Page 7 of Dirty Play (The LA Panthers #2)

Chapter seven

~LIVIA~

Ares Black doesn’t need to try to be intimidating—it’s his default setting.

He’s leaning against the edge of the armchair in my office, with thick arms crossed over his broad chest and a quiet storm in human form. Tattoos ripple over every inch of skin visible under his black T-shirt, climbing up his neck and even his hands. His pale blue eyes don’t just look at me; it feels like they’re trying to strip every layer until only my soul remains. It’s unnerving.

“Thank you for coming, Ares,” I start, clutching my clipboard. “I wanted to discuss an interview I’d like to schedule with you. Sports Illustrated wants to do a feature on the team. They’re focusing on player profiles, highlighting what makes each of you unique. And they specifically chose you and a few other key players.”

Ares just stares, unblinking. I press on, refusing to let his silence throw me.

“It wouldn’t be long, just a few minutes to discuss the upcoming season. You’re one of the fan favorites,” I add truthfully, hoping to sweeten the deal. “People love a good mystery, and you…well, you’re kind of the epitome of that.”

He huffs out a breath, almost a scoff, but not quite. He shifts his weight, tilting his head to the side, making a black strand fall over his left eyebrow.

“Okay,” he says, his voice deep and unbothered, like I’ve just asked him to pass the salt at dinner. “Send me the details.”

“Oh.” I blink, caught off-guard by how easily he agreed. “Okay. Great. Thank you.”

Ares doesn’t move. He just straightens his head, his pale eyes narrowing slightly, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve somehow made a mistake.

“Is that all, Ms. Moody?” he asks, his tone calm before he pushes off the armchair and walks past me, his frame towering over mine for a brief, heart-pounding second.

“Actually, could you do me a favor?” I ask. I sent out an email, but I want to make sure everyone read it.

He pauses, turning slightly, his eyes flicking back to me with a shadow of curiosity.

“Could you please gather everyone in the conference room in five? I just need to go over some things with the team.”

“Of course.” Ares nods—a single, deliberate motion. He’s polite, unexpectedly so, but his gaze holds something else entirely. It’s as if he knows more than he lets on.

“Thank you, Ares.” I give him a polite smile.

His eyes stay on mine for a moment longer, assessing, before he turns and walks away.

I’m pacing the conference room like I’m preparing for a courtroom battle. Ares said he’d gather the players, but now the wait is eating at me. Just as I’m about to check the clock for the fiftieth time, the door opens, and Damien strolls in.

“Morning, Ms. PR agent,” he says, plopping into a chair that groans under his weight.

“Good morning, Mr. Enforcer.” I shoot him a dry look.

Damien grins and sprawls out, stretching his long legs under the table.

I look at the door as more players file in. Some are chatting, their voices filling the room with a low hum. A few rookies trail behind, sticking together like freshmen on the first day of high school.

Ares arrives quietly, slipping into the room like a shadow. He doesn’t take a seat. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his pale blue eyes scanning the room. It’s unnerving how much he doesn’t have to say to command attention. I give him a small nod of gratitude, and he returns it before scanning the room.

And then there’s Rowan. The last to enter, of course. He walks in with a deliberate slowness that screams he’s above all of this. His eyes find mine immediately, dropping to my feet and dragging back up to my face before he blinks away.

I swallow to keep my heartbeat steady as my eyes follow him. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and black workout shorts today. The material clings to his muscles, and I can see his tattoos through the thin fabric of the shirt. The rest are out in the open, black ink crawling down his forearms, which are the size of both my biceps put together. He drops into a chair with effortless ease, legs spreading wide as he leans back, all casual dominance like he owns the space.

I shut my eyes for a moment, shaking the image of Rowan away before straightening.

“Thank you for showing up, everyone.” I clap my hands together, forcing a smile. “I promise I’ll keep this quick.”

The chatter dies down, all eyes on me. I’m painfully aware of the sheer number of men in the room, their collective attention like a spotlight.

“As some of you may have already read in the email I sent, I’m organizing a night out for us at The Fortress Club this Friday night. It’s a great way to promote the Panthers, boost your image, and connect with fans before the season starts.”

There’s a beat of silence before the murmurs start.

Damien’s chair creaks as he leans back, a lazy grin on his face.

“Now, we’re talking,” he says, nudging Lance beside him.

From somewhere in the back, a voice calls out, “Man, I could use a night out.”

Another adds, “Think the puck bunnies will show?”

A snicker follows from one of the older players. I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “This isn’t a frat party. Let’s try to act like adults.”

But the light ribbing continues. It’s harmless, so I let it slide. The veterans exchange knowing smirks while the younger players try to play it cool.

Then Josh, one of the defensemen, leans forward with a mischievous grin. “What about you, Livia? You gonna be there?”

“Of course.” I arch an eyebrow.

That’s all it takes to ignite chaos. Someone lets out a whistle, followed by barking noises that bounce around the room like we’re at a dog park.

“You’re gonna be off the clock, right?” one of the rookies shouts. “Anything’s fair game then, yeah?”

“Anything’s fair game if you want a PR scandal splashed across every sports network by morning.” I tilt my head, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

Laughter ripples through the room, and the player sinks into his chair, muttering something about “just kidding.” But I don’t miss the way Rowan’s head snaps toward the guy, his dark eyes narrowing like a warning shot. His jaw ticks as his eyes shoot daggers.

Interesting.

“Alright, gentlemen,” I quickly bring the focus back. “Everyone okay with this?”

Another wave of noise rolls through the room, all in agreement. Even Ares, who hasn’t moved from his spot by the door, gives me a slight nod.

And Rowan? He hasn’t said a word, but I can feel the weight of his presence like gravity itself.

“Any objections from the captain?” I ask, meeting his gaze head-on.

For a moment, he says nothing; he just leans back in his chair with that infuriatingly calm demeanor. Finally, he tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth curving into the smallest smirk.

“None. It’s a good idea,” his voice carries through the room.

Well, that’s…unexpected.

“Yeah?” I blink.

“I give credit where it’s due.” He shrugs.

There’s an undercurrent to his words that I can’t quite decipher, but I don’t have time to dwell on it.

“Okay, well, in that case, that’s all.” I raise my voice above the noise. “I promised to keep it short. You’re free to go.”

The players are already getting up, the scrape of chairs against the floor filling the room.

Damien is the first to leave, saluting me as he strolls out. Ares follows, giving me another polite nod. The rest of the team follows as Rowan waits for them to all exit before he stands up. I need to talk to him about that interview. It took me an hour to try and convince the producer to scrap the first one and reschedule.

“Rowan, can you stay for a minute?” I call after him.

He pauses, his hand resting on the doorframe. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to keep walking, but then he turns, his green eyes finding mine.

The air shifts as the sound of the other players dies down. My pulse quickens, but I square my shoulders.

“We need to talk about the interview,” I say, stepping around my desk. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer.

I straighten my shoulders, clutching my clipboard like it’s armor.

“Your interview was a disaster, and you know it. I’ve managed to convince the producer to let us redo it, but we need to do it right this time.

“And by ‘right,’ you mean…” he trails off, fully facing me now.

“I mean cooperating. Answering questions without looking like you’re five seconds away from punching someone. That kind of right.”

He crosses his arms and leans back, his eyes narrowing with interest. That’s interesting. I was expecting him to say no immediately, like yesterday.

“Please, Rowan,” I say to fill the silence. “Just one more interview. No personal questions—you have my word.”

“I have your word?” Rowan’s lips curl into a slow, lazy smirk that’s more trouble than it’s worth. His smile deepens as he steps closer, invading my space.

“What else will you let me have?” he asks, tilting his head, his gaze piercing through me.

The words hit like a lightning bolt. My breath catches, and for a second, I’m frozen, blinking up at him.

“Excuse me?”

“What else will you give me to make me say yes to this little redo of yours?” He steps forward, the faint scent of his cologne invading my senses.

Is he messing with me again? I won’t fall for this trap a second time.

“I don’t have to give you anything but my word and ask for your cooperation.” I lift my chin, trying to regain my footing.

“Oh?” His voice drops an octave, and he leans in, his breath warm against my skin. “Cooperation,” he says the word as if trying to taste it, to twist its meaning. And the way he says it definitely implies another form of cooperation.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice a little too breathy for my liking. “And if you won’t pick a time, I’ll just schedule it myself.”

“So I take it you don’t have anything else to offer me?” He leans down slightly, letting his hands fall to his sides before they reach for the table behind me. That’s when I realize that he’s trapped me between himself and the desk behind me.

I try to step back, but my heel hits the leg of the table. He’s caging me in without even touching me, making my heart race. His teeth clamp on his bottom lip while his gaze drops down my body and drags up again, making sure I know exactly where he’s looking. I swallow and tilt my head almost all the way back to look up at him.

“Rowan,” I warn, my voice steadier than I feel. The heat pooling low in my belly reminds me of the traitorous thoughts that have flashed through my mind these past few days.

“Hm?” he hums, his voice silky smooth. “Am I too close?”

“Yes,” I bite out, but my body betrays me, every nerve ending is alive with awareness.

He huffs out a chuckle, the sound sending a thrill through me, and then he leans down, his whole body covering mine.

“I’ll consider your little interview…if you figure out what you can offer me in return.”

“My friendship,” I manage, trying to distract myself from the electric zap that goes straight between my legs.

“I don’t want to be friends, Livia,” he murmurs, his hot breath falling on my skin.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his words.

“Then colleagues,” I say, my voice faltering.

I feel his breath on my neck, climbing up until the tip of his nose brushes my ear, sending sparks of electricity coursing through me.

“I don’t want to be colleagues either.” His voice is low, intimate.

“Rowan…” I can hardly breathe, my heart pounding in my chest.

Suddenly, he straightens, grinning at my breathlessness, clearly reveling in what he just did.

“Think it over, hellcat.”

As he steps back, finally giving me space, I feel a rush of confusion and desire. I stare at him, opening and closing my mouth as he turns to leave.

I’ve never had a man this close to me before—not like that anyway. Life on a farm meant solitude, not this, this dizzying closeness that leaves me wondering what I’ve been missing out on. And I definitely haven’t felt this conflicted before, torn between frustration and the arousal coiled deep in my belly.

“Let me know when you change your mind.” He glances back over his shoulder, that knowing look lingering as he walks out. “See you Friday.”

By the time the door clicks shut, I’m left reeling, my heart racing, and my palms damp. I turn around, placing both hands on the table, my clipboard resting between them. I let my head hang between my shoulders as I try to make sense of it all. I close my eyes and squeeze my thighs before rubbing them together, confirming my suspicions. No. No, this isn’t happening. Rowan DiMarco did not make me wet. He doesn’t affect me.

The more I repeat the words in my head, the more obvious the lie becomes as the slickness between my legs persists.

What the hell is wrong with me?