Chapter 12: CHAPTER 12
Jax POV
I couldn't get the taste of him out of my mouth.
It’s not like I’m a virgin. I’ve been around. I’ve been with guys in foster homes, in locker rooms, in the back of cars. It was always just... physical. A way to feel something other than bored or lonely. But that kiss in the equipment room? That wasn't just physical. It was like a live wire had been shoved down my throat.
I lay in bed the morning of the season opener, staring at the ceiling fan. My mind kept looping back to it. The way Julian’s mouth felt, desperate, fierce, and surprisingly soft. The way he had ground his hips into mine like he was trying to merge our skeletons. It was beautiful in a way that scared the shit out of me. It was hot, yeah, but it was more than that. It felt like a confession.
I knew I couldn't rush him. Julian Thorne was a high-strung Thoroughbred; if I moved too fast, he’d bolt and never look back. He was already terrified of his own shadow. If I pushed for more, he’d bury himself so deep in that "Ice King" act that I’d never find him again.
And then there was the thought I didn't want to have: Do I actually have feelings for the guy?
I shook my head, sitting up and rubbing my face. Feelings were for people with stable lives and bank accounts. I was a mercenary. I was here to play hockey and get a contract. But then I’d think about the way he looked when he was vulnerable, the way his eyes went wide and dark and my chest would tighten. It wasn't just lust. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to take that navy suit and shred it so he could finally breathe.
"Get your head in the game, Miller," I muttered to the empty room. "Today is about the scouts, not the Captain's mouth."
The Northwood Arena was electric. The student section was a sea of blue and gold, the band was playing, and the air smelled like expensive popcorn and cold transition.
I looked up at the VIP boxes. Arthur Thorne was there, looking like a king on a throne. Next to him was the Board of Trustees. I knew what they were thinking. They were waiting for me to mess up. They were waiting for a reason to ship the "charity case" back to the Detroit gutters.
In the locker room, Julian was a statue. He gave the pre-game speech, his voice steady and cold, but he didn't look at me once. Not even a glance. It was like the equipment room had happened in a different universe.
"Don't play for the scouts," Julian said, his eyes scanning the room. "Play for the crest on the front of the jersey. We are Northwood. We are a legacy. Let's act like it."
We hit the ice, and the roar of the crowd was like a physical wall. I felt the adrenaline hit my system, sharp and jagged. I had a choice to make. I could play it safe, i could stay in my lane, make the easy passes, and hope the Board forgot I existed. Or I could go full-tilt. I could play the kind of hockey that made it impossible to bench me.
I chose the fire.
From the first puck drop, I was everywhere. I wasn't just covering for Julian; I was dominating. I laid a hit on their star center that made the glass rattle for thirty seconds. I intercepted a pass in the neutral zone and took it coast-to-coast, my skates screaming as I dangled through the defense. I didn't score, but I drew a penalty that put us on the power play.
I was playing with a chip on my shoulder the size of Michigan. Every time I hit someone, I was thinking about Arthur Thorne. Every time I blocked a shot with my shin guards, I was thinking about the Board.
"Nice work, Miller!" Liam shouted, thumping my pads during a whistle. "You’re on fire!"
By the third period, the crowd was chanting my name. MIL-LER! MIL-LER! I looked up at the Board’s box. They weren't whispering anymore. They were watching, leaning over the railing. Even Arthur looked stunned. I was making it impossible for them to get rid of me. I was the best player on the ice, and the scouts were scribbling furiously on their clipboards.
We won 4-1. I had two assists and led the team in hits. As we skated off, the fans were leaning over the tunnel, trying to high-five me. I saw Julian watching me from the bench, his expression unreadable. He looked tired. He looked like he’d been carrying a mountain for sixty minutes.
The overhead lights in the VIP corridor were fluorescent and unforgiving, reflecting off the polished marble floors. As the buzzer echoed through the arena, signaling Northwood’s 4-1 victory, the heavy glass doors of the President’s Box swung open.
Arthur Thorne stepped out first, his face a mask of controlled fury. He adjusted his silk tie, his chest puffed out, but his eyes were darting toward the elevators. He looked like a man who had just watched his house burn down and was trying to convince the neighbors it was a planned renovation.
"Arthur, a word," a voice called out.
It was Elias Vance, the Chairman of the Board. He was eighty years old, moved with a cane, and owned enough real estate in the tri-state area to bury the university twice over. He was flanked by two other board members, Sarah Jenkins, the head of Athletics, and Marcus Reed, the university’s chief legal counsel.
Arthur stopped, forcing a stiff smile. "Elias. Great win for the boys. Julian’s leadership on that third-period penalty kill was textbook."
"Julian was fine, Arthur," Sarah Jenkins interrupted, flipping through a folder of real-time stats. "But Miller was a revelation. He didn't just play; he commanded the ice. My phone hasn't stopped vibrating with scouts from the Blackhawks and the Red Wings asking for his bio. They’re calling him the 'Detroit Engine.'"
Arthur’s jaw tightened. "He’s erratic, Sarah. He was playing out of position. It’s a discipline issue that we’ve already discussed. The Board agreed that a 'cultural misfit' of his caliber…"
"The Board agreed to monitor him, Arthur," Elias Vance cut in, his voice like dry parchment. He leaned heavily on his cane, looking Arthur dead in the eye. "We did not agree to sabotage a winning season for the sake of... personal preferences. Look at the crowd out there.
They’re chanting his name. The student body hasn't been this engaged since the '98 championship."
"He’s a liability to the image we have," Arthur hissed, dropping the polite act as he stepped closer to Elias. "He’s a foster kid with a temper. One bad night, one headline about a bar fight, and he drags Julian and this entire program into the mud. We need to move him now while his value is high. A quiet transfer to a D2 school—"
"And tell the scouts what?" Marcus Reed asked, raising an eyebrow. "That we’re benching the best defenseman in the conference because he’s 'unpolished'? The optics would be a disaster. It would look like nepotism, Arthur. It would look like you’re protecting your son’s spotlight."
"I am protecting this university!" Arthur roared, his voice echoing in the empty hallway.
"You are protecting a legacy that is starting to look a bit dusty," Elias said calmly. He signaled for the elevator. "The decision is made. Miller stays on the first line. He stays in the suite. And if I hear one more word about 'transferring' him, I’ll start looking into why our Captain’s stats have dipped ten percent since the season started. Perhaps the pressure is too much for Julian."
Arthur went pale. The threat was clear. If he touched Jax, the Board would turn their sights on Julian’s performance
.
"Is that clear?" Elias asked as the elevator doors chimed.
"Perfectly," Arthur spat.
The Board members stepped into the elevator, leaving Arthur Thorne standing alone in the hallway. He turned and slammed his fist against the wall, the sound of his wedding ring cracking against the stone the only noise in the corridor.
Downstairs, the fans were still screaming for Jax Miller. Upstairs, the man who wanted to destroy him was realizing that in the world of big-money sports, talent was the only currency that mattered. Jax wasn't just a roommate anymore; he was an asset. And as long as he kept winning, he was untouchable.
I sat on the bench, my jersey soaked through with sweat, my lungs still burning. The room was a chaotic mess of shouting, music, and the smell of wet gear, but I felt like I was in a vacuum. I kept looking over at Julian. He was surrounded by the media, giving his usual "team effort" speech, but his eyes were vacant.
I thought about the scouts. I thought about the Board. I knew I’d won this round. I could feel it in the way the coaches looked at me, with a new kind of wariness and respect. I had secured my spot. I had made myself un-killable.
But as I watched Julian dodge a question about his father’s expectations, the fierce beauty of that kiss came back to me. I realized that my success was his cage. The better I played, the more the world watched us. The more they watched us, the harder it would be for him to ever be anything other than the "Ice King."
I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to grab him and pull him into the equipment room again and show him that he didn't have to be a Thorne for me. But I saw the way his hands were shaking as he unlaced his skates.
He’s breaking, I realized. And I’m the one holding the hammer.
The post-game high lasted exactly until we walked through the door of our suite.
The lights were off, the only glow coming from the city lights outside. I dropped my bag and headed for the kitchen, feeling like I could eat a horse. I was buzzing, my skin still tingling from the game.
"That was a hell of a game, Thorne," I said, trying to keep it light. "The Board looked like they were swallowed their tongues by the end of the second."
Julian didn't answer. He was standing by the window, still in his dress shirt, but he’d lost the tie. He looked small. Not weak, just... deflated.
"Hey," I said, walking closer. "Did you hear me? We won. You played great. Your dad can't say shit after tonight."
Julian turned around slowly. He wasn't agitated. He wasn't tense or anxious like he usually was. He just looked sad. Deeply, profoundly sad. It was a look that made my stomach drop.
"It doesn't matter, Jax," he said, his voice quiet. "The game... the points... it’s just more weight. More things I have to maintain."
"What are you talking about? You’re the Captain of the best team in the conference. You just beat a top-ten rival."
"I’m tired," Julian whispered. He didn't look at me. He looked at the floor. "I’m just so tired of pretending that any of this makes me happy."
He walked past me toward his room. I tried to crack a joke, something about Riley’s "victory" cupcakes, but the words died in my throat. He shut his door with a soft click that felt louder than the roar of the stadium.
I went to my own room and lay down, but my energy was gone. All I could think about was that look on his face. He wasn't the Ice King tonight. He was just a guy who realized his kingdom was made of glass.
I thought about the kiss again. The heat. The fierce way he’d held me. And then I thought about his sad eyes in the kitchen.
I fell asleep wondering how to make him smile. The thought shocked me, I didn't do "smiles." I did goals and hits and survival. But for Julian Thorne, I realized I’d do just about anything.