Page 2

Chapter two

~ARES~

She’s trying not to look at me.

But I see her. Wide golden-brown eyes and long, dark hair. And fuck, how long is it? If I grabbed a fistful, how many times could I wrap it around my hand? Twice? Three times? How soft would it feel in my grip—

I flex my jaw and exhale through my nose.

Stop.

She’s standing here in front of the team, smiling and nervous, doing everything she can to look like she’s not about to combust. She’s too bright. Too eager. Too soft. She sticks out like a drop of gold in a sea of black and steel.

And I can’t stop fucking looking at her. Because I’ve seen her before. I know I have, yet I can’t place it. Everything about her looks familiar; the recognition gnaws at me like a goddamn itch, and I can’t scratch it. The more I try to ignore it, the stronger it pulls at me.

The guys welcome her, loud and teasing, their energy and voices bigger. She laughs, fidgeting with her tablet. She’s good at hiding it, but I see the way her shoulders tense. I see the way she sneaks glances at me, no doubt feeling me watching her. Because I am. I haven’t stopped since she walked in. I don’t think I’ve even blinked. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve already memorized the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous, the curve of her jaw, and the way her pulse ticks in her throat when she catches me staring.

I know she can feel it. And she’s fucking right to feel it. Why can’t I remember who she is? Have I fucked her before? No. There’s no way this girl came anywhere near me and I don’t remember it.

I lean back against the wall, arms crossed, and let my gaze drag down her body. The little lavender set she’s wearing shows off her long, toned legs, and I see a few of the rookies craning their necks to catch a glimpse of her ass.

Animals.

She’s not tiny, probably around 5’6, but next to us? She might as well be 4’2. We’re a team of giants. Built to take hits and to throw them. She’d barely reach my shoulders if I walked up to her.

I don’t register the sound of someone walking up until Damien’s voice cuts through the noise.

“I know that look.” He leans against the wall beside me, arms crossed. He’s relaxed, but his sharp eyes are too knowing.

“What look?” I keep my voice low.

“The one you get when you see something you want to play with before you kill it.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “That poor girl doesn’t know what’s coming to her.”

“I’m not going to touch her.” My jaw twitches.

“Wanna bet on it?” Damien raises a brow. “Because I’m pretty sure I saw the same look on Rowan’s face when he saw Livia for the first time. Though, yours kind of scares me. God knows what you’re doing to the girls when you take them home. I almost called the police one time. I thought someone was getting murdered in there.”

I finally tear my gaze from Irene, turning to face him. He’s smirking, amused as hell. He lives next door, so he’s no stranger to the noises coming from my house when I take a woman home. Though, I haven’t wanted to for a while—until now. And I assure you, no one was getting murdered. Though, Damien might change that if he doesn’t get off my case.

“I’ll make sure the windows are closed next time, then.” I roll my shoulders, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want to disrupt your beauty sleep.”

Damien snorts before shaking his head.

“Rowan and I already made a bet, just so you know.” He gives me a long, slow look.

Great.

“I’ve seen her before.” The words slip out before I can stop them. A murmur, barely audible, but I know Damien’s listening. His gaze sharpens, and he turns to me.

“The new PTA?”

“Mm,” I hum with a nod. “I know I’ve seen that face somewhere before.”

“You sure she’s not someone you fucked during your wild AHL phase?” Damien raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk.

I shake my head, grinding my teeth. It’s a knee-jerk response, even if I asked myself that same question. Truth is, I’ve always been selective with the women I fuck. It’s never been about random hookups, even if that’s what people want to think about me.

“No,” I growl. “It’s not that. I’d remember. I don’t forget faces like that.”

Damien’s smile fades just a little, his sharp eyes studying me now. He knows I’m not full of shit.

“If you say you’ve seen her before, then I know you have. What do you think her deal is, then?”

I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t know what the deal with her is either. Everything tightens—my jaw, grip, restraint. I don’t move. I just watch.

We’re in the final weeks of the regular season, and we’re already bleeding from every angle. Guys are burnt out, bodies are breaking down, and the playoffs haven’t even started yet. I should be locked in. The last thing I need is a distraction, but it feels like someone turned the volume down on everything else.

The second my skates hit the ice, everything else fades. Out here, I don’t have to feel. I just move. The puck hits my tape, and I take off. Rowan’s right on my heels, but I don’t need to look to know I’ll beat him to the goal.

I feign left and hard cut right; he bites just enough for me to slip past him. Damien’s next. He doesn’t make mistakes often, but when he does, I catch them. His weight’s too far forward, which means his balance is off. I shift my grip, making it seem like I’m about to pass, then cut the other way. But he knows me too well. I slam into him as he blocks me, both of us grunting from the impact. I push him off me, seeing Davidson race toward the puck. Yeah, good luck.

He’s already too late. I retake control of the puck and shoot. One second later, the puck slams into the back of the net.

The goal horn blares.

I coast to a stop, breathing steadily. The guys hit their sticks against the ice.

“Fucking hell, man,” Davidson mutters, disappointed as he skates past me.

I skate back to the center, waiting for the next play. That’s when I feel a stare.

I keep my gaze on the ice, flexing my grip on the stick. But I know exactly where she is. She’s by the boards, standing next to Dr. Mathews, tablet in her hands. I glance up. She’s pretending to listen to him, but her focus keeps slipping. It keeps landing right back on me.

She thinks she’s being subtle. She’s not.

I take the next face-off and win it instantly, sending the puck flying down the ice. The guys are playing at full speed, but I’m still moving quicker, still getting to the puck first. And every time I skate past the boards, I can feel her eyes tracking me. I ignore it at first, but then I start to play into it. Speeding up, cutting corners sharper. I don’t need to show off, but I do anyway. Which is so unlike me that it takes me by surprise.

Am I trying to impress her?

I lose concentration for a second, and Rowan snatches the puck from me. Fuck . I chase after him, catching up instantly before passing the puck to Noah. He’s fresh out of the AHL and needs the practice, so I let him take center stage while I stay in range, ready to assist.

And then, just for fun, I get close. I fly past where she’s standing, just a blur of black and speed. At the last second, I cut my skates hard. The boards rattle as I slam into them. I don’t even feel it through all the gear, but she does. She flinches, body tensing. My gaze snaps to hers instantly. And fuck, those eyes.

The color of dark honey. Wide. A little startled. A little something else.

Keep watching, little thing.

I push off the boards, and that’s when I feel the sharp pain in my hip that’s been getting worse and worse recently. Gritting my teeth, I skate back to the center just as Noah shoots, and Langley saves it.

I win the next face-off without trying, sending it flying toward Davidson. He barely has time to react before I shoot forward, cutting through Damien’s defense.

“Fuck,” Damien growls as I slip past him.

He should be used to it by now.

Langley, the goalie, slaps his stick against the ice. “C’mon, Ares, at least pretend to struggle. You’re making us look bad.”

Langley braces, expecting another shot. Instead, I deke—once, twice, dragging the puck like I have all the time in the world.

He bites. I shift, lift my stick, and rip a slapshot straight at him.

Langley’s reflexes are solid; he drops low, gets his glove up, and the puck flies past the tiny opening between his head and arms.

Langley whips his mask off, shoving his damp brown hair back. “Motherfucker,” he yells, throwing his arms up. “Really? Again?”

I skate past him, patting the top of his shoulder pads.

“Move faster,” I say.

“Move faster,” Langley mutters. “Like I’ve got fucking rockets strapped to my feet.”

From the bench, Coach Brown shouts, “Moreno, get your head outta your ass and cover better!”

Coach Brown steps onto the ice, stick in hand. The guys part instinctively, giving him space. He stops a few feet from me, sharp eyes sweeping over my stance.

Most people don’t get under my skin. Brown’s the exception. Not because he’s a hardass. He is, but I’ve dealt with much worse. It’s what he’s done for me and keeps doing.

“Too easy?” he asks.

“Always.” I roll my shoulders.

Brown exhales through his nose. “Let’s make Black sweat a little, boys!”

He expects more from us. He always does. And I’d do anything to give it to him. I’d do anything to show him he didn’t make a mistake when he took me under his wing. Though, the feeling of being undeserving of all the kindness he’s shown me eats at me like the pain in my hip.

Brown lifts his stick and jabs it toward my chest. “Do it again. The first round of the Western Finals starts in a couple of weeks.”

I nod once before gliding away.

She’s still there, watching me, her full pouty lips parted.

My fingers flex around my stick. She can’t look away? Well, neither can I.

The locker room is loud as hell. Showers running, guys talking shit, and the usual post-practice routine. I’m barely listening, my mind still on the ice, on the way she was watching me.

“The new PTA’s cute as fuck.” I hear someone say, their voice muffled by the hiss of the showers.

My back is to them as I pull a clean shirt over my head. I don’t react, at least not outwardly.

“Did you see her ass in those leggings?” Davidson lets out a low whistle.

“She was blushing when I talked to her earlier,” another guy chimes in.

“You think she’s got a thing for hockey players?”

“You think you can be a bit more professional?” Rowan barks at them, stepping into their little circle.

“Come on, Captain. You’re not being professional with our PR agent.” Stone nudges Rowan, and my lips twitch into a small smile at the death glare Rowan gives him.

“Talk about Livia again, and I’ll bench you until the end of the season,” Rowan growls at him.

“Hey, hey!” Damien chimes in. “Everyone, chill. It’s normal to talk in here.” He turns to the rest of the guys. “Just keep it respectful, okay?”

There’s a round of murmurs of agreement. Good. Because I was one comment away from threatening someone’s life, not just to bench them.

I shouldn’t be this irritated. I don’t even know the girl.

And yet, the fact they all see how stunning she is pisses me off. I keep my face blank, but something tight coils low in my stomach. It’s not jealousy. It’s not. It’s just…I don’t fucking like it. I roll my shoulders and shake it off.

By the time I step out of the locker room, I’m back to normal.

Until I see her.

Irene’s standing a few feet away, near the hallway leading to the PT room. She looks like she’s been waiting for someone.

I move past her without slowing down, testing it.

Her breath hitches just slightly.

“Ares, hey!” Her sweet voice reaches my ears.

I stop, turning my head just enough to see her. She shifts on her feet, clasping her hands together.

Fuck . She’s even more gorgeous up close.

Her dark hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, big honey-brown eyes flicking up to mine before darting away. She’s so goddamn sweet-looking, it’s almost ridiculous. And so familiar.

She wets her lips and forces out, “Um. Hi.”

I don’t say anything, giving her a slow blink instead.

She exhales, shoulders rising. “I just wanted to, um, introduce myself properly. I kind of bolted earlier, and I realized that was rude.”

A tiny wrinkle forms between her brows, like she’s actually worried she offended me.

“I’m Irene.” She sticks her hand out but then hesitates like she’s about to drop it, and for some reason, that hurts. It’s like she’s already bracing for rejection. Like she expects me to ignore her.

I could never ignore you.

So, I take it. Her hand is small and soft—almost too soft.

“Ares.”

My grip engulfs hers, my tattoos dark against her pale skin. The contrast makes something primal coil in my stomach.

She looks up at me, wide-eyed, all sweet and fucking trusting. She’s no clue what kind of man she’s touching. And fuck, all I can think about is how easy it would be to wrap this same hand around her throat instead. Would she let me? Would her breath catch? Would those big eyes go glassy and hazy, not out of fear, but out of something else? Would it make her wet?

My jaw ticks. I let go of her hand before I find out.

This newfound fascination needs to stop. I’ve never felt this pull toward someone. She exudes a sense of warmth and light, of a homecooked meal and laughter—something I’ve rarely experienced. There’s something almost nostalgic about her features. But before I can dwell on it, she speaks.

“You were really impressive, by the way,” she blurts out with a small laugh.

I raise a brow.

“I mean, the, uh, weighted cuffs? That’s crazy. I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” she keeps going, talking faster, like she’s trying to fill the silence.

I was right; she barely reaches my chest, more like my sternum. I tilt my head just an inch, letting her wait for my response.

“You’ll get used to it,” I finally say.

“Get used to what?” She hesitates.

I lean down, just enough to invade her space.

“Me.”

“Oh,” she breathes, the sound coming out small and breathless

And fuck me, I like the way it sounds.