Addicted to My Hockey Stepbrother

Harper's POV The library smelled like old paper, stale coffee, and the quiet desperation of third-year med students. I had my face buried in a neuroscience textbook, highlighter in one hand, iced latte in the other, when my phone buzzed for the third time in ten minutes. Mom: Harper honey, you’re coming to Jax’s game tomorrow night, right? Family box. The twins are so excited! Mom: He’s been playing amazing lately. We need to show support Mom: Don’t make me come drag you out of the library. I groaned and dropped my head onto the open book with a thud. Ten years. Ten whole years of this bullshit. I typed back with one finger: Fine. But I’m only staying for one period. Liar. I knew I’d stay the whole game. I always did. I closed my eyes and let the memory hit me like it always did when I was trying not to think about him. Ten years ago. The house was still new back then — boxes everywhere, the faint smell of fresh paint. I was ten, awkward, glasses too big for my face, clutching my favorite stuffed rabbit like a shield. Mom had just married Richard, and Richard had a son. A giant fourteen-year-old with stormy gray eyes and a permanent scowl. “Harper, this is Jax,” Mom had said, smiling way too brightly. “You two are going to be siblings now!” Jax had looked me up and down, snorted, and muttered, “Great. A four-eyed bookworm.” I’d narrowed my eyes, hugged my rabbit tighter, and shot back, “Better than a dumb caveman who probably eats rocks for breakfast.” That was the beginning of war. And somehow… it never ended. I shook the memory away, packed up my stuff, and headed home. The entire drive I told myself I wasn’t going to the game for him. I was going for the twins. For Mom. Definitely not because the thought of Jax in full gear, sweating, breathing hard, made something low in my stomach tighten in the most traitorous way. When I got home, the house was chaos. Lily and Leo were running around in tiny Blaze jerseys with Jax’s number on the back. Mom was doing her makeup in the hallway mirror. “Harper! Finally!” She beamed. “Go change. I laid out Jax’s spare jersey for you.” I froze halfway up the stairs. “I’m not wearing his jersey.” “You always wear his jersey,” Leo yelled from the living room. “It’s tradition!” I hated that it was tradition. I hated even more that I secretly liked the way his scent clung to the fabric long after the game. Twenty minutes later I was in the passenger seat of Mom’s SUV, drowning in Jax’s oversized Arizona Blaze jersey. The number 19 and his last name — DONOVAN — stretched across my back like a brand. It smelled like him. Clean soap, faint cologne, and something darker that always made my thighs press together. The arena was loud and electric. We made our way to the family box, and I tried to disappear into the corner seat. But the moment the team came out for warm-ups, my eyes found him instantly. Jax. Six-foot-four of pure muscle and barely contained aggression. His hair was damp with sweat already, gray eyes sharp as he skated across the ice. Even from up here I could see the way his shoulders flexed under the pads, the way his thighs powered every stride. He was a goddamn weapon. He looked up toward our box like he always did. Our eyes locked. For a second, the noise of the arena faded. His gaze dropped slowly down my body — or rather, down his jersey on my body — and something dark flickered across his face. His jaw tightened. He smirked, slow and dangerous, then turned away like it was nothing. My heart was hammering so hard I felt dizzy. Stop it, Harper. You hate him. Remember? After the game (a brutal 4-2 win), Mom insisted we wait for him outside the locker room. The hallway was packed with reporters, WAGs, and staff. I hung back, arms crossed, pretending to scroll on my phone. The door finally opened. Players started filing out. And then Jax appeared. Still damp from the shower. Gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. Team hoodie unzipped, showing the hard planes of his chest. A duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder. He looked like every filthy fantasy I’d ever had and immediately hated myself for. His eyes found me immediately. “Bookworm,” he drawled, voice low enough that only I could hear as he stopped right in front of me. “Nice jersey.” “Caveman,” I shot back, tilting my chin up. “You played like garbage in the second period. Almost cost the team.” He stepped closer, towering over me, that stupid cocky smirk on his face. The scent of his body wash and fresh sweat hit me like a drug. “Yeah?” He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Then why were you staring at me the whole time like you wanted me to bend you over the boards?” My face burned. My p***y clenched. “I was not—” “Bullshit.” His breath was hot against my skin. “I could see your thighs squeezing together from the ice, Harper. Every time I looked up, you were wet for me.” I shoved at his chest. He didn’t budge. “You’re disgusting,” I hissed. “And you’re soaked right now.” His eyes dropped to my lips, then lower, like he could see straight through the jersey. “Keep wearing my name on your back, babygirl. Looks good on you.” Before I could come up with a scathing reply, Mom called out, “Jax! Great game, honey!” He straightened instantly, flashing her that perfect golden-boy smile. “Thanks, Mom.” Then he looked back at me, voice dropping again. “Ride home with me tonight. We need to talk.” “I’d rather walk.” His grin turned wicked. “Suit yourself. But tomorrow after the last regular season game… I’ve got something for you.” He walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart racing, n*****s tight against my bra, and a traitorous ache between my legs. I hated him. I hated him so much it hurt. And the worst part? I was starting to think the feeling wasn’t hate anymore. Not even close.