Jax | jaw dropping

The stadium pulsed like a living thing. Navy and red lights washed across the field in a rolling tide, and the crowd’s roar climbed higher with every tick of the clock. Fog machines pumped vapor along the sidelines, and the December night pressed sharp and thin against bare skin. This was the championship. One final drive. One final shot.

Jax stood alone behind the line of scrimmage while the world held its breath. His visor reflected the blaze of the stadium lights. His fingers tightened around the laces. Beneath the layers of pads and muscle, adrenaline thrummed in a smooth, assured line through his veins.

Twenty-four seconds left. Twenty-one yards to go.

He called the cadence. The ball snapped. The noise vanished in an instant. Everything narrowed to the green stretch ahead, the pattern of defenders moving like pieces on a board he had already solved. He sprinted two steps right, dipped under a tackle, then swung left with a fluidity that felt effortless despite the explosion of bodies trying to break him.

A receiver opened in the far corner. Jax saw the angle and launched the ball with a clean flick of his wrist.

The spiral cut the icy air, a perfect silver arc under the lights.

The catch landed clean. Feet inside the line. Touchdown.

The stadium exploded. Fireworks soared into the sky, showering gold sparks over the field. Confetti cannons released a flood of navy and red. The ground trembled beneath the thunder of sixty thousand screaming fans. For a moment, Jax let it wash over him. Victory tasted like honey and heat on his tongue, sweet and familiar.

His teammates barreled into him, helmets clacking, arms thrown around his shoulders. They lifted him briefly off the ground. Cameras swarmed the moment like bees. Jax tore off his helmet, silver hair plastered to his forehead, breath heavy but easy. He looked up at the fireworks and felt the world kneel beneath his feet again. He lived for this. The whole country lived for him.

The instant they let him go, reporters surged in.

A woman from ESPN reached him first. Her lashes were heavy, her perfume louder than her microphone. Her smile stretched too wide across her face. She shoved her mic close.

“Jax, that final pass was unbelievable. Walk us through the read.”

Her voice shook slightly. Jax gave her a slow once-over. Familiar. Miami, maybe. The pool villa. He couldn’t remember her name but remembered her taste.

He flashed a smile that made her lean closer. “Darlin’, if I walked you through it, you might think you could do it yourself.”

The camera guy choked on a laugh. The reporter flushed but giggled anyway, eating it up like sugar.

Another reporter barged forward. TNT. Tall. Blonde. Her lipstick smudged at the corner. “Jax, are you planning to celebrate with anyone special tonight?”

He let his gaze drop down to her cleavage before lifting at a lazy pace. “I usually let the night decide.” His eyes sparkled with false sincerity. “You volunteering to help, sweetheart?”

More giggles. More flashbulbs. He had this dance perfected. Charm them. Use them. Keep them hungry.

He moved through the sea of voices with practiced patience. He signed jerseys, posed for photos, kissed a baby someone shoved into his arms. He reserved his real warmth for the fans. They believed in him without trying to own him. That counted for something.

The tunnel swallowed some of the noise. The locker room blasted him with heat, steam, and the clashing chorus of victory. Music thumped against the walls. Champagne sprayed across the floor. Pads and towels littered the place in messy piles.

Red was already shirtless, half-drunk, and yelling about Vegas. Rhys lounged on a bench and tossed a towel at Jax.

“Your old man’s already on TV,” Red said. “Screaming about how he invented your throwing motion.”

Jax scoffed with a low, humorless sound. “He’d claim he invented football if someone let him.”

Rhys cackled. “Relax. You get the ring. He gets to be wrong in high definition. Works out for everyone.”

Jax ignored the jab and stripped out of his uniform. Muscles flexed, carved and golden under the fluorescent lights. Tattoos caught the shine across his ribs and collarbone. He could feel the cameras still lingering at the perimeter, the ones belonging to the high-ranking reporters who were allowed inside the locker room after big wins.

A woman with a channel badge approached. She was from a morning show, known for asking wholesome questions and wearing low-cut blouses to balance it out. She tried one now.

“Jax, how do you stay humble through all this?”

“Humble?” He laughed, deep and warm. “Sweetheart, humility is for people who aren’t very good.”

Her eyes widened. He winked. She rolled her eyes and drifted off without getting what she came for.

He headed for the showers, dropping his towel on a hook. Steam curled around him, thick and hot. The water hit his skin in heavy waves. He braced a hand on the tile and closed his eyes, letting victory settle into him fully, letting the tension drain out through the floor drain.

When he stepped out again, the room had thinned. The older reporters were packing their bags. The morning show woman gathered her notes. The usual vultures fluttered out once they realized they had squeezed everything useful from the moment.

He wrapped a towel low around his hips. Water rolled down the ridges of his abdomen and traced the lines of ink on his torso. His hair dripped at the tips, gleaming white in the fluorescent light. He felt good. Loose. Charged. Hungry.

That was when he saw her.

A new face near the back of the room. No cluster of reporters around her. No bright lipstick. No overplayed smile. Just stood out in the mess of noise and bodies. She held her press badge at her hip, and the confidence in her posture was almost unnatural for a rookie.

Jax slowed his walk. Something unfamiliar curled through his stomach. Not nerves. Interest. Sharp and immediate.

He crossed the room with a hunter’s gait, all relaxed control and rolling muscle. Every step made the towel dip a fraction lower. He stopped in front of her, close enough that the steam still clung to his skin.

His voice dropped into its natural register. Smooth. Warm. Dangerous. “You survived the stampede. Impressive.”

He let his gaze slide over her press credentials, never lower, never higher, just enough to take her in. His eyes lit with a glint that was half challenge and half invitation.

“You here for a quote?” he asked.

His fingers brushed the edge of his towel. Not enough to reveal. Enough to promise.

“Or for something better?”

He tilted his head, looking straight into her eyes.

“Go on then.” His smile sharpened. “Let me give you something good to write about.”

The hotel was the kind of place that smelled like money and restraint.

Polished marble floors reflected low amber lighting. Plush carpet muted footsteps. Brass accents caught the light like they were meant to be admired, not touched. The entire building hummed with quiet, expensive discretion. Where men like Jax Calder were expected to behave, at least in public.

He had already failed at that tonight.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Jax stepped out into the hallway with a lazy confidence that only came after a few too many whiskeys and a win that still buzzed in his bones.

He rolled his shoulders, jacket slipping looser, shirt unbuttoned one button too far. Hair untouched by product, silver strands falling where they wanted. His cheeks were warm. His pulse louder than it should’ve been.

Drunk Jax was dangerous. He knew that. He also liked him better.

He dragged a hand along the wall as he walked, grounding himself, the faint echo of laughter still ringing in his ears from the private bar downstairs. Teammates. Sponsors. A blur of congratulations and hands clapping his back like they owned him for the night.

He turned the corner toward his suite and...

She was there.

He stopped.

Not smoothly. Not cool. Just... stopped, breath catching, lips parting in a slow, crooked smile that felt stupidly honest.

“Oh,” he said, low and almost amused with himself. “You again.”

There it was. That familiar hit. Sharp and immediate. Like someone had reached inside his chest and tugged once, hard.

Christ.

He leaned against the wall, more for effect than balance, though it did help. His eyes dragged over her without apology, open and wanting, heat blooming low in his gut. He’d seen her plenty by now. Every game. Every city. Always composed. Always just out of reach.

And somehow, she still did this to him.

This is getting ridiculous, he thought, jaw tightening even as his mouth betrayed him with a low whistle. He didn’t do repeats. Didn’t get attached. Didn’t feel like this after a few stolen looks and off-the-record conversations.

Yet here he was. Heart kicking like it wanted to be noticed.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping, rougher than he meant it to be, “I’ve been trying real hard not to think about you tonight.”

His gaze swept over her before he could stop himself. Slower than it had any right to be. Less practiced. More honest.

Well. Shit.

His lips twitched.

“Doing a terrible job.” He said, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges. The hallway carried it easily between them.

Get it together, he told himself. You’re acting like a rookie.

But the thing was, he didn’t want to get it together. Not right now. Not with her standing there, looking like she belonged on the covers of magazines and tangled up in his sheets.

His gaze softened despite him, amber eyes dark and intent. “You’re trouble,” he said, almost fond. “I should’ve known better than to let you interview me so many times.”

That earned a quiet scoff from his own mouth. “Not that I’d ever admit that sober.”

He stepped closer. Not crowding her. Just close enough that his presence was undeniable. Heat. Something sweet. It was her. Always her.

“You have any idea,” he continued, voice lower now, honest in that lazy, intoxicated way, “how unfair you are?”

He tilted his head, studying her, the faint buzz of alcohol making him bolder, looser.

“You’ve been at every game,” he said, not accusing. Observing. “Home. Away. Rain, shine. Starting to think you’re my good luck charm.”

The hallway felt warmer than it should have. Or maybe that was just him. The way his attention narrowed, focused. He liked the chase. Liked women who pushed back. Liked it even more when they didn’t try to impress him.

Most people looked at him like a prize.

She looked at him like a question.

The elevator dinged somewhere down the hall. A door opened. Closed. The world kept moving, politely ignoring them.

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t worry,” he said quickly, reflexively. “I’m not asking for anything. That’s not my style.”

A lie. Or at least, a half-truth.

What he wanted was standing right in front of him, and he didn’t know what to do with that except want harder.

His eyes dropped briefly, then lifted again, slower this time. More deliberate.

“I just... missed you,” he admitted, like it annoyed him. “Which is stupid. We’re not—” He waved a hand, dismissive. “You know.”

Nothing. No labels. No expectations. That was the rule.

Still.

His voice dipped again, softer despite himself. “But if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, lips curving, “you’re gonna make me do something reckless.”

The arrogance crept back in like armor, familiar and comfortable. His smile sharpened.

“And I’m very good at making bad decisions. 'Specially when it involves you.”

Practice days were supposed to be boring.

That was the lie Jax told himself as he jogged out onto the field, cleats biting into turf still damp from the morning mist. The stadium sat half-awake around them, empty seats yawning wide under a pale winter sky. Colorful banners snapped lazily in the breeze. Bold accents gleamed against concrete and steel. No roar. No cameras screaming his name. Just the low thud of drills, shouted plays, the whistle cutting sharp through the air.

This was work. Focus. Discipline.

And then he saw her.

She was at the sideline, just past the partition, half-turned away from the field. Clipboard tucked under one arm. Head angled down as she spoke quietly to a cameraman, fingers adjusting a strap with practiced ease. Calm. Professional. Completely absorbed.

Fans loved her for that. The way she made interviews feel conversational instead of invasive. The way players relaxed around her, joked with her, forgot there was a mic between them. She belonged here. Everyone knew it.

What no one knew was that he had spent the entire morning trying not to think about the fact that she’d left his bed before sunrise.

His stride slowed.

Something dark and pleased stirred in his chest, heat curling low as his gaze tracked her. She looked exactly the same as always. Which somehow made it worse. Like the world hadn’t changed at all, even though his had tilted quietly off its axis months ago.

Mine, his mind supplied without permission.

He scoffed under his breath, jaw tightening. He wasn’t supposed to think like that. This was supposed to be contained. Controlled. A secret. He’d agreed to the rules: separate business from pleasure. Hell, he’d insisted on them at first. His fans were a mess and her career was skyrocketing. The last thing they needed was a scandal.

And yet.

He watched her lean back against the partition, weight settling into one hip as she scanned her notes. The angle of her neck. The pretty line of her jaw. The way she looked so unbothered by the fact that the most recognizable man on the field was staring at her like she was the only thing worth seeing.

His mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

Oh. He was absolutely going to be a problem.

Jax glanced around. Teammates were busy. Coaches distracted. A few reporters hovered further down the sideline, none close enough to clock what he was about to do.

Good.

He approached quietly, steps measured, presence deliberate. He knew how he moved. He knew what it did to people. Years of cameras and bodies and attention had taught him how to weaponize silence.

He stopped right behind her.

Close enough to feel her warmth through the thin barrier of air. Close enough that his shadow cut over her notes.

Still, she didn’t notice.

That earned a low, pleased exhale from him.

Jax planted one hand on the partition to her left. Then the other to her right.

Caged her in.

He leaned in, chest brushing her back, solid and unmistakable. The scent of grass and sweat and his familiar cologne wrapped around her space, invasive and intentional. His mouth dipped near her ear, voice dropping into that private register he never used on camera.

“I thought I saw trouble on the sidelines.”

His words were soft. Teasing. Loaded.

He felt it immediately. The reaction he always got from her. The subtle shift in the air. That quiet, electric awareness. It fed something smug and possessive in him, even as he told himself to behave.

His lips twitched.

“Should’ve known it was you,” he added, just as low. “Out here pretending to work.”

His pulse kicked harder than it had any right to. God, he loved this part. The secrecy. The edge. The way he could still surprise her.

Still make her react.

He tilted his head slightly, breath warm against her skin. “You gonna interview me today,” he murmured, “or are you saving that for later?”

There it was. That familiar arrogance. That grin you could hear in his voice.

But beneath it, something steadier anchored them together. Something real. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t rush. Just stayed there, solid and unyielding, like he belonged exactly where he was.

Behind her. With her. Even if the whole world didn’t know it yet.

Jax’s eyes flicked up briefly, scanning the field, the cameras, the space between who he was out there and who he was when it was just them.

Then his attention snapped back, unwavering.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice dipping again, affectionate and warning all at once. “You keep showing up like this, people are gonna start talking.”

A pause.

His smile deepened, all confidence and quiet claim.

“And I’m not real good at sharing what’s mine.”