Puck & Ruin

~KAI~

The loud buzzer cut through me. Final score lights up...4-3, loss. Jax's fault. He danced around the net instead of burying the puck, took a penalty, and almost started a fight.

I am already typing before the crowd stops screaming his name.

'Captain Carter's highlight-reel goal came at the cost of two penalties and a near-fight. Talent doesn't excuse recklessness. The Ice Hawks keep winning despite their star forward, not because of him.'

I send.

I snap the laptop shut. Bag slung over my shoulder. Tunnel ahead....dim, echoing, smelling like wet pads and regret.

I hate this place. Hate how every game turns into worship. Hate how I still come.

Skates scratch behind me. Quick stop.

"You're fast tonight."

I don't turn. "Deadline."

"Bullshit." His voice is low, amused. Closer. Gear clanking softly. "You had that piece done before the third even started."

I keep walking. My heart's already too loud.

He catches me in three strides. Jax doesn't rush. He just arrives. Six-three, pads still on except the helmet, hair dark and stuck to his forehead.

Sweat rolls down his neck.

The air got colder and heavier, smelling like cedar and salt.

I stop. No point pretending I can outrun him here.

"What do you want, Carter?"

He plants one forearm on the wall beside my head. Everyday trap. Stick dangling loose in his other hand.

"You called me reckless again." Mouth quirks, not quite smiling. "Third time this month."

"It's true."

"Is it?" He tilts his head. Eyes dark, persistent. "Or is it easier than admitting you can't stop watching me?"

Pulse slams in my throat. He's right. I hate that he knows.

"I watch the game," I say. "Not you."

"Liar."

He's close enough I can see the bruise swelling under his eye from that dirty hit. Close enough the memory hits—freshman year, basement bathroom, locked door, his hands, my stupid drunk yes, the way I came undone and then ran.

I swallow. "Move."

He doesn't. Just watches me like I'm a puck he's about to slap home.

"You stayed after," he says quiet. "Everyone else left. You didn't."

"Press stuff."

"No cameras. No recorder." His voice drops. "Just you. In the dark. Writing about me."

Heat crawls up my chest. I shove at his chest plate—hard plastic, warm underneath. He doesn't budge.

"Get out of my way."

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"That you remember."

Lights buzz overhead. Distant locker slam. My breath's shallow.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His laugh is rough, short. "Yeah. You do."

He leans in. Not kissing yet. Just breathing the same air. Cedar hits me like a slap....memory I have tried to bleach out.

"Freshman year," he murmurs. "Tyler's party. You were drunk. I wasn't. You let me."

My stomach twists. "Stop."

"You kissed me back."

"Shut up."

"You came."

I shove again—harder. This time he lets me push him back one step. Just one.

"Don't," I say. My voice cracks.

He sees the crack. Likes it.

"I've waited four years," he says. "I'm done."

He grabs my wrist. Firm. Glove cold on my skin. Pulls my hand up, presses it to his chest plate. Heart beating underneath. Same as mine.

"Feel that?"

I yank free. "Don't touch me."

But I don't step back. He closes the gap again. Crowd noise gone. Just us.

"You write like you hate me," he says. "But you never miss a shift. Never miss a goal. Never miss the way I look at you from the ice."

My throat tight. "You're the story."

"I'm the story because you can't look away."

Silence spreads. It was thick and dangerous. Then he does it. Slow. Deliberate. His thumb and finger catch my chin. Lean my face up.

I could knee him. Scream. Run.

I don't.

His mouth crashes down, not gentle. Teeth. Anger. Four years of buried shit.

I taste blood—his split lip. I bite back harder. He groans low, pleased. Hand fists my hoodie, yanks me against his gear. Pads dig into my ribs.

I fight it. Grab his throat—fingers digging into the wet skin above his jersey collar. Nails bite.

He hisses into my mouth but doesn't pull away. Just presses harder. Thigh shoves between mine. Pressure right where I'm already aching. I arch....can't stop it.

I make a sound....half curse, half need.

He pulls back an inch. Lips on mine. "Say you hate me."

"I hate you."

"Again."

"I hate you."

His hand slides under my hoodie. Skin on skin. Rough calluses drag slow across my stomach, up my chest. Thumb brushes my nipple. I jerk. Breath catches sharply.

"Liar," he whispers.

I drag him back down. Kiss like I want to bruise him. Like if I'm abusive enough, he will stop. He doesn't. He deepens it. His tongue claiming.

My back hits cold cinderblock. Hand at my throat now—not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Steady.

Then came footsteps.

We freeze.

Milo rounds the corner. Half-geared, towel around his neck. Stops dead. Eyes flick from my swollen mouth to Jax's hand still under my shirt.

Then....quick, guilty....his gaze drops to Jax's throat where my nails left red half-moons.

He looks at them too long. Like he's seeing something else.

A locked door. Four years ago.

"Kai," he says, quiet and steady. The way he always is.

Jax doesn't move. "Timing."

Milo ignores him. Looks at me. "You okay?"

I can't speak. My mouth tastes like Jax and shame.

Jax finally steps back. His hand falls away. But his eyes stay locked on mine. Burning.

Milo takes one step closer. "Let's go."

I don't move.

Jax smiles—small, dangerous. "He's not leaving with you tonight."

Milo's jaw ticks. "That's his choice."

They both look at me. One safe. One fire. My chest aches, so I turn and walk away. Not toward the exit. Not toward them. Deeper into the tunnel.

Because running still feels like mine.

Even if I know they will follow.