Chapter 86 CHAPTER 86

Chapter 86 CHAPTER 86
Jax’s POV

College hockey was fast, but the pro game was heavy.

The moment the whistle blew for our first full-contact scrimmage at the River District rink, the atmosphere turned into something entirely different from the varsity quad. There was no maneuvering, no polite stick-checking, and zero breathing room. These men didn't skate to impress scouts; they skated like every lost board battle was taking a hundred-dollar bill directly out of their paychecks.

The ice felt smaller. The blue lines felt closer together, and the gray, chewed-up sheet seemed to shrink the second thirty grown men hit the ice in heavy leather pads.

During our first three-on-two drill, I took a pass at the right defense point, expecting the half-second of space I usually had in college to set up a wrist shot.

Before my stick blade even made contact with the black rubber, a thirty-year-old winger named Stasiak, built like a brick wall with a shaved head and half his teeth missing, drove his elbow straight into my sternum.

BOOM-CLACK!

The impact rattled my teeth, driving the air straight out of my lungs as my back slammed violently into the acrylic glass. He didn't just strip the puck; he pinned me against the dasher boards with a forearm across my collarbone, digging his knee hard into the side of my thigh until the referee blew a delayed whistle.

"Welcome to the Midwest, kid," Stasiak grunted into my ear, his breath hot, sour, and smelling of dark coffee, before shoving me backward onto my skates.

I didn't complain to the ref. I wiped a line of cold sweat off my forehead, reset my stance, and dug my blades into the ice.

Beside me in the slot, Julian was taking the same brutal treatment. Vance was riding his hip on every shift, using his stick shaft like a cross-check weapon, slamming it into Julian’s back every time he tried to establish position near the crease. But Julian didn't back down an inch. His jaw was set like iron, his dark blue eyes burning, absorbing the heavy checks straight into his taped midsection without a single groan.

They were testing us. They were trying to see if the two "national champions" would fold the moment the game turned into a dirty, bruised grind.

Twenty minutes into the scrimmage, the drill turned into an unpaved brawl.

We were running a battle sequence in the left corner, two on two, tight space along the boards. I was chasing a loose puck behind the net when their lead enforcer, a six-foot-four veteran named Miller-Smyth, came in late from the high slot.

He didn't go for the puck. He came in high, his wooden stick held horizontally in two gloved hands, driving the shaft straight at Julian’s head as Julian tried to turn out of the corner.

Julian ducked, the stick catching the top of his helmet with a sharp CRACK, but the intent was clear: he was going for the bruised cheekbone and the taped ribs.

My world went pitch black in a fraction of a second.

I dropped my Sherwood stick onto the sheet, ripped my heavy leather gloves off with a single, violent motion, and charged across the red crease like an iron freight train breaking off its rails.

"GET OFF HIM!" I roared.

I grabbed Miller-Smyth by the front collar of his jersey with my left hand, twisting the fabric until his throat was exposed, and cocked my right fist back.

He didn't back down. He dropped his gloves, let out a barbaric growl, and swung a heavy, bare-knuckled right hook that caught me straight across my left jawline. Pain exploded behind my eyes, bright and white, but it didn't slow me down.

I drove my broad shoulder into his chest, pinning him against the dasher glass, and unloosed a rapid, brutal combination of heavy right hands straight into his visor-less face.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

His helmet flew off, clattering against the gray ice. My bare knuckles hit his cheekbone, the hard bone splitting the skin over my knuckles, warm red blood spraying across his white practice jersey. He grabbed my sweater, trying to pull me into a headlock, but I threw two short, crushing uppercuts straight into his ribs, forcing his grip to break.

The team surrounded us, shouting, slamming their sticks against the boards, but nobody stepped in to break it up. This was the initiation.

We went down together in a heap of bare fists, heavy leather boots, and dark blood on the slush, both of us panting like feral dogs until the whistle blew three short, frantic blasts.

Head Coach Vaughan, standing near the center red dot in his dark track jacket, didn't yell. He didn't threaten us with laps, and he didn't hand out bench penalties.

He stepped up to the edge of the pile, looked down at Miller-Smyth’s bleeding nose, then looked at my split knuckles and burning eyes.

Vaughan gave a single, slow, and silent nod of his head.

He turned his eyes to the rest of the team. "Pucks in the middle! Line up for three-on-zeroes!"

I pulled myself up off the ice, wiping a line of blood off my chin with the back of my forearm. As I picked up my gloves, I realized the truth: my "Mercenary" title from college meant nothing here. I had to earn every inch of respect on this sheet from scratch, and I was going to give them every ounce of iron I had.

By seven o'clock that evening, the high-voltage adrenaline of the rink had dissolved into the quiet, warm stillness of our third-floor apartment.

The smell of fried onions, garlic, and seared beef filled the kitchen as Julian stood near the small gas stove, stirring a heavy skillet with a wooden spoon. He was wearing his oversized gray sweatshirt, his dark hair damp from the shower, looking completely relaxed against the warm yellow glow of the counter light.

I was sitting flat on the linoleum floorboards in the corner, leaning my back against the lower cabinets, my legs stretched out in front of me. I had my phone held to my ear, listening to the long, rhythmic rings on the other end of the line.

"Jaxom?" her voice came through the speaker, clear, warm, and rich with that familiar Flint cadence.

"Hey, Mama June," I said, a soft, involuntary smile breaking across my bruised face. "How’s the house holding up?"

"It’s almost too warm in here, boy," Mama June chuckled, the sound of her knitting needles clicking together in the background. "That new gas boiler Julian had installed last week is humming like a purring cat. I had to crack the kitchen window open this afternoon just to get a breeze."

I looked up at Julian. He turned his head from the stove, catching my eye, a faint, sweet smile touching his lips before he went back to stirring the skillet.

"He shouldn't have spent that money, Mama June," I said softly, my thumb rubbing over the worn plastic of my phone case.

"Don't you start that with me, Jaxom Miller," Mama June reprimanded gently, her voice full of that unyielding maternal authority that had raised me. "That boy has a good heart, and he takes care of the people he loves. How is he doing? How are his ribs?"

"He's tough," I said, looking at the straight line of Julian's back. "He took a couple of heavy checks today, but he didn't give up an inch of ice."

Mama June was quiet for a second, the clicking of her needles slowing down.

"And how are you, Jaxom?" she asked softly. "How's your head?"

I looked down at my right hand resting on my knee. The knuckles were swollen, red, and split open, the skin tender and crusted with dry blood from the fight with Miller-Smyth.

"I'm keeping my head down," I muttered, my voice rough.

"Keep your head down, baby," Mama June whispered, her tone dropping into a quiet, sacred instruction. "Keep your head down, work your shifts, but keep your heart open. You got what you fought for. Don't let the bitterness stay in your fists."

"I won't, Mama June," I said, my chest feeling heavy and warm. "I promise."

We talked for ten more minutes about the weather, the old shop in Flint, and her neighbor's porch before we hung up. I set the phone down on the floorboards, leaning my head back against the cabinet door with a long, slow exhale.

"Dinner’s almost ready," Julian said softly, setting the wooden spoon on a ceramic rest.

He didn't serve the food. He walked across the linoleum, knelt down on the floorboards right between my open legs, and reached into his sweatshirt pocket, pulling out a small brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a roll of white medical cotton, and a tube of healing salve.

He didn't ask what happened to my hand. He’d seen the fight from the left wing circle.

"Give me your hand, Jaxom," Julian murmured, his voice as soft as silk in the quiet room.

I lifted my right hand. Julian caught my wrist with his long, cool fingers, holding my arm steady over his lap.

He soaked a cotton pad with the peroxide, then gently, meticulously pressed it against the split skin over my knuckles.

Sssssssss.

The white foam bubbled up instantly against the cuts. I gritted my teeth, a sharp, stinging pain shooting up my forearm, but I didn't pull back. Julian’s blue eyes were focused entirely on my skin, his expression full of a quiet, tender devotion that made every ounce of tension in my shoulders melt away.

"You didn't have to fight him for me," Julian whispered, his thumb lightly stroking the smooth skin near my wrist as he wiped the blood clear.

"He came at your face, Jules," I growled softly, my left hand reaching up to rest against his waist, feeling the warmth of his body through the cotton sweatshirt. "Nobody comes at your face while I'm on the sheet."

Julian stopped dabbing the cut. He looked up, his blue eyes meeting mine through the shadow of his dark hair.

"I know," he whispered.

He set the cotton pad down on the floor, squeezed a dab of the clear ointment onto his index finger, and gently smoothed it over the raw skin of my knuckles. His touch was impossibly light, a cool, soothing contrast to the throbbing ache in my bones.

When he was done, he didn't pull his hands away. He lifted my bruised right hand to his mouth, pressing his soft, warm lips directly against the center of my split knuckles.

A sudden, deep heat surged through my blood.

I didn't let him pull back. My left hand moved up from his waist, my fingers locking into the soft hair at the back of his neck, and I pulled him down into a slow, deep, and heavy kiss.

Julian let out a quiet sigh against my mouth, his long arms coming around my shoulders, his body leaning flat against mine on the floorboards. The peroxide, the kitchen, the bubbling skillet on the stove, all of it faded into the background, leaving only the crushing, beautiful heat of his lips moving against mine.

I shifted my weight, turning us until I lay on my back on the thick dark rug in the living room, pulling Julian over me.

His weight settled flat against my chest, his long legs weaving between mine, his mouth never leaving mine for a single second. He kissed me with a passionate, quiet intensity, not frantic, not desperate, but deep, unhurried, and completely certain.

My hands slid beneath the hem of his sweatshirt, my calloused, bruised palms resting flat against the warm, smooth skin of his back, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs beneath his skin.

"Jax..." he murmured against my lips, his breath hot, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

"I've got you, Jules," I growled softly into his mouth, my thumb tracing the line of his spine. "I've got you."

The room was bathed in the pale, blue light of the Midwest moon coming through the tall river windows. Out on the street, the cold wind blew past the dark brick buildings, but inside, on the bare oak floorboards, the fire was absolute, warm, and entirely our own.

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