Practice ends. The team starts filtering off the ice, heading to the locker room. I wait, scrolling through my phone, trying to cool down the heat building under my skin, but failing miserably.
Ten minutes later, Jackson appears in the hallway. Hair damp from the shower, dressed in joggers and a Wolves hoodie, and the sight of him fresh and clean but still carrying that authoritative energy makes my breath catch.
He spots me and his eyes darken.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks for picking me up."
"No problem. Emma's still at her appointment."
"Chase texted. Said the baby looks good."
"Yeah."
We're talking like normal people, like I wasn't just watching him command an entire hockey team and getting turned on by it, like I'm not currently imagining all the ways I want him to use that voice on me.
He moves closer. "You okay? You look flushed."
"I'm fine."
"Maya." His voice drops lower, and there it is, that commanding tone that makes my knees weak. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just… watching you at practice was—" I stop. We're in public, and I can't say what I want to say.
Something shifts in his expression, heat and recognition flickering across his features.
"The locker room's empty," he says quietly. "Everyone's gone except the equipment staff, and they're upstairs."
"Jackson—"
"Come with me."
It's a bad idea,risky,we could get caught.
I follow him anyway.
The room smells like sweat, ice, and that distinct hockey-gear scent I’ve started to associate with him. It’s quiet, the overhead lights dim. Stalls line the walls, and his jersey—number twenty-five with the C—hangs in his stall.
The door closes behind us and locks.
"We shouldn't—" I start.
He's on me before I finish the sentence, backing me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's all possession and heat and everything I've been craving since I watched him take charge on the ice.
"Watching you watch me," he says against my lips. "Seeing that look on your face. You were turned on."
"Yes."
"By what?"
"You. Being captain. Everyone following your orders. It was?—"
"Hot?"
"Very hot."
His hand slides up my thigh, under my skirt. "We need to be fast. Quiet. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
