Secret Affair With My Professor

The final seconds of Game Seven felt like war.

Soren Calder flew down the ice, heart hammering, stick gripped like a weapon. Twenty thousand fans screamed for the Vancouver Grizzlies to close it out, captain’s duty, one goal, one fucking goal and they’d take the series.

“Move it, Calder!” his right winger shouted.

Soren didn’t need the reminder. He saw the opening until Jeremy Draven cut across like a goddamn missile.

“Eat shit, Draven!” Soren snarled as they collided shoulder-to-shoulder near the boards. JR’s gray eyes flashed behind his visor, wild and vicious.

“You first, Captain,” JR shot back, with his voice raw with adrenaline. He dug his skate in and stole the puck with a brutal poke check that sent Soren spinning.

The crowd groaned.

JR didn’t waste the chance. He deked left, then right, and fired a pass that led to a crushing one-timer. Tie game. The Storm bench erupted. Soren’s stomach twisted.

Thirty seconds left.

He won the next faceoff, muscles screaming as he barreled toward Seattle’s net. “Screen him!” he barked at his teammate. The puck slapped his blade. He wound up.

JR hit him like a truck.

The bone-crushing check lifted Soren clean off the ice. Pain exploded through his ribs as his stick splintered against the glass. He crashed hard, helmet rattling, vision flashing white. The arena fell into a stunned hush for half a heartbeat before boos rained down.

JR stood over him for a split second, breathing hard. “Stay down this time.”

“Fuck you,” Soren gasped, forcing himself up on shaking arms. The whistle blew. Penalty on JR. But it didn’t matter.

Seattle scored on the power play with eight seconds left.

The buzzer sounded like a death knell.

Final score: Seattle Storm 4, Vancouver Grizzlies 3.

Loss.

Soren stayed on the ice longer than necessary, skates carving angry lines into the surface while his teammates filed off with heads bowed. JR skated past slowly, tapping his stick against the ice.

“See you soon, Captain.”

Soren didn’t answer. Rage and humiliation burned hotter than the pain in his side.

By the time he reached the locker room, most of the team had already scattered, some to the trainers, others avoiding eye contact. Soren ripped off his jersey and shoulder pads, wincing as fresh bruises bloomed across his torso. The room smelled of defeat: sweat, disappointment, and cooling adrenaline.

He was alone when the door clicked shut behind him.

No. Not alone.

“You’ve got some balls showing up here,” Soren said without turning around. He knew that presence. That heavy, electric charge in the air.

Jeremy “JR” Draven leaned against a locker ten feet away, still in his black-and-red Storm jersey, and his dark hair damp and messy. That signature smirk curved his lips, but his eyes stormed gray and locked on Soren were dead serious.

“Had to collect what’s mine,” JR replied, with a low and rough voice. “Took you long enough to crawl in here.”

Soren spun around, fists clenched. “Collect? We’re not in some back-alley poker game, Draven. That was trash talk months ago. You really think I’m going to honor some drunk post-game bullshit?”

JR pushed off the locker and closed the distance with slow, deliberate steps. “You said it. Clear as day. ‘If you ever beat me clean in a Game Seven, I’ll owe you whatever the fuck you want.’ Your exact words, Captain. And tonight? That hit was clean. The win was clean. You lost.”

Soren’s back hit the cool metal of his stall. JR stopped barely a foot away, towering slightly, radiating heat and raw dominance. Up close, Soren could see the faint scar through JR’s left eyebrow and the sweat still clinging to his collarbone.

“I was pissed off and bleeding that night,” Soren growled. “It wasn’t a binding contract.”

“Too bad. I’m holding you to it.” JR’s gaze dropped to Soren’s bare chest, tracing every new bruise with obvious hunger. “One month, you belong to me, nights and days off. Whatever I say is starting right now.”

Soren let out a bitter laugh. “You’re insane. I have media obligations tomorrow, a practice and a team that needs…”

“Your team just watched their captain choke,” JR cut in sharply. “And right now, that captain belongs to the man who made him choke.” He reached up,his fingers brushing Soren’s split lip with surprising gentleness that still felt like a threat. “Does it burn? Knowing I own you for thirty days?”

Soren grabbed JR’s wrist, stopping the touch. Their eyes locked in fury meeting triumph.

“I hate you,” Soren whispered, voice shaking with something far more dangerous than hate. “I’ve hated you for three seasons.”

JR’s smirk softened into something darker, more intimate. “Good! Use it, fight me. It’ll make breaking you that much sweeter.” He leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched, breath mingling. “Tell me, Captain… When was the last time someone made you lose control? Really lose it?”

Soren’s grip on JR’s wrist tightened, but he didn’t push him away. His heart hammered so hard he was sure JR could feel it. The air between them crackled. Their years of checks, taunts, near-misses, and buried want finally boiling over.

“You think you can handle me for a whole month?” Soren challenged, voice dropping. “I’m not one of your easy conquests, Draven.”

JR’s free hand slid to Soren’s hip,his fingers digging in possessively. “I don’t want easy, I want you on your knees, pissed off and hard, calling me JR while you beg.” His lips brushed Soren’s ear. “Now say it. Say you’re coming home with me tonight, say you’re mine.”

Soren’s breath hitched. Every rational part of him screamed to shove JR across the room and walk away. But the heat pooling low in his gut, the way his body responded to that rough voice and commanding grip… it betrayed him.

The distant sound of voices echoed down the hallway, his teammates coming back.

JR didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, lips hovering dangerously close to Soren’s.

“Last chance, Calder. You honor the deal like a man… or do I drag you out of here right now and let everyone see exactly who owns their precious captain?”

Soren swallowed hard, his pulse roaring in his ears. His eyes flicked to JR’s mouth, then back up to those intense gray eyes that had haunted him for years.

“What the hell do you even want from me?” he asked.

JR’s answer came low, dark, and devastating: “Everything.”