Page 12

Chapter twelve

~ARES~

The air inside Amalie Arena is electric. Tens of thousands of roaring fans, deafening horns, and vibrating boards surround me, but none of it touches me.

Pain fucking does.

It claws through me, tearing at my hip with every stride, every shift, every explosive push forward. The snap of the puck is a knife wedged in my bones, twisting deeper.

But pain is just another opponent. And I never fucking lose.

I cut across the ice, eyes locked on the play, scanning for an opening. My pulse pounds, a relentless drum against my ribs, but underneath it is the real distraction.

Her.

Irene is watching me; I can feel it. Even with thousands of people screaming, with the heat of the game thick in the air, with my entire body breaking down, my mind keeps going back to her. To what I did, to what I stole.

It’s been two days. Two days since I had my fingers against the soaked cotton between her thighs, since I nearly lost my mind. Two days since I took her panties and walked away with them in my pocket before I did something I couldn’t take back.

And she left after that. I heard she canceled her appointments and went home early because of some “emergency.”

The emergency being me.

And now, she’s here on the bench, tucked behind the staff barrier, where she shouldn’t be able to get to me. But she already has. Because even without looking, I know exactly where she is. And that is what makes this so much worse.

I tighten my grip on my stick, pushing forward. The second I see the opening, I take it. The puck hits my stick—fast, clean—and I don’t hesitate. I snap my stick back and launch the shot, a bullet to the net.

Top shelf. First goal—and the crowd goes quiet. Not our barn, not our fans. But my teammates crash into me like we just lit the place on fire. The noise doesn’t touch me. None of it does.

I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look. Because if I do, I’ll remember the way she felt against my fingers, the way she trembled, the way her little gasp nearly broke the last shred of my control.

I skate back toward the bench for a line change, jaw clenched and pulse hammering, right as one of the players from Florida slams into Stone, our goalie. Hard.

Rule number one in hockey?

Never. Fucking. Touch. The goalie.

Instant chaos.

Gloves drop. Shouts erupt. Bodies crash.

And I don’t even think. I drop my stick and skate straight for blood.

My fist connects with the guy’s jaw—hard. Hard enough to send his helmet flying. Hard enough that pain shoots through my knuckles like fire.

We grab each other by the collar, our teeth bared and eyes locked, all instinct and rage. He swings. I swing harder.

I barely register the refs swarming in.

The whistle shrieks in my ear, but it’s nothing compared to the roar in my head.

It’s not about the penalty. Not about the fight.

It’s about the hit.

The disrespect.

The line he crossed the second he fucked with our goalie.

Flashes go off, cameras click, and reporters fire questions from every direction.

I barely hear any of it. Rowan is at my side, sitting at the long press podium with some of the other guys. He leans forward, elbows on the table, answering some questions about our defensive play.

I sit back, arms crossed and jaw locked. I can feel the slight sting of torn skin, the bruising under my wraps. I should be focused and present. But I can’t be because she’s here, standing near the media barricades.

She’s with Livia, Rowan’s girlfriend and Panthers’ PR agent, who’s eyeing us like hawks.

I drag my gaze back to the front just as another reporter fires off a question.

“Ares, your first goal set the tone for the game. Did you know the shot was going in when you took it?"

I blink, forcing myself to focus. The cameras flash again, the heat of the room pressing down on me.

“I don’t take shots I don’t think will go in,” I answer truthfully.

The reporter chuckles. “Right, but you had a tight angle. Were you confident it’d hit the top shelf?”

“Wasn’t about confidence. It was about execution.” I arch a brow.

“You’ve got one of the hardest shots in the league, and it was a laser. Do you feel like your game is peaking at the right time?”

“I always peak at the right time.” I tilt my head slightly, fingers tapping the table.

Damien exhales a quiet “Jesus Christ” under his breath.

More questions. More flashes. More noise. And all I can feel are her eyes on me. My body burns with the weight of her stare. I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s watching me.

A reporter leans in.

“Ares, we need to talk about the fight. You went straight for Berger after he crashed into your goalie. Can you walk us through what was going through your head in that moment?”

“Don’t touch my goalie.” I shrug.

Silence. The room goes still. Then, a quiet chuckle from my team.

“Do you think the hit was intentional?” Another question from a different reporter.

“I think it was stupid.” I shrug again, inhaling slowly.

More laughs, more flashes, more questions. But I don’t hear them because my attention is back on her, and so are my eyes.

She meets my stare, and her throat bobs when she swallows. Her lips part to suck in a breath. I know she’s thinking about it, too—what I did to her.

And fuck me, I want to do it again.

My fingers twitch against the table. Another reporter calls my name.

I blink, tearing my gaze away.

“That’s all I got for you guys tonight,” I say, forcing myself to smile.

I push off my chair, stand to my full height, grab my water bottle, and walk out.

The minute I step off the bus, chaos hits me. Reporters are shouting questions, fans are screaming our names. I ignore all of it. I grab my bag, pull the hood over my head, and push through the lobby. The team is already filtering inside, pushing through the crowd, laughing and signing a few autographs.

I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I just want to get to my room. I want to shower.

I want to turn my brain off.

I get my keycard from the front desk and pause when Rowan and Livia call my name.

“Don’t forget. Club at eleven. Don’t disappear.” Livia gives me a knowing wink.

I don’t confirm or deny it; I just grunt.

“That’s a yes,” Rowan snorts.

I take the elevator up, watching the numbers climb. The doors slide open, and my entire body locks up. Because there she is. Her back is turned to me, but I see her opening the door to her suite. The one right next to mine.

A flash of smooth legs, a sports jacket slipping off her shoulder, and dark hair pulled into a loose bun as she steps inside, and then the door clicks shut.

Silence.

The hallway is too quiet now as my body runs hot.

One door away.

I force myself to move and slide my keycard through the lock, push open my door, and step inside without looking back.

The when the door shuts behind me, I exhale, pressing my fists into my temples.

Drops of water are still running down my back when I step out of the shower, towel slung low on my hips. Steam curls around the bathroom, clinging to my skin.

I rake a hand through my damp hair, exhale sharply, and reach for the sweats on the bed.

A sound makes me freeze, my hand hovering over my pants.

Oh, fuck.

Every muscle in my body tenses when I hear it again. Soft, broken, and breathless.

A moan. Her moan. A sharp, strangled sound, so muffled, so quiet, but still there. It comes again—a breathy, needy little sound.

A primal heat unfurls in my stomach. Is she alone? Who the fuck is in there with her? The thought, the possibility, makes my entire body coil—sharp, volatile, on the edge of detonation.

Without thinking, I grab my sweats and yank them on, making my way toward the door. Because if there’s a man in there, if there’s someone else making her make sounds like that, I’ll fucking murder him.

I’m already moving, striding toward the door, reaching for the handle, possessiveness clawing at me, making my jaw tighten and my fists clench.

And then I pause for a moment and listen. No deep voices, no sounds of skin meeting skin. It’s just her, just her sweet voice.

The realization slams into me like a freight train. Is she touching herself?

I press my palm against the door-frame, and my fingers dig into the wood. My breathing is heavy and too uneven. I turn around, tilt my head back, and close my eyes, my chest rising and falling too fast.

I should get out of here. I should go to the club with the guys, drown myself in whiskey, and get some distance.

Instead, I find myself moving closer to the wall separating us, listening to her soft moans.

And I have never been this hard in my entire life.

I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't need her this badly.

But now that I know what she sounds like when she breaks—I'm done pretending I don't want to be the one to do it.