Chapter 6: The Captain's Table

The next morning, the ache in my body was a dull, persistent reminder of my new reality. But it was the cold, calculating look in Jax's eyes during practice that truly haunted me. He was a machine, pushing the team with a brutal efficiency that bordered on sadistic. He never singled me out again, never touched me. His control was absolute, his focus on the game so complete that I almost believed the weight room had been a fever dream.

Almost.

After practice, as we were all filing into the locker room, he stopped me with a simple, quiet command. "Valdez. A word."

The other players shot me curious looks, but no one questioned their captain. I waited until the room had mostly cleared, my heart a steady, cold drum against my ribs. I expected another private confrontation, another whispered threat in the shadows.

Instead, he said, "Team dinner tonight. O'Malley's. Seven o'clock. Be there."

It wasn't a request. It was an order. And it was the last place on earth I wanted to be.

"I have plans," I lied, my voice flat.

"Not anymore," he countered, not even looking at me as he stripped off his gear. "Consider it part of your contract. Team bonding. We're all going."

I said nothing else. I just grabbed my bag and walked out, his silent laughter following me out the door.

O'Malley's was a classic sports bar, all dark wood, loud televisions, and the smell of fried food and beer. It was the Vipers' unofficial headquarters, and as I walked in at seven on the dot, I felt every eye in the place turn to me. The team was there, occupying a long row of tables in the back, along with a few coaches and staff. And at the head of the main table, holding court like a king, was Jax.

He was laughing at something the goalie said, a beer in his hand, looking completely at ease. He was the picture of a charismatic leader. He saw me, and his smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened, a clear, unspoken summons.

I walked over, my shoulders squared. There was one empty chair. Right next to him. Of course.

"Valdez," he said, his voice booming with false camaraderie. "Glad you could make it. Pulled up a chair for you."

I sat down, the wooden chair scraping loudly against the floor. The waitress, a bubbly redhead, immediately appeared at my side.

"What can I get for you, hon?" she asked, her pen poised.

"A water," I said.

Jax snorted. "He'll have a beer. A stout. Bring him a Vipers' brew," he told her, winking at her. "First one's on me."

I wanted to argue, but his eyes dared me to. To make a scene. To defy him in front of his entire team. I clamped my mouth shut and gave a tight nod. The waitress giggled and scurried away.

For the next hour, I endured a special kind of hell. Jax was the perfect host, drawing me into conversations, asking me about my old team, my stats. He was charming, funny, and every word out of his mouth was a carefully crafted barb. He was praising me with one hand and subtly undermining me with the other, pointing out a "lucky" goal I'd scored or a "fluke" play I'd made. He was rewriting my history, making me seem less than, and there was nothing I could do to stop it without looking like a petty fool.

Then, his hand landed on my thigh under the table.

I went rigid, my fork clattering against my plate. No one could see. The tablecloth hid everything. His touch was a brand, searing through my jeans. It was casual, proprietary, as if he had every right to touch me, to claim me in this crowded room.

He leaned closer, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, as he continued a loud conversation with the defenseman on his other side about the upcoming game. "You're doing well," he whispered, his fingers squeezing my leg possessively. "Pretending you belong. But I can feel how tense you are. I can smell your fear."

I gritted my teeth, my knuckles white around my fork. I was trapped. If I pushed his hand away, it would cause a scene. If I did nothing, I was letting him win this round.

"Relax," he continued, his thumb stroking slow, deliberate circles on my inner thigh, dangerously high. "You're part of the team now. Teams look out for each other. They share everything." His meaning was sickeningly clear.

My body was betraying me again. A treacherous heat bloomed under his touch, my breath hitching in my throat. I hated him. I hated the way my body responded to him, the way my skin tingled and my pulse quickened. It was a chemical reaction, a primal response to a dominant Alpha, but it felt like a personal betrayal.

He must have felt the subtle shift in my body, the slight relaxing of my muscles. He smiled, a slow, triumphant curve of his lips. He knew he was winning.

"Good boy," he whispered, the condescension in his voice like acid.

Just as his fingers started to drift higher, a voice cut through the noise. "Jax! There you are, you bastard!"

A large, boisterous man with a thick beard and a Vipers' cap walked up to our table. It was Coach Miller, the head coach, a man who was known for his love of beer and his no-nonsense attitude.

Jax's hand immediately withdrew from my leg, the sudden loss of contact leaving me feeling cold and strangely bereft. He was up and shaking the coach's hand, his charming mask firmly back in place.

"Coach! Didn't expect to see you here," Jax said, all hearty back-slaps and false smiles.

"Just came for a pint," the coach grunted, his eyes scanning the table. They landed on me, and he narrowed them. "You must be Valdez. Heard a lot about you."

"Sir," I said, nodding respectfully.

"Heard you're a fast one," the coach continued, taking a swig of the beer Jax had ordered for him. "We'll see if you're fast enough to keep up with my captain here." He clapped Jax on the shoulder. "This one's a machine. Best in the league. Don't you forget it."

"I won't, sir," I said.

Jax watched me, a smug, possessive look in his eyes. The coach's words, meant as praise for him, were a clear warning to me. You are nothing. He is everything.

The coach moved on, and Jax sat back down. The moment was broken. The air between us was thick with everything that had just happened, and everything that was still to come. He didn't touch me again for the rest of the night. He didn't have to.

As the dinner wound down and people started to leave, he leaned in one last time, his voice a low, dangerous whisper.

"See?" he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "We can be a team. You just have to learn your place. Now, finish your beer. I'm driving you home."

It wasn't an offer. It was a verdict. And as I sat there, surrounded by his team, his world, his scent still clinging to me, I knew with chilling certainty that he was right. I was on his turf. And he was just getting started.