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J ax

February 7th– Countdown to playoffs

The arena came alive as the Charm City Chill's power play unit took the ice, the pulsing beat of "Welcome to the Jungle" drowning out the boos from the pocket of Philadelphia Phantom fans. The private luxury boxes glowed with ambient lighting above them, filled with executives in tailored suits sipping thousand-dollar scotch, a far cry from Jax's childhood watching hockey through chain-link fencing at the local rink.

Jax Thompson tapped his stick twice against the polished boards before vaulting over in a smooth, practiced motion. Their lead was razor-thin—2-1 with eight minutes left in the third—and the Phantoms were getting desperate. Desperate teams took risks. Desperate players made dangerous choices.

"Keep your fuckin' head up, kid," Jax muttered to Ethan Reeves as the rookie center glided past him toward the face-off circle. The nineteen-year-old first-round draft pick had the hands of a surgeon and the situational awareness of a goldfish.

"Thompson, I need you screening the goalie," Coach Vicky barked from behind him. "Norris, Volkov, and Reeves on the rush. Chenofski, quarterback from the point. Make this count, boys."

The face-off was clean—Kane winning it back to Oliver Chenofski, who settled the puck with a tap of his stick. The Chill's power play shifted into its familiar rhythm, the five ice blue jerseys moving in synchronized motion across the freshly resurfaced ice, blades carving clean arcs that gleamed under the arena's LED spotlight system.

Jax planted his six-foot-four, 225-pound frame directly in front of the Phantoms' goaltender, ignoring the defender's cross-check against his lower back. His job was simple: be immovable, block the goalie's vision, and clean up any garbage that might present themselves.

From his position, he watched Dmitri and Kane execute their tic-tac-toe passing, eventually finding Ethan unguarded at the back door. The rookie buried the biscuit in the open net with a flick of his wrists, and the arena erupted.

3-1 Chill.

Jax allowed himself a small smile as he bumped fists with his teammates during the celebration. The kid was finding his groove. Two points tonight already.

"Nice wheels, Rookie," he said, patting Ethan's helmet.

The smile was wiped from his face moments later when, on the very next shift, he watched Brady Wilson—the Phantoms' notoriously dirty center—line up Ethan from across the ice.

Ethan, celebrating his goal and admiring a pass instead of keeping his head up, never saw it coming.

Wilson launched himself, elbow raised, and caught the rookie directly in the face. The sickening crack echoed across the ice as Ethan crumpled, blood already pooling beneath him.

The crowd gasped. The referee's whistle blew.

And something in Jax's brain clicked into that familiar, cold place.

His vision tunneled as he crossed the ice in three powerful strides. Wilson was still standing over Ethan, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, when Jax grabbed him by the jersey and spun him around.

The moment his fist connected with Wilson's jaw, he knew he'd crossed a line.

Not because the Phantoms' center hadn't deserved it—he totally did for the cheap shot—but because something fundamental had shifted inside Jax. The familiar surge of adrenaline that usually accompanied the satisfying crunch of knuckles on bone was replaced by a hollow weariness that settled deep in his chest. Each blow landed with technical perfection, but the savage joy that once accompanied violence had drained away, leaving only the mechanical execution of a job he'd performed countless times.

Jax had spent eight years in the league making other players fear him. It was his job. The Charm City Chill paid him to be the monster under the bed, the boogeyman who made opposing players think twice about fucking around.

But as he sat in the sin bin, blood dripping from his split knuckles onto his pants, he watched the viral moment replay on the jumbotron. Seeing himself launching over the sprawled rookie, fists flying in a blur of righteous fury—all he felt was tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that seeps into your marrow and makes you question every choice that led you here.

The crowd was different, though. As the replay showed his flurry of punches connecting with Wilson's face, the stands erupted. Half the arena stood, howling their approval, cell phones raised to capture the moment. The other half booed with equal ferocity. He'd seen the jerseys with his number before—fans who came just to see him unleash hell on ice. Kids wearing shirts with his nickname: The Butcher of Baltimore. What did it say about him that his career highlight reel was just a series of broken bodies and bloodied ice?

"Thompson! Get your head out of your ass and back in the game!" Coach Vicky's voice cut through his thoughts as the penalty clock ticked down to zero. Her sharp hazel eyes caught his as he exited the box, communicating volumes. Light 'em up, but be smart about it.

The final minutes of the third period were a blur. The Chill managed to hold onto their one-goal lead, largely thanks to Liam Castillo standing on his head in the net. When the final horn sounded, Jax felt none of the usual satisfaction of beating their bitter rivals. Instead, he cut a path for the locker room, avoiding both teammates and media.

"Thompson. My office. Now." Coach Vicky didn't wait for a response as she strode past him.

Jax peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey, wincing as the movement aggravated what was sure to be a spectacular bruise forming along his ribs. Dmitri caught his eye from across the room, giving him a sympathetic nod.

"You feed Wilson some knuckle sandwich, yes? Is good." The Russian winger's gap-toothed smile was earnest.

"It was fucking dirty hit," Ethan added quietly from his stall, his young face already swelling where Wilson's elbow had caught him.

"You're welcome." Jax grabbed a towel. "Ice that face. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And next time, keep your damn head up."

He didn't wait to see if the rookie followed his advice. Coach was waiting, and Victoria Kovalchuk was not a woman who appreciated being kept waiting.

"THE LEAGUE OFFICE WAS in my voice mail before you even got off the ice."

Coach Vicky's office was spare and functional, like the woman herself. Jax noticed the faint scent of mint tea and ice spray that always seemed to linger around her. His eyes tracked over the few personal touches—a framed Team Canada Olympic gold medal jersey behind glass that caught the fluorescent light, and a chessboard permanently set up in the corner with a game perpetually in progress. He'd never seen anyone actually play it.

She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, but Jax remained standing. His ribs protested with each breath, a sharp reminder of Wilson's stick jabbing between his pads during the scrum. The post-fight adrenaline crash was hitting him now, each muscle seizing up in slow, painful increments. Sitting would only make standing again worse.

"Am I suspended?" he asked, running a hand over his shaved head, the familiar sensation of stubble against his palm grounding him. His heart pounded against his bruised ribcage. Eight years in the league, but the threat of suspension still made his mouth go dry. Hockey was all he had.

"Not yet." She leveled her penetrating eyes at him, the same eyes that had stared down Olympic opponents and skeptical media. Jax fought the urge to look away. "But the new PR director is having kittens about it. Stephanie Ellis—you met her at the season kickoff?"

Jax vaguely recalled a slender woman with a perpetual frown and a clipboard, looking entirely out of place amid the usual chaos of hockey operations. She'd worn a tailored suit that probably cost more than his first car, her designer heels clicking authoritatively across the marble floors of the executive level—a floor he rarely visited, with its mahogany paneling and framed jerseys of franchise legends.

"The suits upstairs hired her last month to 'rehabilitate team culture,'" Vicky said, making air quotes with her fingers, not bothering to hide her disdain. "She thinks your style of play doesn't align with the family-friendly image they're trying to build."

"So I shouldn't have defended the kid?" Heat rose in his throat again.

"You and I both know that's exactly what you should have done." Vicky poured herself two fingers of whiskey from a bottle she kept in her bottom drawer. She didn't offer him any. "That's what enforcers do. Without guys like you, the skill players get destroyed. But the league is changing, Thompson. They're trying to market a cleaner game."

Jax clenched his jaw but said nothing, tasting blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek during the fight. The familiar copper tang mixed with the bitterness of truth. Eight years of being paid to lose his temper made it a hard habit to break. It was the one thing he'd always been good at—channeling the rage that had simmered inside him since childhood into something useful, something that earned him respect instead of fear.

He thought of the fans though, how they roared when he fought. How they'd crowded against the glass during warmups, banging and shouting his name. How they spent hundreds of dollars on his jersey just so they could wear his name on their backs. What would happen when that part of his identity was stripped away? Who was Jax Thompson without his fists?

"Ellis is coming by tomorrow morning. She's going to push for some kind of PR campaign to 'soften your image,'" Vicky said, not bothering to hide her eye roll. "Something with puppies or children or whatever crap they think will counterbalance you feeding Wilson his teeth on national television."

"What do you think I should do?" Jax asked, surprised by his own question. He rarely sought advice, especially from authority figures.

Vicky knocked back her whiskey. Her gold medal glinted behind her like a halo. "I think you should be smart. Play the game—their game—for now. But when the puck drops..." She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "You protect our boys. That's your job, and I respect it. Just don't get yourself suspended doing it."

His knuckles throbbed as if in agreement, the split skin pulling tight. "Yes, Coach."

"And Thompson?" She fixed him with that penetrating stare again. "Ellis doesn't know shit about hockey. Remember that when she's talking at you tomorrow. But the suits listen to her, so we have to play along."

"Got it." The weight in his chest eased slightly. At least Coach was on his side.

"Ice those knuckles. And take something for those ribs—I saw Wilson cheap-shot you in the scrum." Her tone had softened, the concern of a coach for a valued player breaking through her tough exterior. "We need you at a hundred percent. Playoffs aren't far off."

Jax nodded, something almost like gratitude fighting through his exhaustion. As he turned to leave, Vicky added, "Oh, and Jax? Next time Wilson pulls that shit, make sure the cameras get your good side."

He couldn't help but smile as he headed for the door. "Don't have a good side, Coach."

She chuckled. "Get outta here before Ellis shows up with her focus groups and sensitivity training."

IT WAS FREAKIN' COLD , even for Connecticut in February. Jax exited the players' parking lot, his game-day suit doing little to ward off the frigid wind. His bespoke suit—a grudging concession to the team's dress code—felt like costume, the Italian wool and silk tie at odds with the bruises forming beneath them. The New Haven arena loomed behind him, its emptying parking lot a stark contrast to the thunderous cacophony of the game just hours before. Luxury cars with tinted windows pulled away, carrying high-paying fans back to penthouses and gated communities. Funny how quickly the lights dimmed, the fans dispersed, the roars faded. Silence was always waiting on the other side of glory.

His ribs throbbed with each breath, another bruise to add to the tapestry that covered his body—a living record of battles fought and mostly forgotten. Sometimes Jax wondered if his body remembered what it felt like not to hurt.

Most of his teammates had already cleared out, heading to the usual post-game haunts to celebrate the win. O'Malley's would be packed tonight, the team riding high on their victory over their bitter rivals. Dmitri would be buying rounds for everyone, his accent growing thicker with each shot. Kane would be holding court in their usual corner booth, recounting the game's highlights. Marcus would be nursing a single whiskey, quietly analyzing plays on his tablet.

But Jax didn't feel much like celebrating. Eight years in the league, and tonight was the first time he'd wondered if it was all worth it. The money was good—better than good for a kid who grew up eating government cheese—but lately, it felt hollow. What was the point of a million-dollar contract if your body was breaking down at twenty-nine? If your purpose was just to hurt people for a living?

His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably Kane checking to see where he was. The captain was good that way, always making sure his teammates were taken care of, especially after a rough game. But Jax wasn't in the mood to deal with it right now.

That's when he heard it—a sound so faint he nearly missed it over the hum of the distant highway. A small, pitiful mewling coming from near the dumpsters. The sound pierced through the white noise of his own thoughts.

Jax turned, his body protesting the movement. Every joint seemed to creak like an old house settling, a man approaching thirty in a young man's game.

"Hello?" he called softly, feeling slightly ridiculous, calling into the darkness like a child checking for monsters.

The sound came again, weaker this time. Something in his chest tightened.

Following the noise, he crouched beside the dumpster, the smell of rotting food and stale beer assaulting his nostrils. His knees popped in protest as he lowered himself to peer into the shadows. Two tiny yellow eyes reflected the parking lot lights, wide with fear and something Jax recognized all too well—resignation. It was the look of something small that expected only pain from something large.

How many times had he seen that same look directed at him across the ice?

"Hey there," he murmured, keeping his voice low and gentle, the way he did with the rescue dogs at the shelter. The same voice his mother had used with him after his father's drunken rages, when Jax would hide in his closet, knees pulled to his chest. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The kitten—because that's what it was, a tiny scrap of a thing with matted gray fur—tried to back away, but its movements were uncoordinated, sluggish. One of its hind legs dragged uselessly. The sight sent a wave of something hot and protective through Jax's chest, washing away the weariness that had settled there.

"You're hurt, aren't you, little guy?" Jax eased closer. Years of handling rescue animals had taught him how to appear less threatening, how to make his bulk fade into the background. It was a skill that served him well with the shelter's most traumatized residents—the ones who cowered at the sight of raised hands, who expected pain from human touch. He once knew what that felt like. "I'm going to help you. That okay with you?"

The kitten made another pitiful sound but didn't try to run as Jax carefully reached into his gym bag and pulled out one of his T-shirts.

"Easy now," he whispered, gently wrapping the kitten up. It was so small and fragile in his massive, scarred hands—the same hands that had just sent a two hundred pound hockey player crashing to the ice. The same hands that had broken noses, knocked out teeth, left bruises that would linger for weeks. Yet here they were, cradling a life that weighed less than a hockey puck.

The irony struck him hard. Jax Thompson, feared enforcer of the Charm City Chill, brought to his knees by three pounds of bedraggled fur.

The kitten didn't struggle, which worried him. That wasn't normal. In his experience, even the most injured animals usually had some fight left in them. It was the ones who had given up that broke his heart the most.

"Hey, stay with me, buddy," he murmured, one callused finger gently stroking the kitten's tiny head. "I've got you now. Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore."

His phone buzzed again, and this time he fished it out with his free hand, careful not to jostle his fragile cargo. Kane.

Where you at, big guy? We've got a table at O'Malley's. I owe you a beer.

Jax looked down at the trembling bundle in his arms, feeling the rapid, threadlike heartbeat against his palm, then at the time on his phone. Midnight. The kitten's eyes had drifted closed, its breathing shallow.

Rain check. Something came up. His thumbs felt too big for the keyboard, clumsy with urgency.

Kane's response was immediate: Everything ok?

Will be, Jax texted back, already heading to his truck. Need to find an emergency vet.

What?

Later.

Jax gently placed the wrapped kitten on the passenger seat of his pickup, securing it with gentle hands. In the harsh overhead light of the truck's cab, he could see just how young and malnourished the kitten was—ribs visible through dirty fur, one ear torn, eyes crusted with infection.

"Hang in there, little fighter," he murmured as he started the engine.