Pucking the Captain

The freezing air in the arena always burned my lungs, but today, it was the sight of Julian Vane’s smug little smirk that was really suffocating me.

I gripped my composite stick so hard my knuckles ached inside my taped gloves, watching the freshman weave through the defense like he owned the damn ice.

He was fast, I’ll give him that, but he was also a reckless, mouthy brat who thought the rules didn't apply to him just because he had a pretty face and a natural gift for puck-handling.

"Watch your blindside, rookie," I growled, pushing off my blades and closing the distance between us in three massive strides.

He didn't even look back before I dropped my shoulder and slammed him hard into the boards.

The impact rattled the plexiglass, echoing through the empty arena like a gunshot, and a fine spray of ice crystals dusted his helmet.

He went down hard, but before I could even feel a single ounce of guilt, he was pushing himself up, his chest heaving, and he shot me a look that was pure, unfiltered fire.

His lips were parted and bruised slightly from the hit, and my eyes dropped to them before my brain could catch up and tell me to look away.

My heart did this stupid, violent stutter against my ribs. I hated that I noticed the flush on his cheeks, and I hated even more that the adrenaline pumping through my veins was suddenly mixing with something a lot darker, and a lot more possessive.

He was supposed to be my teammate, my responsibility as captain, but right now, looking down at him, all I wanted to do was pin him against the glass and wipe that arrogant smile right off his face.

"You're in my way, Captain," Jules panted, his voice dripping with that fake innocence that always made my jaw tick.

He pushed his helmet up, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened hair, completely unfazed by the fact that I was towering over him. "Unless you're planning to ask me out, you need to back off."

I leaned in closer, letting him feel the sheer size of me, letting him smell the sweat and the cold air clinging to my jersey.

"Keep talking, Vane, and I'll make sure you spend the rest of the season in the penalty box," I murmured, my voice dropping an octave so only he could hear.

But the threat lacked any real heat, and we both knew it. His eyes flashed, dark and challenging, and he just smirked before skating away, leaving me standing there with my blood boiling and my dick twitching in my compression shorts. Fuck.

The coach’s whistle blew, shrill and final, signaling the end of the brutal scrimmage. I skated toward the bench, my legs burning, trying to shake off the heavy, suffocating tension that had been wrapping around my chest all practice.

The rest of the guys were loud, slapping each other on the back and complaining about the drills, but I tuned them out completely. My eyes were locked on Jules.

He was laughing at something our winger said, his head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat.

I watched the bob of his Adam's apple, my mouth going dry, and I had to physically force myself to look down at my skates before someone noticed me staring like a starving dog.

We filed into the locker room, the air instantly growing thick with the smell of damp gear, body spray, and stale sweat.

The noise level skyrocketed as guys started stripping off their pads, but I kept my head down, aggressively unlacing my skates. I could feel Jules’s eyes on me, though.

I could feel the weight of his gaze burning into the side of my face every time I shifted. It was maddening.

I just wanted to get in the shower, wash the ice off my skin, and figure out why the hell my body was reacting to him like he was a damn magnet.

Once the guys started heading for the showers, I grabbed my gear bag and slipped out the side door, pretending I needed to grab some extra tape from the equipment room. It was a cramped, dimly lit space at the back of the facility, smelling of rubber and leather, and it was usually empty by now.

But when I pushed the heavy door open, the shadows shifted, and Jules was leaning against a stack of spare helmets, his arms crossed over his chest, a wicked little smile playing on his lips.

"Hiding from the team, Captain?" he teased, his voice echoing softly in the small room. He pushed off the shelf, taking a slow, deliberate step toward me. "Or were you just waiting for me?"

I dropped my bag, the heavy thud echoing in the quiet room, and closed the distance between us in two strides.

I backed him up until his shoulders hit the cold metal shelving, trapping him with my arms on either side of his head. He didn't flinch, but his breath hitched, his eyes dropping to my mouth before darting back up to meet my glare.

"You think this is a game, Jules?" I whispered, leaning down until my lips were barely brushing the shell of his ear, feeling the sudden, violent shiver that wrecked his tough-guy act.

I let my hand drop, my fingers wrapping roughly around his jaw, tilting his face up so he had no choice but to look at me. "You think you can skate around here, looking at me like that, and I'm just going to let it slide? Because I promise you, rookie, if you keep pushing me, I'm going to bend you over this shelf and make you forget your own name."