

I looked up at Blake, who was currently laughing with Chloe, completely unaware of my new mysterious plaything.

[[phone]]: I never lie to you, Secret Girl. In fact... I think about you more than you know. Tell me what you're wearing right now.