Todos os capítulos de Puck & Ruin: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 6

~KAI~I don't run, not really.I just keep walking until the tunnel spits me out behind the rink, into the loading bay where the Zamboni lives and the snow piles up against the chain-link fence. Cold bites my face. My lips still burn from Jax's mouth. My hoodie's twisted wrong, one sleeve half-up my arm like I got dressed in the dark. I lean against the brick wall. Breathe. Try to make it normal.It doesn't work.My phone buzzes. Once. Twice. I don't look. I know who it is. The third buzz is a text preview that lights up the screen anyway.Jax: 'You left your bag in the tunnel.'I close my eyes. Fuck. There is another buzz.Jax: 'Milo grabbed it. He's looking for you.'Of course he is.I shove the phone in my pocket. Dig my palms into my eyes until I see stars. The taste of blood and cedar is still in my mouth. My throat feels raw from the things I didn't say. From the things I let him do. I should go home. Lock the door. Pretend the last fifteen minutes were a bad dream.Instead

~KAI POV~I barely slept.I kept replaying the newsroom door closing. Jax's fingers on my collarbone like he was tracing a claim. My dick stayed half-hard for hours. I jerked off in the dark thinking about his voice saying "good," came fast and hated myself faster. I shower after, cold this time. It didn't help. The marks are still there, throbbing, proof.Morning comes too quickly. My hoods up. Earbuds in. Nothing playing. Just noise to drown the echo of my own breathing.The hallway's packed. Lockers slam. I spin my combo wrong twice. My fingers are still shaky from last night. My neck collar was pulled high. Concealer did jack shit—the bite mark peeks out like a bruise I earned.Then he's there.Three lockers down. Leaning. His phone in hand, reading slowly. Smirking like he's tasting every word I wrote to hurt him.He doesn't look up right away. He lets me feel watched first.When his eyes lift....dark, amused, bruise under the left one looking like he wore it for me...my sto

POV: KAIThe press box smells like musty coffee and old popcorn. I sit in the back row, laptop balanced on my knees, hoodie zipped to my chin. The collar still hides most of the mark, but I feel it every time I swallow. Like a reminder I can't delete.Game starts fast. Puck drops. The crowd roars. I type without looking down much—habit now. The Ice Hawks are up early, but it's not the score I'm watching.It's him.Jax skates like he's hunting. Quick stops, hard turns, eyes scanning the ice like he's looking for something specific. Every shift he's on, the rink feels smaller. Every time he touches the puck, the noise in my head quiets for a second.First goal comes at 8:14 of the first. He rips a wrist shot from the slot. Puck hits twine. Light flashes. The crowd loses it.He doesn't celebrate the way the others do. No fist pump. No stick tap. He just glides to center ice, slow. Then he turns, looks straight up at the press box.Straight at me.No smile. No wink. Just that endless da