Chapter 9: The Drive

Chapter 9

The Drive

The elevator doors slid open to the lobby with a soft ding. Jax stepped out first, shoulders squared like he was heading into a fight. Ronan followed a half-beat later—close enough that Jax could feel the shift in air pressure behind him, far enough that no casual observer would think they were anything but two strangers sharing the same space.

Outside, the cold bit hard. Jax tugged his hoodie collar higher, hiding the still-swollen gland. His breath fogged white. Ronan’s did the same a second later, the two clouds mingling for a split second before the wind tore them apart.

Ronan nodded toward the parking garage. “My car’s closer.”

Jax shot him a sidelong look. “I said no.”

“You said no to driving your car. Not to riding in mine.”

Jax’s jaw ticked. The aftershocks were still there—small, rolling tremors under his skin, a low, constant tug toward the alpha that made his thighs clench involuntarily. Walking away right now would feel like trying to outrun his own pulse.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But keep your hands on the wheel.”

Ronan’s mouth curved—just the tiniest fraction. “Noted.”

The SUV was sleek, black, tinted windows. Ronan unlocked it. Jax slid into the passenger seat without looking at him. The leather was cold against his back. He buckled in, arms crossed, staring straight ahead.

Ronan started the engine. Low rumble. Heat blasted from the vents. He pulled out smoothly, merging into traffic.

Silence stretched for three blocks.

Jax kept his gaze fixed on the passing buildings. But he could feel Ronan—every shift of gear, every breath, every subtle turn of the wheel. The cabin filled with their combined scents: Jax’s lingering sweetness (still too sweet, too needy), Ronan’s dark pine-smoke dominance. It was suffocating. Intoxicating.

Jax shifted in the seat. The movement rubbed his thighs together. Fresh slick leaked—slow, warm. He clenched harder. Didn’t help.

Ronan’s knuckles whitened on the wheel.

“You gonna pretend last night didn’t happen the second we walk into that building?” Ronan asked. Voice low. Rough.

Jax’s pulse kicked up. “Pretty much.”

Ronan’s fingers flexed. “League’s gonna smell it on us. Both of us. No cologne covers a fresh knot.”

“I know.”

“So what’s the plan? We say we hate each other’s guts and hope they buy it?”

Jax turned his head slowly. Met Ronan’s eyes for the first time since the apartment.

“We don’t need a plan. We say the truth: I presented. You helped suppress it. End of story.”

Ronan’s laugh was short, edged. “You think they’ll believe that was all it was?”

Jax shrugged. “They’ll believe what they want. Always have.”

Red light. They stopped.

Ronan turned fully toward him now. Gray eyes dark, pupils blown just enough to notice.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “But they’ll dig. They’ll ask why I was at your apartment. Why I stayed the night. Why you still smell like you’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

Jax flushed hot—anger, embarrassment, and something darker twisting low in his gut. His cock twitched against the seam of his jeans. Traitorous fucking body.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled.

Ronan’s gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—to Jax’s neck. To the hoodie collar that couldn’t quite hide the swollen gland. Then lower, to where Jax’s thighs were pressed tight together.

“You’re leaking again,” Ronan said. Not mocking. Just stating fact. Voice rougher than before.

Jax’s breath hitched. “Shut up.”

Ronan didn’t. “You think I can’t smell it? Feel it? Every time you shift, every time you breathe too deep, it hits me like a slap.”

Jax clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. “Then stop breathing.”

The light turned green.

Ronan accelerated. But his voice stayed low. “Can’t. Not when you’re sitting two feet away smelling like you still need me inside you.”

Jax’s hand shot out—grabbed Ronan’s wrist on the gear shift. Hard.

“Don’t.”

Ronan stilled. Didn’t pull away.

“Don’t what?” he asked quietly. “Say it? Or do something about it?”

Jax’s grip tightened. Thumb pressed against the pulse point. Felt it hammering.

“I hate you,” Jax whispered.

Ronan’s eyes flicked to Jax’s mouth. “I know.”

Another block. Traffic slowed again.

Ronan spoke softer. “If you want me to walk in there and say I forced it, I will. Take the suspension. The blame. Whatever.”

Jax’s fingers dug in harder. “Don’t you dare.”

“Why not?”

“Because I asked.” Jax’s voice cracked. “I said the words. I wanted it.” He swallowed. “And I hate that I did. But I’m not letting you play martyr.”

Ronan exhaled through his nose. Looked back at the road.

“Fair.”

They drove the rest of the way without another word.

But the silence wasn’t empty.

It crackled.

Every time Jax shifted, the leather creaked. Every time Ronan changed lanes, his forearm flexed under Jax’s lingering grip (he still hadn’t let go). Every red light felt like a countdown.

When they pulled into the league office lot, Jax released Ronan’s wrist like it burned.

He unbuckled. Opened the door.

“Don’t follow too close,” he said. Voice hoarse.

Ronan killed the engine. “Got it.”

Jax stepped out. Cold air rushed in, but it did nothing to cool the heat under his skin.

He walked toward the building alone.

Ronan waited thirty seconds.

Then followed.

Two rivals.

One car ride full of things neither of them would say out loud.

And a hearing that could end everything.