Chapter 5: The Real Game

The weight room silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I pushed myself up, my movements economical. No wasted energy. No trembling. I met Jax's gaze, letting the cold fire in my eyes speak for me. He'd taken my body, but he wouldn't take my mind.

He watched me, a flicker of something unreadable in his own expression before it was shuttered away. He expected shame. He got a challenge.

"Get cleaned up," he said, his voice flat. "You have ten minutes before we're back on the ice."

He didn't wait for a reply. He just walked out, leaving me alone with the scent of our encounter and the bitter taste of the bargain. I didn't rush. I took my time, methodically cleaning myself, my mind racing. He'd made a mistake. He thought this was over. He thought he'd won.

He was wrong.

When I stepped back onto the ice, the scrimmage was in full swing. Jax was at the center of it, a force of nature, directing every play. He was a phenomenal player, his vision of the rink almost supernatural. He saw plays before they happened. That was his real power, not the brute force he'd used in the weight room.

"Valdez!" he barked, not even looking at me. "Get in. You're on my wing."

I skated over, taking my position. The air between us was electric with unspoken threats. For the first few minutes, I played his game. I was where he expected me to be, when he expected me to be there. I was the good soldier.

Then, he passed me the puck. It was a hard, sharp pass, meant to be difficult, a test. I took it cleanly. Instead of the simple, predictable shot he expected toward the net, I faked. I pulled my stick back as if to fire, and in that split second, every defender on the ice shifted to block me. That was the opening. I didn't shoot. I sent a blind, backhanded pass across the crease to a teammate Jax had forgotten was even there.

Goal.

The teammate slammed the puck into the net. The other guys whooped, slapping sticks on the ice. Jax didn't move. He just slowly turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine. There was no anger. There was something much, much colder. Calculation. He understood what I'd just done. I hadn't just scored. I'd used his own play against him, exploiting a tiny blind spot in his otherwise perfect vision. I'd shown him I wasn't just a piece to be moved. I was a player.

The rest of practice was a silent war. He pushed me harder, running me into the boards with legal, bone-jarring checks. I took every hit and got back up, my expression blank. I stopped trying to beat him with skill and started playing his game: pure, brutal physicality. I was faster, more agile. I used it to my advantage, slipping his checks, making him miss, frustrating him with my elusiveness.

The final buzzer rang. In the locker room, the air was thick with steam. I took the locker next to his, as I had before. This time, however, I didn't bait him with words or nakedness. I just quietly undressed, my movements efficient. I was showing him I wasn't afraid of him. That he had no power over me here.

He finished showering and wrapped a towel around his waist. He stood in front of his locker, blocking my path to the door. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me, his gaze intense. He reached out, not to grab me, but to trail a single finger down the deep, purple bruise that was already forming on my arm from one of his checks.

His touch was proprietary. A reminder.

I didn't flinch. I just looked back at him, my expression unreadable.

"Practice at five tomorrow," he said, his voice low. It wasn't a command. It was a statement. An invitation to continue our game.

"I'll be here," I replied, my voice just as low.

He held my gaze for a moment longer, then stepped aside. As I walked past him, his voice stopped me.

"Leo."

I paused, my back to him.

"That was a nice play," he said. "The backhand pass. Don't ever do it again."

My blood ran cold. It wasn't a threat. It was a warning. He wasn't just my captain. He was my rival. And he was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that while he might allow me to play, he would never let me outshine him. The game on the ice was his. The game in the dark was his. Everything was his.

I didn't answer. I just kept walking, the weight of his words settling over me like a shroud. He hadn't broken me. But he had just laid out the rules of the war. And I was smart enough to know I was playing on his turf, by his rules. For now.