Page 11

Chapter eleven

~IRENE~

I can’t sit still. My thoughts are too loud, too fast, and too tangled.

My heart won’t slow down as I pace around my office. I should be working, preparing for the captain’s exam. Instead, all I can think about is him.

His voice, his hands on me, his lips, kissing me like he wanted to devour me whole, invading my mouth as if he was fighting himself and losing.

And then the way he looked at me yesterday—so distant and reserved.

The way he held my jaw, brought his lips close to mine, just to twist my head and tell me to stay away from him. To erase what happened.

I should be scared, running the other way, but instead, I want to run toward him.

Why does this thrill me? Why did the warning in his voice make my pulse race? Why does the danger in his eyes send heat curling in my stomach?

I don’t know and don’t understand the way he makes me feel because I’ve never met anyone like him.

Someone who is both a storm and silence. Someone who is both brutal and gentle. Someone who warns me to stay away but looks at me like he can’t do it himself.

I try to shake the thoughts of Ares from my mind but fail. Even as I go through the motions of Rowan’s physical, my thoughts are still circling back to him. I take a deep breath and pull my chair closer to Rowan, trying to focus.

I don’t even realize how lost in my head I am until he speaks.

“You good, doc?” Rowan’s voice is dry, laced with amusement.

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at his shoulder like it holds the meaning of life.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m good.” I clear my throat.

Rowan lifts a brow but doesn’t comment. He just sits back on the medical bed, his shirt already discarded, watching me with those calculating green eyes of his.

Too sharp and piercing.

I roll my stretch and scoot forward, pressing my fingers into his shoulder.

“You’ve got some tension here,” I murmur, mostly to distract myself, because he doesn’t have tension anywhere.

Rowan hums, stretching his other arm behind his head while I press on his biceps.

“Anything I should know about regarding the team?” he asks casually, but his tone is anything but.

I go rigid. I know what he’s really asking, know exactly who he’s asking about.

I force myself to keep my expression neutral as I straighten.

“They’re fine,” I say carefully. “Langley’s shoulder needs icing and rest, but other than that, they’re good.”

Rowan scoffs, and his gaze snaps to mine, sharp and cutting.

“You don’t need to cover for Ares.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice higher than usual and my pulse stuttering. Ares told me not to tell anyone, and I have a feeling he really meant it.

Rowan tilts his head slightly, studying me. His gaze softens just slightly, though there’s still that keen intelligence in his eyes.

“I’m not accusing you. I’m just saying, you don’t need to protect him from me. I know my best friend. And I already know about his hip.”

“You do?” I lift my gaze to his. Rowan just hums with a nod before giving me a look. The kind of look that says ‘Talk.”

And for some reason…I do. I press my fingers into his shoulder again, trying to focus.

“His hip is worse than he’s letting on.” I exhale softly. I swallow, pressing my fingers deeper into the muscle. “I tried to get him to let me treat it. But he won’t. He’s…” I hesitate. Because what even is Ares? I shake my head. “He’s being stubborn.”

Rowan makes a noise. Not a hum. Not a scoff. Something in between.

“What?” I glance at him.

Rowan exhales, shaking his head. “I can describe Ares with a lot of words.” He tilts his head. “But stubborn is pretty mild.”

I drop my hands to my lap silently, looking up at him, soaking it in. For some reason, I want to know everything there is to know about Ares. And Rowan is one of his closest people.

Rowan stretches his arms out, rolling his shoulder slightly.

“But Ares doesn’t dig his heels in just to be difficult,” he says. “He adapts. He does what needs to be done, and he doesn’t complain.” He lifts a brow. “He’s never been stubborn just to be stubborn. Damien and I, on the other hand…” He smirks slightly.

I exhale sharply, half-smiling despite myself.

“Ares is not like us. Not in that regard, at least.” Rowan shakes his head. “So, if he doesn’t want to come in for scans and treatment, there’s a reason.”

His gaze is too sharp. Too calculating. Like he already knows what it is.

I look away, moving over to his leg to hide my hot cheeks from him. My hands move over his skin, checking muscle tension, double-checking for strain, except I already did that.

Rowan is fine. No injuries. Nothing wrong. And yet, I keep working. I need to keep my hands moving to ignore what’s in my head.

Then Rowan moves, lifts his hands, covers mine, and slides it off his leg.

I freeze, and my heart stutters, but not in the way it does when Ares is close.

Not in the way it does when I can feel Ares’s breath against my skin, when he looks at me like he wants to consume me whole.

No. This is different.

Because Rowan is undeniably handsome, huge, carved with muscle and tattooed…

I feel nothing. Not because I know he’s dating the Panthers’ PR agent, Livia Moody. Even if he wasn’t, there would still be nothing but objective awareness. Nothing like the way my pulse reacts when Ares is near.

Rowan sits up, his green eyes locked onto mine. His fingers slip from my wrist, and he exhales slowly.

“Whatever’s making Ares avoid treatment is personal,” he says, already knowing this exam is over.

He doesn’t outright say it, but I see it in his eyes. He knows something happened between us.

I pause, shaking my head. But something in Rowan makes me want to tell him. I’ve been texting Sidney about it, but the only reply I’m getting from her is, “Get that NHL dick.” Not helpful at all. I need someone who knows Ares.

“It might be because of something that happened a few days ago,” I finally admit.

Rowan hums thoughtfully but doesn’t pry, doesn’t ask what that something was. There’s understanding in his eyes like he already knows. Did Ares tell him? Did he tell Damien? From what I’ve observed, they’re the trio of the team—always together.

“Ares isn’t an easy person to understand,” he says after a while. “I’ve been friends with him for a long time, and even I don’t understand him sometimes.”

Rowan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But I do know this. Ares is one of the best people I know. Unfortunately, even if I try to talk to him…he isn’t a person anyone can influence.”

“Great,” I say with a small sarcastic smile.

Rowan shakes his head, lips pressing together.

“Look, he does what he thinks is best.” Rowan looks at me, serious now, but his eyes are soft. “He’s used to sacrificing his own well-being for others. He puts other people before himself if he thinks it’s what they need, even if it isn’t. Even if it hurts him.”

“I don’t think we’re talking about hips anymore,” I say quietly.

Rowan watches me for a moment before the corners of his lips curl into a soft smile.

“No, we’re not.”

The rink is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your skin, into your bones. The kind that should snap me out of my thoughts, but it doesn’t. I’m not thinking about the temperature. I’m thinking about Ares.

I watch him from where I stand, tablet in hand, as the guys warm up on the ice.

He moves like a machine, like his hip isn’t messing him up. But I know a nasty hip pointer when I see one, and I know his body is screaming at him to stop. It’s not a serious injury; it’ll go away with some icing and rest, but it can get worse if he doesn’t treat it.

I inhale slowly, my grip tightening around the stylus in my hand.

Stubborn.

Rowan said Ares wasn’t stubborn just to be stubborn. But that’s exactly what this looks like. I exhale, ready to walk away, ready to stop watching him like I’m waiting for an answer.

But then I hear them. The giggles, the feminine voices. The sharp sound of ladies calling his name.

“Ares!”

I pause, glance to the side, and see a group of women, all leaning against the rink’s barrier, watching the players like they’re on display.

Puck bunnies.

And I know they’re here for all of them.

For Ares, Damien, Rowan, Langley, Davidson, and the entire team. But the way they’re looking at Ares? The way they’re only calling his name right now?

Giggling, flipping their hair, biting their lips…

A slow, burning heat creeps up my spine, curling in my stomach. My fingers tighten around my tablet as I force myself to look at Ares to see if he notices or if he cares.

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance their way. He keeps skating. Practicing like they don’t exist. And that should be enough. That should be all I need. But it isn’t.

Because even though he doesn’t show it, I hate seeing those women call out to him—as if he’s available. As if they can have him. “I talked to Black,” my dad’s voice breaks me out of my thoughts. I turn toward him, startled.

“What?” My heart skips a beat at the sight of my dad’s serious expression. Oh, no. Does he know about the kiss?

“Ares,” he specifies like I don’t know his last name. Like he hasn’t talked about him for years, like these four letters don’t make my heart skip a beat at the thrill they bring. “I talked to him about that injury of his. I think it’s his hip. I’ve been watching him favor it, and it’s getting worse. I told him yesterday to get it checked out.”

“Oh.” I exhale, relief.

“Oh?” My dad narrows his eyes.

“I mean, yeah, it’s his hip. I noticed it, too.” I clear my throat, straightening.

“I guessed you did.” His gaze sharpens. “Did he come to you?”

I hesitate. Technically, yes, but not because he was following orders, and definitely not for a professional assessment.

“I tried,” I say instead. “He came in a few days ago, but he…wasn’t exactly cooperative.”

I can feel my cheeks getting warm at the memory.

My dad exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“He thinks he can just push through it,” he mutters. “I need him to come see you today.”

I swallow, my fingers tightening around the tablet in my hands. Visions of the way his body tensed under my touch, in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his breath caught before he growled, deep, rough, and—nope. Not thinking about that.

“Keep an eye on him,” my dad says. “And get him checked out today, please. I won’t let him play either way, but I need to know how bad it is.”

I blink, my heart stuttering. “You think he’ll listen to me?”

“He has to,” he confirms, lifting a brow at me, his expression stern. “I care about that boy. I don’t want him hurting himself because he can’t sit his ass down for a week or two. Do your job, Irene.”

“Of course.” I nod quickly.

But as he turns and walks off, my face burns. Because I know damn well that whatever is happening between me and Ares?

It’s so much more than just my job .

The knock at the door is sharp.

“Come in.” I keep my eyes on my screen, scrolling through my notes, still fuming, still simmering. Still thinking about those puck bunnies. Still thinking about Ares ignoring me. Still thinking about the way my stomach twisted at the sound of their voices calling his name.

But then I hear the door close, and I feel the energy in the air, the weight of his presence.

And my heart stutters.

Slowly, I look up, and there he is.

Impossibly tall and broad, clad in a black hoodie and sweats, tattooed hands casually at his sides, completely dominating the room.

I swallow hard, unable to react for a second because I wasn’t expecting him to show up so soon.

“Hey,” I force my voice to work.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even look fazed.

“I talked to Coach Brown.” His voice is flat and detached. “I’m here for the hip.”

Oh.

I should be glad, relieved even. Because this is what I wanted, right? This is what I fought him on. He’s finally letting me examine him. Then why does this feel so off? Why is my stomach tightening?

“I didn’t tell him, I promise.” I shake my head. “Da…Coach Brown already knew about your hip.” I correct myself quickly, hoping he didn’t pick that up.

“I know,” he assures me before stepping forward.

I exhale as I rise to my feet.

“Okay,” I say carefully, stepping closer to him.

My pulse is pounding. I stop just in front of him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I try to break the ice that’s built between us ever since the kiss, but his expression doesn’t change. He just nods.

I inhale sharply, trying to be professional.

“You’re going to have to take this off.” I reach for the hem of his hoodie.

I expect something. A crack. Reluctance. A sign that this is getting to him. But there’s nothing.

Ares pulls it off and tosses it onto the chair, his clean, sharp scent hitting me. His undershirt stretches taut over his broad chest, the tattoos on his arms shifting with every movement.

“Can you, um,” I swallow, pointing at his sweatpants, “show me the area, please?”

Again, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he does exactly what I asked him to do. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugs it down just enough to reveal his V-line, covered in more tattoos, and the huge, angry bruise on his right hip.

I swallow and step closer, reaching for it. I barely touch him when he flinches.

It’s subtle, hardly noticeable. But I see it. His jaw locks, and his nostrils flare slightly.

I glance up at him, my fingers hovering over his injury.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” I say.

Ares doesn’t answer. He just watches me with those unreadable, pale blue eyes.

I press a little more. His jaw tightens further, but there’s no sound. Nothing.

I can’t take it anymore.

I retreat my hands and look up at him.

“Are we seriously not going to talk about it?”

“No.” Ares exhales sharply, gaze dark. His voice is cold and unapologetic. “I came because Mathews had already left, and I promised Brown I’d get it checked out today. So, you’re going to do your job, and then I’m leaving.”

My stomach twists, anger flaring white-hot in my chest.

I take a step closer, tilting my head up.

“You can’t just act like nothing happened.”

“I can. And I am.” A muscle in his jaw ticks.

I cross my arms. He can’t do this. He can’t just kiss me, indirectly call me beautiful, and then pretend like he can’t stand me.

Ares tilts his head slightly, his expression bordering on amused. But his eyes are heated—a warning.

“Drop it,” he says quietly.

Oh, screw this.

Before I can think, I press down on his injury. Not enough to hurt him or cause damage. But enough to remind him he’s not invincible and that I won’t put up with this dismissive behavior. I press down enough for him to show me something, anything. And he does.

Ares grits his teeth, exhaling sharply. He doesn’t pull away from my hand, but his muscles lock up.

I feel it all—the tension, the pain, the shock.

His pale blue eyes snap to mine, dark with a dangerous flicker behind them. He can’t believe I just did that to him. And to be honest, neither can I.

I swallow and remove my fingers. I should back up and apologize. I should do anything but stare at him like I just won some silent battle.

But before I can move, he does.

His fingers wrap around my waist, and before I know it, I’m weightless. The room spins, and a second later, my back hits the examination table hard enough to rip a gasp from my lips. My vision snaps into focus, and he’s there above me, caging me in. Pressing me down. But his hand is on the back of my head, protecting it from the hard surface.

My heart slams as I feel his weight, his scent, his heat everywhere.

He leans in, and I suck in a sharp breath.

“You really like pressing my buttons, don’t you?” His voice is a low, deadly rasp.

A full-body shudder runs through me. I can’t do anything but stare at him, completely, utterly stunned. I feel like I’m seventeen again, but instead of playing it safe, I know I want something reckless. I want to see what’s behind that mask, what’s underneath all that armor he’s built around himself.

“Are you going to do something about it?” I ask, not knowing where that boldness came from. “Or are you going to keep pretending you don’t care?” My voice is breathless, not matching my words.

“You wanna see how much I care, little thing?” The wolfish smirk Ares gives me is nothing short of sinister. And then I feel it. A hardness—thick and big, pressing against me.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh my God.

My breath catches, and I go still. I know he feels it, too. Because his expression changes. Because his arm tightens around my waist, and his fingers curl in my hair. Because his eyes darken in a way that makes my stomach flip.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

Then why…why does it feel so good?

Then his hand moves.

Down.

Lower.

Between us.

Until…

Oh, God.

His fingers start lifting the hem of my sports dress. I inhale, my whole body going rigid.

A single shift of his hips. A single, subtle grind of his body against mine. And his thick, huge, undeniable hardness presses against my stomach.

My lungs collapse, and my pulse jumps to my throat.

I know he feels it. I know he knows what his fingers are going to find if they touch me there. Because his lips curve even more.

“Should I check how much you care?” His voice is the lowest, most seductive thing I’ve ever heard.

A wrecked sound catches in my throat as I try to answer, to say something. But his hand moves agonizingly slow.

Until his palm slides under my skirt. Until his fingers brush against my panties. Until his touch presses exactly where I’m burning.

A sharp, breathless gasp rips from my lips as my thighs clench around his hand.

Oh my God.

The second his fingertips make contact, everything inside me tightens. My breath vanishes, stolen straight from my lungs. My thighs try to snap shut, but his body is there—solid, immovable, forcing me open, keeping me spread.

Heat erupts from the point of contact, a wildfire spreading through me, racing up my spine, locking every muscle in place.

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until Ares makes a low sound and leans in so close I can feel his breath against my ear.

“So wet for me.” His breath is hot against my cheek, his fingers teasing, like he has all the time in the world to unravel me. “And I’ve barely even touched you.” My stomach dips, a sharp, electric sensation rushing straight to my core, flooding me, thick and unbearable. His body is a cage, pressing me back against the examination table, one hand holding me still by my hair, the other between my thighs.

Heat scorches my face when his fingers move, just the barest glide. My entire body reacts before I can stop it. My hips jerk, and my spine arches, my fingers digging into him.

“Ares,” I whimper, but it’s a small sound.

“Fuck,” he groans, deep and raspy. His nose brushes my temple.

His fingers press harder against my clit, and my mouth falls open in a silent moan. I have no control over my body. No control over the way it’s clenching, gripping, aching for something I don’t even understand. My skin feels too tight, and burning in my lungs. His fingers stroke again, slow and devastating, and I feel how soaked I am, feel the cool air on the wet fabric.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, his breath ragged, his fingers still gliding through the wreckage between my thighs. “You think I could make you come just like this?”

I choke on a breath.

Ares smirks, watching me like he’s memorizing every second of this. Filing it away for later, for when he finally decides to ruin me completely.

His fingers press harder, and I move into his touch, a sound catching in my throat that doesn’t even feel like my own.

And that’s when he groans—low and rough. Almost pained.

His hips grind against me, pressing his hardness against my stomach.

“You’re not as sweet as you pretend to be, are you?” His lips brush my ear, his voice a deep, taunting growl. His fingers slowly and purposefully rub against my clit through the wet fabric.

My only response is a helpless whimper that rips from my throat.

“You wanna see how good my hips work, even with an injury, little thing?” he asks, his voice sounds like sin.

Oh my fucking god.

His fingers are still moving, sliding torturously, testing me, learning every little sound, every twitch, every shaky breath I can’t hold back.

Then his hand stops. I hardly have time to blink before his other hand is fisting the hem of my skirt and dragging it higher. I gasp as his fingers hook under the waistband of my panties.

Then he leans in again, his mouth so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath. His lips hover close enough to steal every thought from my head, to make my pulse hammer in my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only feel the way the way his breath ghosts over my lips like a dark promise.

Then his fingers start to move again, dragging my panties down, inch by excruciating inch. I suck in air, my body going completely rigid as the cool air hits my bare pussy.

He’s lips brushing mine in the most infuriating way. The cotton slides down my thighs, over my knees. My skin prickles with goosebumps as he pushes them all the way to my ankles.

And he pulls back. No kiss, no lingering touch.

I blink up at him, breathless and dizzy, my body still burning, my mind still spinning.

His eyes flicker downward just for a second before he jerks his gaze away like it might kill him to look between my legs.

His fingers snag the panties from where they hang on my ankle. His blue eyes pinning me in place.

I sit there, mortified, watching him bring them to his mouth. His teeth clamping down on the wet spot.

I make a sound, shocked and strangled, as Ares grins through the fabric.

With my panties between his teeth, he grabs his hoodie from where he tossed it and pulls it on—slow, deliberate, completely unbothered. Then he takes them from his mouth and slides them into his pocket, claiming them without a word. My mouth drops open, eyes wide. Did he really just pocket my soaked panties? “Schedule a scan,” he says, voice rough. “Thank you for taking a look at my hip.”

And then he turns and opens the door. I immediately scramble off the table, pulling my skirt down as he walks out without a backward glance shutting the door shuts behind him.

I can still feel his fingers on my skin. My heart is in my throat. My panties—God. My panties are in his pocket.