A REALLY GOOD FUCK

JEREMY’S P.O.V.

I pulled the apron over my head and hung it on the hook behind the counter. Massaging my aching shoulders, I winced; my feet were absolutely killing me, and a strange light-headedness was starting to set in.

The bar was finally quiet. The chairs were stacked neatly on top of the tables, the floors were freshly mopped, and every surface had been wiped down.

My stomach had abandoned its aggressive growling hours ago, settling instead into a hollow, faintly nauseous ache. I hadn't had a proper meal since yesterday’s protein bar and a sad handful of chips this morning. Between the disaster with Coach earlier today, the hospital run, Niko’s ridiculous two-week ultimatum, and my actual classes, food had been the absolute last thing on my mind.

Now, all I wanted was to sit down and inhale something edible. The dizziness was already creeping in around the edges of my vision.

Grabbing the basket of French fries I’d smartly fried up for myself earlier, I collapsed onto one of the stools behind the counter. I reached for a fry—thankfully still piping hot—and salt coated my fingertips as I popped it into my mouth.

Then, the bell above the door jingled.

I let out a heavy sigh. Seriously?

Who on earth walks into a place minutes after closing time? Dammit, I must have forgotten to flip the sign on the door.

Without looking up, I kept chewing, determined to satisfy my hunger. "We're closed," I called out.

The heavy footsteps didn't even pause. I frowned, reaching for another fry.

"Did you not hear me?" I muttered between bites, my voice sharpening. "It's closing time."

The figure kept right on moving toward the counter. Reluctantly, I dropped my fry and lifted my head, fully prepared to give them a piece of my mind.

Then my words caught in my throat.

Axel.

He came to a halt just a few feet from the bar, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his varsity jacket. Under the dim lighting, I could barely read his expression. My pulse gave a sudden spike at the mere sight of him.

I had ignored every single text he’d sent today. He’d practically bombarded my phone, with the final one lighting up my screen around four o'clock.

DICK FACE: Where are you?

Axel knew my routines better than anyone else. He had my entire life mapped out: my class schedule, my training sessions, my study hours, and exactly which nights I was stuck closing the bar. He could find me anywhere, anytime, completely at will.

"What are you doing here?" I demanded.

"I need a drink."

I stared flatly at him. "We’re closed."

"I know."

I really should have stood my ground, pointed a firm finger at the exit, and ordered him to leave. He probably would have ignored me, but I should have at least tried instead of immediately caving to his order.

"What do you want?" I heard myself ask, internally cursing my own lack of backbone.

A faint smile brushed his lips. "Whatever you recommend."

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed a glass and turned my back on him to prep the drink. Even with my spine turned away, I could feel his gaze boring holes straight through me, despite the respectable distance he was keeping.

The memory of the locker room was still burning vividly behind my eyes. Coach’s roaring voice echoed in my ears, paired with the infuriating image of Axel deliberately avoiding my gaze, staring at the floor as if I didn't even exist.

I slammed the glass down in front of him a little harder than necessary. The amber liquid swirled, nearly slopping over the brim. Axel didn’t reach for it right away. Instead, he watched it, tilting his head slightly.

"You’ve been ignoring my texts," he said, offering a pout.

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they’d get permanently stuck to the back of my skull.

"Don’t do that with your face. It’s not cute."

Axel let out a low chuckle, deliberately deepening the pout just to rile me up—and damn it, it actually managed to coax a reluctant, amused grin out of me.

"I’m still mad at you," I threatened, my smile vanishing as quickly as it came.

"I know. That's why I want to talk."

My eyes narrowed into slits. "Talk about what, exactly?"

The guy had done a list of offensive things between last night and this morning. Which specific screw-up on that very long list was he actually planning to address and then apologise for?

"This morning, with Coach. I should’ve spoken up." He finally picked up the glass, swirling the contents around absentmindedly. "I was just waiting for the right moment."

Axel’s mouth curved up, just a fraction. He brought the glass to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip. The sharp line of his throat shifted as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing twice. A single, stray drop of liquor clung to the corner of his mouth before his tongue flicked out to catch it.

"Whiskey?" he asked, sliding the glass back toward me.

"A Whiskey Sour," I corrected sharply. "With a salted rim."

"I like the burn. Give me another."

I snatched the glass back, pouring a fresh shot and generously showering the rim with a fresh layer of salt.

"Are we good now?" he asked the second my back was turned.

"What exactly do you mean by that? Am I supposed to just drop the whole thing so we can go right back to fucking?"

Axel let out a frustrated groan. I whipped around and aggressively shoved the fresh drink into his hand. "That’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t it?"

"No. I genuinely came here to apologise."

"You couldn’t even stand up for me!" my voice cracked with frustration. "I was getting kicked off the team, and you were just going to stand by and let it happen."

"I was not," he countered defensively. "I was planning to talk to Coach afterward, once he’d cooled down. I was going to convince him to reconsider."

I let out a harsh, bitter scoff. "I doubt that."

"Well, don’t doubt me, Jeremy. I would never just let you get dropped from my team. Even though, let's be real, you aren’t exactly our star player—"

"What?" I snapped, cutting him off entirely.

"Yes, Jeremy, and I'm sorry, but you've been playing like total rubbish lately," he laughed, the sound tinged with a sharp bitterness. "I’m the only reason you’re even still on the roster. Coach wanted to axe you ages ago."

My jaw clenched tight as a wave of humiliation washed over me. I didn't want to believe a single word coming out of his mouth.

"Yeah, maybe my game has been off, but I’ve never actually been given enough opportunities to prove what I can do—"

A sharp, mocking laugh cut me off, and Axel actually wiped an amused tear from his eye. "You’re cracking me the fuck up, Jeremy. Do you actually believe what that guy Archer said? That you’ll suddenly be better if you're just given more ice time?"

"Y-yeah," I stammered, the words sounding unconvincing even to my own ears.

"Well, believe me, Jeremy... it’s gonna take a miracle for you to get any better at hockey. A real fucking miracle."

He snatched his glass, throwing the drink back in a single gulp and breathing out heavily against the burn of the alcohol. I stared at him with hatred, the tears that had been building since this morning threatening to spill over again.

"You know what? Fuck you, Axel!"

"What?"

"Yes, I said it. Fuck you! I had an accident yesterday and spent the entire night in the hospital because I was heading home late from 'your' place. You are a horrible person."

"Yeah I noticed you stole my fucking bike. And keep going, Jer. Blame anyone but yourself," he spat back, his voice dripping with venom. "It’s not my fault you fucking suck."

I clenched my fists into tight balls, the tears finally blurring my vision. Axel was incapable of apologising, even when he was in the wrong. I was hurt by his words—really hurt—and the pain was rapidly turning into blind rage.

"You’re a real piece of shit," I spat.

His eyes flared with dangerous intent. Shoving himself off the edge of the bar, he aggressively rounded the counter to confront me face-to-face.

Before I could even react, he grabbed a fistful of my shirt, his other hand gripping my jaw so tightly his fingers dug painfully into my skin.

"Keep talking. I fucking dare you," he hissed, his face inches from mine.

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks as I was forced to look directly at his furious expression.

"I know what you need," he growled, cornering me against the bar structure. "A really good fucking to put you out of this mood."

I struggled violently against him, twisting and jerking my head back in a desperate attempt to break away from his clawing grip.

With a frustrated sneer, he let go of me roughly, sending me stumbling backward against the shelves. I gasped, bringing a hand up to shield my throbbing jaw.

His hands moved to his zipper, shoving his pants down and then his briefs.

His huge veiny dick sprang free, the swollen head was already glistening. A thick bead of precum slid slowly down the underside.

It looked angry, the same way he did.

“Get on your knees.”