Chapter 4; Home Ice

Chapter Four: Home Ice

The drive back to his apartment passed in a blur of red lights and clenched teeth.

Jax kept the windows cracked, hoping the cold night air would cut through the fever haze. Instead, it only made the slick between his thighs feel colder, stickier. He shifted in the driver’s seat every few seconds, muttering curses under his breath as the leather creaked beneath him. His gear bag sat in the passenger seat like an accusation still reeking of the rink, still carrying faint traces of pine and smoke.

He told himself it was an adrenaline crash. Post-game shock. A bad hit.

Bullshit.

By the time he pulled into his underground parking spot, the cramps had started again low, rolling waves that made him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. Not unbearable. Not yet. Just insistent. Like a fist wrapped around his insides, slowly twisting.

He cut the engine and sat in the dark, breathing through his mouth. The dashboard clock glowed 1:47 a.m. The game had ended hours ago. It felt like years.

“Get your ass upstairs,” he muttered.

The elevator ride was torture. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Each ding of passing floors sent another pulse through his gland. By the tenth floor, sweat beaded along his hairline again.

Inside his apartment, he didn’t bother with the lights. His keys missed the counter and clattered to the floor. Shoes came off with a kick. He went straight for the bathroom.

Cold shower.

Ice-cold.

Shock the system. Reset.

He stripped beneath the harsh vanity light jersey, base layers, cup everything hitting the tile in a damp heap. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he froze.

His neck looked wrong.

The gland beneath his jaw was swollen and red, hot and visibly raised, like a fresh bruise. Slick glistened along his inner thighs more than he’d ever produced in his life. His cock sat half-hard against his stomach, flushed dark for no reason at all.

He looked like an omega in heat.

Because he was.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice breaking.

He cranked the shower to its coldest setting and stepped in.

The water hit like needles. He braced his hands against the tile, head bowed, letting it pound over his shoulders, his spine, his neck. For a minute, it helped numbed the ache, dulled the fever. He focused on his breathing. In. Out. Counted the rhythm.

Then the wave hit.

It started low, almost innocent. A flutter that felt like hunger. Then it bloomed sharp and insistent spreading heat outward until his knees shook. Slick spilled suddenly, hot and slippery, running down his legs to mix with the shower water. His cock jerked, fully hard now, untouched.

Jax bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper.

No.

Not doing this.

Not alone. Not thinking about

Ronan Kane’s face flashed behind his eyes. The way he’d stared in the locker room. Pupils blown. Voice low and rough. I’m not going to touch you. Not unless you ask.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

He wrapped his fist around himself and stroked once hard. A groan tore out of his throat. The water was freezing, but his skin felt like it was on fire. He braced one forearm against the wall, forehead pressed to his wrist, and stroked again. Faster.

It wasn’t enough.

The ache deepened, shifted an empty, clenching need that twisted inside him. He needed pressure. Fullness. Something to hold him open and keep him there. The thought alone made him shudder.

And then he pictured it.

Kane behind him. Chest to back. One broad hand splayed over Jax’s stomach, the other guiding himself in slow, relentless. That pine and smoke scent wrapping around him like a claim. The knot swelling, stretching, locking them together until Jax couldn’t think, couldn’t fight could only take it.

He came hard, too fast, spilling over his fist with a choked sound that echoed off the tile. His legs nearly buckled.

It didn’t help.

If anything, it made everything worse.

The cramps rolled back in stronger, deeper, like punishment for trying to cheat his body. Slick kept leaking, steady now, dripping down his thighs even after the orgasm faded. His gland pulsed in time with his heartbeat hot, needy, screaming for an alpha’s teeth.

With shaking hands, Jax turned off the water. Stepped out. Dried himself on autopilot. Pulled on loose sweats and a hoodie, skipping underwear entirely. The fabric clung where he was still wet.

He collapsed onto the couch instead of the bed. Didn’t trust himself with sheets. Not yet.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again.

Finally, he grabbed it.

Three texts from an unknown number.

Unknown: You make it home okay?

Unknown: This is Kane. Got your number from the league directory.

Unknown: Answer if you’re not dead.

Jax stared at the screen, heart kicking hard against his ribs.

His reply was short and straightforward

Jax: Fuck off.

Sent.

He threw the phone across the room. It hit the rug with a soft thump.

Curling onto his side, knees drawn tight to his chest, he breathed through the next wave as it built slower this time, heavier. Like the first had only been a warning.

He closed his eyes.

Told himself he could handle it.

Told himself he didn’t need anyone.

Especially not Ronan fucking Kane.

But the apartment felt too quiet. Too empty. And the ghost of pine and smoke lingered in his nose, stubborn as a bruise that refused to fade.