Jack Cross | Your Boyfriend

The roar of the North Valley Arena was deafening, a vibrating hum of stomping feet, drums, and chants that rattled right through the locker room doors. The air in here was thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and deep-heat rub.

"Hey, Cross! Wrap your left wrist tighter, you're leaning too hard on your shots during warmups," Cole muttered, pulling his shoulder pads over his head, his tone as practical and calm as always.

Jack barely nodded, his fingers deftly tightening his skates. Off to the side, Ryan was aggressively juggling a roll of stick tape, shouting over the music blasting from the speakers. "If we don't crush these bastards in the first period, Coach is going to make us skate suicides until our lungs bleed on Monday. I'm not dying for you guys!"

"Shut up, Miller, you're the goalie. Just stand there and block the damn rubber," Noah barked with a sharp grin, tapping his stick against the floor, already itching for a fight. "Cross, we good to go?"

Jack stood up, towering over the room at 6'4", adjusting his jersey—the heavy fabric bearing the number 11. He grabbed his helmet, his expression shifting into that terrifying, icy calm he always wore right before stepping onto the ice. "We're good. Focus on the defense line. Let's move."

As the team filed out of the tunnel, the bright white glare of the ice hit them, accompanied by a fresh wave of screaming fans. Jack's eyes automatically scanned the VIP student section. It didn't take him long to find you. You were sitting near the glass, completely swallowed up by his oversized, spare home jersey. Seeing his name and number 11 draped over your shoulders made a sudden, fierce pride swell in his chest. His heart thudded against his ribs, a sharp contrast to his usual pre-game focus. He gave you a subtle, lingering look before skating toward the center.

The referees blew their whistles, calling the starting lineups. The crowd went wild as the two teams skated out, lining up across from each other.

Jack, as the captain, skated smoothly to the center circle for the initial puck drop. The opposing captain from the rival university glided over to meet him. Both men leaned on their sticks, eyes locked through the visors of their helmets.

The rival captain suddenly smirked, a sharp, cocky glint in his eyes. "Gonna be a fun game tonight, Cross," he muttered sarcastically, his voice low enough only for Jack to hear.

Jack raised an eyebrow, his jaw tightening, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

But the guy didn't stop. He leaned in just an inch closer, his voice dripping with malice. "She’s real good in bed, you know. Must be nice dating a total slut like her, right?"

Time froze. The noise of the stadium vanished, replaced by a sudden, violent rushing sound in Jack's ears. The words clicked. Ethan. The toxic ex. The piece of trash who had leaked the video and tried to ruin your life.

Jack glanced toward the stands for a fraction of a second. He saw you looking down at the ice, your hands gripping the edge of your seat, your posture completely stiff and visibly tense under the pressure of the crowd. You looked so vulnerable up there.

Then, something inside Jack snaps completely.

Fuck the game. Fuck the suspension.

Before the referee can even think about dropping the puck, Jack hurls his hockey stick away. With a surge of pure, unadulterated fury, he lunges forward, grabbing Ethan by the front of his jersey and throwing his weight into him, slamming him hard against the ice.

The stadium erupts into chaos. Whistles blow frantically. Screams pierce the air. On the ice, both benches instantly clear—players dropping their sticks, blades carving through the ice as the North Valley Ravens and their rivals race toward the center circle in a massive, chaotic scrum.

Jack uses his massive size advantage to pin Ethan down, instantly ripping his opponent's helmet off by the chin strap to get a clear shot. He lands a couple of heavy, solid punches, but Ethan manages to fight back from underneath, swinging wildly. One of Ethan's knuckles catches Jack squarely across the bridge of his nose. Blood immediately spurts, dripping down Jack's face, but he barely even feels it. Jack answers with a devastating, heavy right hook that sends Ethan's head snapping back against the ice, completely overpowering him.

"Jack! Jack, stop! Get off him!" Cole's voice finally pierces through the noise as three different players and a referee throw themselves onto Jack's back, desperately trying to tear him away. Noah is shoving another rival player back, screaming curses, while Ryan tries to clear the area around them.

It takes Cole and two refs pulling with everything they have to finally drag Jack's heavy frame off Ethan, who is left dazed on the ice.

Jack’s chest heaves violently, his breathing ragged and loud in the chaotic arena. He violently shakes off the hands holding him, turning his head and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ice. His nose is broken, blood dripping down his lips and chin, but his eyes are fixed.

Slowly, his fierce, dark gaze cuts through the chaotic crowd on the ice, locking directly onto you in the stands. His face is a mask of raw fury, but beneath it, his chest aches with a desperate, protective need to make sure you're okay.

Cole grabs Jack’s arm, his face grim. "Come on, Captain. Move. Let's get you off the ice." With Cole and Noah flanking him, Jack allows them to guide him toward the tunnel, his eyes never leaving yours until the shadows of the arena swallow him up.

It had been an exhausting couple of weeks filled with brutal, back-to-back practices, leaving the entire team sore and running on pure caffeine. Tonight, the main dorm living room was completely packed; Jack, Cole, Ryan, Noah, and a handful of the other guys from the team had taken over the space. They cracked open a few packs of beer, loudly arguing over university midterms, complaining about finals, and just shooting the shit about life. But while the guys were laughing and throwing couch pillows at each other, Jack’s mind was entirely somewhere else. With you.

The moment the gathering finally started to wind down and the guys drifted off to their own rooms, Jack slipped out of the men's dorm and made his way across the dark campus to your building. Luckily, your roommate was out spending the night at some guy's place—something Jack was incredibly grateful for. He just wanted you all to himself.

Stepping into the quiet warmth of your room, he didn't say much. He immediately pulled his heavy t-shirt over his head, tossing it onto a chair, leaving him in nothing but his low-slung black sweatpants. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmured, his deep voice thick with exhaustion and a sudden wave of relief.

Now, the chaos of the day had finally melted away. You were lying together in your bed—you wearing just a tank top and underwear, and him completely bare-chested. Having your warm body pressed against his, feeling the soft rhythm of your breathing, was the only thing that could truly calm his mind. He missed this fiercely every single second you weren't near him.

Jack shifted his weight, rolling over onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at your face, his gaze incredibly soft, his thumb gently tracing your jawline. "Look at you," he whispered, a lazy, captivated smile tugging at his lips as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "You look so beautiful tonight. Just let me hold you for a second, okay? I feel like I haven't seen you in days."

He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He took a deep breath, letting your familiar warmth ground him, and pressed a slow, lingering kiss right against your pulse point, letting out a low, satisfied hum of pleasure.

His large, warm hand slowly slid upward, slipping underneath the hem of your tank top. His palms stroked the skin of your stomach in slow, deliberate circles, making you shiver, before his hand slid back down, tracing the curve of your hip and moving slowly down your thigh.

"God, you're so warm, sweetheart..." Jack rasped against your skin, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl as his fingers slipped lower, hooking under the edge of your underwear to press firmly against the center of your thighs. He began to stroke you through the thin fabric, a heavy, passionate heat rising in his chest. "Come closer to me. I need you right against me, sweetheart. I'm so fucking obsessed with you."