Page 10

Chapter ten

~ARES~

It’s been two days since she kissed me. Two days since I kissed her back like a man starved. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

I stand in front of my bathroom sink, gripping the edges of the marble countertop, staring at my reflection like it holds the answer to this fucking mess, like it’s going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with me. But I already know. I can still taste her.

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. Fucking stop.

I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face, hoping it’ll stop the burn.

It doesn’t. I can still feel her full lips on mine, taste her on my tongue, and hear her little gasp in my mouth. Her hands were gripping my hoodie, holding on like she’d never been kissed like that before. And the hesitant strokes of her tongue against mine told me she hadn’t.

She’s so adorable and bubbly—the type of girl who wants sweet, vanilla lovemaking. The kind that lasts ten minutes before she falls asleep in your arms, all soft and lovely and full of fucking dreams.

That’s not me. That’s never been me.

Yet, there’s this little, nagging voice in my head asking me if I can be that for her. If I can try to be what she needs.

I shake my head. Can I try?

If I get my hands on her, I’ll ruin her. I’ll make her come again and again until she begs me to stop, and I won’t. I’ll keep going until she doesn’t know which way is up. Until she can’t make out a coherent thought anymore.

She doesn’t know what I’d do to her. What I’d turn her into. If I get my hands on her, I’ll make her forget what it means to breathe without me inside her.

Every goddamn minute since I kissed her, I’ve been fucking obsessed with the taste of her.

But it’s not just the kiss; it’s how she was with the kids at the park. She gave herself to them so easily, smiling and laughing. That shit doesn’t come naturally to me. I don’t know how to be easy with people. I know why I’m doing it. I’ve been one of those kids. I know what it’s like to feel abandoned, to have nobody but a caseworker who couldn’t give two shits about you. I do it because these kids remind me of myself. I would do everything in my power to ensure they don’t feel even half of what I did.

But she doesn’t look like someone who’s ever been left behind. She doesn’t look like someone who’s ever had to fight for every inch in life. Which is a wonderful thing, but it’s not something me or those kids are familiar with. So why the hell is she doing it? What drives her to put herself in a place where she’s surrounded by tragedy?

I roll my shoulders, turn off the water, and grab a towel. It doesn’t fucking matter. I made up my mind two days ago. I need to stay away from her for her own good.

I throw on a black hoodie and sweats, running my hand through my damp hair and head for the front door.

I’m supposed to have coffee at Rowan’s house before practice. The thought of some caffeine is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

That, and the fact that I’m going to pretend Irene doesn’t exist. That she isn’t a problem I need to deal with. That she didn’t just crawl under my skin in such a short time. We have practice. We have an away game coming up. I should be thinking about that. I should’ve taken the back exit yesterday. Because the second I turned the corner—boom. There she was. Instead, I’m thinking about how I nearly walked straight into her and made my escape by ducking into a utility closet. A fucking utility closet. I’m 6’6, 230 pounds. I don’t fit in utility closets, and I sure as fuck don’t hide in them.

But I can’t stop. Can’t think straight. I’ve kissed her once and already it feels like I’m in withdrawal.

I need caffeine. I need a distraction. I need to stop thinking about her like she’s mine.

I grab my keys, take a deep breath, and step outside.

The air in the rink is thick with sweat and exhaustion, the scent of ice and rubber lingering as the last of the guys shuffle off. I stay behind, stripping the tape off my stick and rolling it between my fingers before tossing it into the bin. My hip burns, but I ignore it.

Coach Brown watches me from the edge of the bench with his arms crossed and that sharp, unreadable look in his eyes. Irene stayed throughout the entire practice game and left after furrowing her brows at her phone, possibly at a message from Dr. Mathews. So, naturally, I’m taking that opening and getting the fuck out before she comes back.

“Ares!” I hear Coach Brown’s voice and stop, turning to face him.

“Coach,” I greet him as he steps closer.

“Good practice today,” he says. His voice is steady, the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to carry weight. “You feeling ready for the game in Florida?”

“Yeah.” I nod, rolling my shoulders.

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Your line’s been clicking,” he says after a beat. “But I see you favoring your left side.”

I look at him, my jaw tightening. He’s shorter than me—most people are—yet he always has a way of making me feel like I’m a kid in trouble. I guess that’s what I was when he found me all those years ago.

“You know what I’m gonna say, don’t you?” Coach sighs, rubbing his jaw.

I hum with a nod, not bothering to deny it. My hip is not getting better, and he’s not blind or stupid. He knows I’m in pain; he just hasn’t said anything until now.

“Then say it for me.” His mouth twitches as if he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t.

“I need to stop trying to play through it.” I exhale, running a hand through my hair. But I won’t. I can’t afford to slow down. I’ve always had to push myself and prove that I’m worth the investment. No one cares about a broken player. They care about who can perform when it matters.

“Damn right,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You think I don’t see the way you push through the pain out there? News flash, kid: you’re not invincible.”

“Never said I was.” I shrug. Kid. He’s always called me that despite me being a thirty-two-year-old man. I think I’ll always stay a kid to him.

“But you play like you are.” His eyes pin me in place. “And one day, if you’re not careful, you won’t be playing at all.”

He doesn’t get it. This game’s all I have.

If I stop moving, I fall apart. If I get benched, I lose everything.

“I can handle it, Coach.” I roll my jaw, feeling the frustration coil in my chest.

“I know you can,” he says. “That’s never been the problem.”

I don’t respond. What is there to say? I don’t want him to see me as someone he has to babysit.

Coach sighs, stepping closer and lowering his voice.

“Look, Ares…I know you don’t want to let me down. I know you want to play. I trust you, and I trust your game. But I need you healthy. And this?” He shakes his head. “It’s not strength, kid. It’s reckless. I want you to go to Mathews or Irene and get it checked out, or I’ll be benching you until you do.”

“You’ll bench me either way.” My throat tightens at the sound of Irene’s name.

“I will.” He nods with a smile. “And you can cuss me out in your head all you want, but you know it’s for your own good.”

I hate these conversations. He, Rowan, and Damien are the only ones who get under my skin like this, the only ones who see the shit I don’t say.

“Just give me the game in Florida.” I pick up my stick, gripping it tight. “That’s all I ask. I’ll go do scans after.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. “You’ll do the scans now. And if you’re unfit to play, you won’t play. We need you on the ice, Ares. But I also need you healthy, son.”

Something sharp lodges itself in my chest. Coach doesn’t say things like that often.

“Got it.” I swallow.

“Get that looked at,” he says, stepping back. “And don’t think I won’t be watching.”

“You always are.” I huff a quiet laugh.

“I am,” he mutters, shaking his head as he turns toward the locker room.

I stand there for a moment, watching him go.

Brown has always understood me. Even when I barely say a word, even when I don’t know how to say the things that matter, he just knows. He’s the closest thing to a father I’ve had. And that’s why, no matter what, I can’t let him down.

My hip is on fire. Every step sends a sharp, miserable ache up my side. Practice was brutal, and I pushed harder than I should have with playoffs around the corner. I should be giving myself a break.

But I needed to do something to stop thinking about her, but there she was, standing next to Coach Brown, her eyes following me, big and concerned.

Now, I’m walking toward the back exit. I usually work out at the Panthers’ gym, though I’ve been swapping it for my home gym ever since the kiss. The front doors are not an option, not if I want to keep my distance. Out of sight, out of mind. Soon enough, she’ll forget about me and move on to someone else.

Anger coils in my gut at the thought. A selfish, ego-driven truth I don’t want to acknowledge. It burns in my ribs, demanding I remind her of my name every time she closes her eyes. I want her thinking of me. Only me. I want to live in her head like she’s already taken over mine.

As much as I don’t want her to, she needs to let go. I’m already getting obsessed. And I’m not a good person to obsess over someone. I’m self-aware enough to know this, to know Irene should stay away from me. Because I’m walking on the edge, trying to step back, and every sight of her takes me an inch closer to plummeting to my obsession. And once I do, I will take her apart piece by piece until she forgets how to function without me. Until I forget how to function without her. I can already feel it happening. Everything new I notice or learn about this girl makes the pull stronger.

And that’s exactly why I need to keep walking, but a soft voice stops me in my tracks.

“Ares.” It’s breathy and cautious, but it hits me like a shot.

I turn, and there she is.

Irene is standing a few feet away, chest rising just a little too fast underneath her peach colored top. She looks like she ran to find me, to catch up to me.

My pulse kicks at the sight of her. I’ve missed talking to her; I’ve missed her sweet scent and her honey-brown eyes looking up at me.

I knew this was inevitable. I knew I’d have to face her eventually. But I’ve never been like this. I’ve never fucking avoided anyone in my life.

And yet, here I am. Looking at her now, all I can think about is how she tasted.

How she felt. How her kiss was clumsy but eager, messy but just as fucking hungry. And how that’s all I can give her. I want to be someone who can give her more. I want to be someone like Damien, someone light, someone who doesn’t feel things as deeply, who would make her light on her feet. Instead, I’ll just weigh her down until she inevitably leaves me, too, and I’m left alone and broken again. I don’t want to be broken anymore. There will come a day when she’ll snap out of it, where she’ll see I’m not worth the hassle, and she’ll give up on me.

She takes a step closer, and I clench my jaw.

She swallows, her fingers tightening around the hem of her unzipped hoodie.

“Hey.” Her voice is soft. Careful. Her full lips are pink like she’s been biting them. “I’ve been looking for you.” She’s staring at me like I’m someone she’s desperate to understand.

“You found me.” I exhale sharply, keeping my expression passive. I know I sound cold, detached. But I need to. Because if I don’t push her away, I’ll do something worse.

“Can we talk?” she asks, her voice quiet but firm. I say nothing, and she exhales, shifting her weight. “I saw you play today. Your hip is getting worse,” she continues, her voice softer now. “You need treatment. Scans. Rest.”

“I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not fine. The need to bring her closer and kiss her again is unbearable. But I know it won’t last. I’m not meant to last with a girl like her. If anything, I’ll only dull her light, drag her down with me, poison her like I poison everything.

“You’re not.” She shakes her head and steps closer. “If you’re avoiding me because of the kiss…” She hesitates. “You don’t have to.”

There it is.

She’s too fucking close now. The faint scent of her perfume reaches me, soft vanilla, just like her. And fuck me, how I’ve missed it.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, looking up at me through her lashes. She looks so concerned, so worried that she might have offended me somehow, not understanding the sudden shift in my behavior.

I want to wrap her in my arms. I want to bring her close and tell her she’s done the opposite. And as selfish as I can be sometimes, I need to release this girl and give her a chance to move on and find someone who’s actually suitable for her.

“You haven’t done anything wrong, little thing,” I say instead with a slight shake of my head, mentally slapping myself for the nickname.

Stop feeding into it, prick.

Irene steps closer and lifts her hand, pressing her palm flat against my chest.

Oh, fuck.

Her palm is small against me, its warmth seeping through the fabric. My entire body locks up as I suck in a breath. I look down at her, and that’s when I see it. That look. That wide-eyed, slightly dazed, pupils-blown look. That’s a big fat fucking crush.

My teeth clench.

She doesn’t even know what she’s doing, what she’s pushing for.

“I really liked it,” she says, her voice just a whisper.

The kiss.

I close my eyes for a second, trying to shake off the memory. Because I liked it, too, way too much. Because it gave me a taste of the one thing I shouldn’t have. The one thing I want to devour until there’s nothing left.

I open my eyes as I lift my hand and slide my forefinger beneath her chin to tilt her head up. Her breath hitches, and her lips part immediately. It’s this fucking easy.

My heartbeat drops to a slow, pounding rhythm as I move closer to her. I watch her breath tremble, her eyes flutter, her little tongue wetting her lips, preparing for kiss that’s not going to come.

And then I grip her jaw and slowly turn her head to the side until my lips are against her ear.

“Stay away from me, Irene,” I murmur, hating myself for every single word. She stills, her fingers twitching against my chest. “And forget about the kiss.”

I feel her exhale, uneven and shaky, before I pull back. Her head stays turned sideways as I step away. I turn, ignoring the need to take her perfect face between my hands and plant kisses all over it, to make sure she understands that this isn’t because she did something wrong. It’s because she’s too good for me.

Instead, I push the door open and walk out, feeling like the biggest fucking asshole.