Page 52 of Shattered

I wink. “The mom that sucks great dick.”

It works every fucking time. The shock freezes them for that second just enough time to get the upper hand. I breeze past him, my speed too much for him to right himself. I instantly pass the puck to Kal as we push forward, but then, out of nowhere, the opposing brute blindsides Kal, stealing the puck. Kal collides with the boards, wincing. I’m already racing up the ice. Cope signals, and I know what’s coming.

The brute may be a wall, but Cope’s speed defies physics. He maneuvers around, leaving the brute bewildered. The puck connects with Cope’s stick, slicing through the ice to meet Tray’s blade. I surge forward, eyes on the opposing goal, seeking an opening. But a body check sends me sprawling. I’m up instantly, Tray passing the puck to Kal. He weaves through defenders, the puck dancing on his stick. And then, in a flash, the light ignites—the scoreboard confirms it. Kal scores.

We all skate over to him and he hits my knee pads with his stick, smiling. The next faceoff—the puck escapes me, and the Cheetahs seize the upper hand, scoring within seconds. Annoyance simmers, but we stay in the game. They’re a relentless team, one I underestimated during my hasty research. Body checks rain down—I taste blood, but it fuels me. The ache is my lifeline, the ice my sanctuary. Maxton, worn and bloodied, faces the brute. He won’t let us down. Overtime looms—a single goal will rewrite our fate. The puck meets my stick; the goal consumes my vision. I unwind my brain—obstacles blur. You’ve conquered worse; this is no different, I tell myself. The opposing team come together, quick and merciless. I dip, weave, slide the puck to Tray. He passes it back—a dance of trust. I speed toward the net—the goal, my singular purpose. Their defense tackles me, stick against stick. The stadium vibrates—the fans’ screams blend with the stick’s echo. The net becomes my universe, thecrowd a distant hum. I flick the puck, no longer bound by ice. It sails through the goalie’s legs.

And then—the eruption.

We won.

Victory tastes like blood and echoes in my bones.

Chapter twenty-eight

Bodhi

This week has been a hurricane—a relentless storm of aching. I know the taste of Brayden’s lips, the silk of his mouth against mine. It’s etched into my senses, a craving that dares reason. The classroom becomes our battleground, and he tests me—those endless blue eyes like a vortex pulling me in. I want to touch him. Claim him. I stumble over words during my presentations. His gaze, intense, intoxicating, drives me to the edge. I ache to scream, to seize him, to make him mine in front of everyone. But we’ve only spoken through texts—a fragile thread connecting us. It’s not enough. I hunger for more. His skin, his breath, the taste of him. He’s an obsession, buried deep in the roots tangled with my sanity.

I need to see him, touch him, taste him again.

That’s why I’m here.

Section 2, Row 8, Seat 24.

I couldn’t go this weekend without seeing him. I knew when he arrived back from this game, he would be too tired to seeme. As much as I know he would have, it wouldn’t be fair. He needs to rest especially with all the classes that’s why, I’ve kept my hands to myself. My resolve teetering on the edge, because I knew once I touch him, that would be it. My resolve would snap, and I wouldn’t be able to stop. I can’t, not at work, not in the classroom—there, the air crackles with our unspoken tension. My desk, once a sanctuary, now holds memories of stolen glances, of lips that never met but hungered in those moments. His scene where he lingers alone is enough to drive me insane with need.

The rink echoes with ice scraping against skates. Bodies blur—a masterpiece of speed and desire. I pull my baseball cap lower, concealing my face. And hoping no one recognizes me. I can see the top of Denny’s head, which keeps pacing, and I catch the odd glimpse of his hands wailing at his players.

I wonder if he knows he’s going slightly bald on top of his head. I smile to myself because there is not a chance I will be the one to bring that to his attention.

My eyes lock onto number 13 as he glides across the ice, my heart pounding in sync with each swift motion of his skates. Brayden moves with the swagger of a man who owns not just the rink, but the very air around it. Even when the puck isn’t tethered to his stick, he exudes confidence, weaving through opponents as if they’re mere statues, leaving a trail of awe in his wake. Each time he’s hit, my heart clenches. I grip the seat edges, torn between leaping to my feet and racing down to the ice. His passion, his unwavering commitment to the team—it’s magnetic. Even when he falls, my stomach twists in knots. But Brayden defies gravity, rising in an instant. The collective tension in the stadium eases; the Quake still stands.

The opposing team hungers for his downfall yet as I watch him, I realize how much he’s overcome, the battles he’s faced. Brayden shows resilience. He gets knocked down, herises, unyielding. Overtime arrives, and the air thickens with anticipation. The puck finds Brayden’s stick once more, and the crowd rises as one. On tiptoes, we witness the clash—the defenseman’s stick, the flicker of the puck. Then, with a precision that defies reason, Brayden sends it soaring. Through the goalie’s legs it slips, and the Devil Hawks’ fans erupt.

And there, in that electrifying moment, my student becomes a legend. My heart swells with pride.

He’s more than a player, he’s more than just my student.

He’s mine.

The arena pulses with electric energy as the players exit the ice. The crowd envelops me, smiles and cheers washing over me like a tidal wave. The scent of fresh Zamboni ice mingles with the tang of sweat-soaked jerseys. A few people, drawn by my baseball cap, offer excited shoulder squeezes or friendly smacks on my back.

But my anticipation isn’t for them—it’s for Brayden.

I linger, careful not to overstay. The stadium empties, leaving me alone in the echoing aftermath. The distant echoes of the Zamboni scraping ice and the low hum of the overhead lights create an intimate feel. I don’t know this place well, but I sent Brayden a text, telling him to wait in the locker rooms while everyone else leaves. I told him I wanted to call him without prying ears around. What excuse he’ll make for his teammates and Denny, I can only wonder. Hopefully, his creativity serves him well. Navigating unfamiliar corridors, I glance over my shoulder. The coast appears clear. I dash away from prying eyes. Near the tunnels, I discover what appears to be a cleaning closet. Testing the handle, I let out a sigh of relief when it opens. I slip inside, time stretching as I wait—an hour condensed into half that span. The air smells faintly of cleaning supplies, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline-laden atmosphere outside. I stay in there for what feels like an hour, but it’s only been aroundhalf an hour. Voices approach, a mix of murmurs and Trayton’s unmistakable booming voice. That must be them leaving. Hopefully, Brayden stayed behind. I wait five more minutes and then crack the door, taking a peek out to make sure the coast is clear. Once I’m happy it is, I slip out, walking toward the lockers. As I get closer, I take slow quiet steps and open the door quietly. There’s a small walkway to walk down and the locker room opens up before me—an expanse of anticipation. I scan the area for a moment, thinking Brayden must have left, and then, as if the universe conspired to test my resolve, I see him emerge from a door.

From the showers.

A pristine white towel clings to his waist, accentuating the contours of his body. His hands move with purpose, raking through wet hair as streams cascade down his skin, tracing the chiseled lines of his abs. My eyes follow each droplet, a silent ache building within me. The towel in his hand vanishes, revealing tousled dark hair that falls across his face. Leaning down, he retrieves his phone, an unmistakable frown etching his features. The air crackles with tension—he waits, and I know it’s for my call.

He stands back up and it’s as if the temperature rises instantly. My balls ache, my dick fills.

Water droplets cascade from his hair as he casually brushes them away, a lone strand falling across his eyes. His abs ripple with each twisting motion, and I ache to trace my fingertips along the contours of his muscular arms. The mere thought electrifies my skin, urging me to abandon restraint—I must feel his touch. Before stepping out from behind the wall, I stand behind. I loosen my belt and tuck my dick up. It’s hard as a fucking rock and I know the minute I’m near him, it’s going to be leaking.

Emerging from behind the alcove, I clear my throat, and Brayden’s eyes snap to mine. His gaze sweeps over me, from head to toe, as if reading secrets written on my skin. The charged air between us hums with anticipation, and I wonder if he sees the desire etched in every curve of my body for him. As the tension between us thickens, I step closer, drawn by that invisible force which is stronger than ever. His eyes lock onto mine, and the world around me comes to a halt. Everything fades away, leaving only the two of us in this charged moment. Once I’m standing in front of him, my palms cup his face, my fingers melting into his smooth skin and my lips meet his. He instantly opens up for me, allowing me to take everything I have craved over the past week. Every swipe of my tongue sends jolts to my dick as it leaks for him.

They say addiction is bad for you, but is it always? Brayden is the sweetest poison coursing through my veins. There’s nothing bad about him. He’s pure, He’s the healthiest addiction, and I ache to overdose on him, relapsing with every heartbeat.

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