Page 5

Chapter five

~IRENE~

I sit in the medical room focused on Damien Colton’s physical exam. He’s shirtless, sprawled out on the exam table, wearing that lazy, cocky smirk that never to leave his face.

“Be honest with me,” Damien drawls as I check his flexibility, one arm stretched behind his back. “Am I gonna live, doc?”

I snort, holding back a laugh. “You got a good few more minutes ahead of you, Colton.”

“Shit,” he gasps dramatically. “That’s shorter than I expected. Guess I should start saying my goodbyes.”

I roll my eyes with a smile as I let go of his arm. Damien grins, the picture of pure confidence. And too good-looking for his own good. Everything about him is easy and relaxed. No tension, no unreadable expressions. He’s friendly and easygoing.

Unlike someone else I won’t name.

I shake the thought off, refocusing on my work. Damien keeps talking, cracking jokes, making the whole process go by faster.

After a few more tests, I jot down my final notes.

“Alright, you’re as healthy as a horse.”

“Told you.” He shrugs. “Peak male performance.”

“Sure,” I deadpan. “Go brag about it to the guys.”

Damien laughs, hopping off the table and stretching like he didn’t just spend the last thirty minutes being inspected.

“You want me to send the next guy in?”

“Yeah. Langley’s up next.” I pause. “And can you find Ares Black for me? He still doesn’t have an exam scheduled.”

Damien hums, smirk widening.

“What?” I blink.

“Nothing,” he says way too innocently. “Just…good luck with that one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I frown.

“I think you’ll see for yourself.” Damien chuckles, already heading for the door. And for some reason, that doesn’t sound like a good thing. And it shouldn’t send such a thrill through my body.

I walk the halls, tablet tucked under one arm, phone in my other hand as I scroll through my schedule. It’s my lunch break, finally. I need it.

This morning has been…a lot.

I spent hours doing physicals—examining, measuring, and assessing massive, elite-level hockey players. It’s part of the job, but I wasn’t prepared for how hands-on it would be. And these guys? They’re different from the people I’m used to practicing on. I’ve never examined people so bulky and muscular.

People always say muscle is hard, but that’s only when it’s flexed. Relaxed muscle? It’s soft, dense and pliable. My fingers kept pressing into solid warmth, and I couldn’t stop thinking about what his would feel like.

I take a deep breath, my face warm from the anticipation of examining Ares. But this is wrong. I’m his PTA. It’s fine. It’s my job. It’s clinical. Professional.

But I’d be lying if I said my nerves weren’t chewing me up from the inside out.

I haven’t seen him since yesterday when I tried to help him tape his knee, and he stormed off like I’d personally offended his entire bloodline.

Did I say something wrong? Did I cross some boundary? Did I make him uncomfortable? I don’t know. But I know when someone’s avoiding an exam. And that’s exactly what Ares is doing. But he can’t play until he’s passed his physical.

And as much as I feel like a fish out of water every time he’s near, I have to track him down. I’m not putting all my hope in Damien, trusting him to find Ares for me.

I swallow my nerves and head for the gym. If Ares isn’t on the rink, he’s training. Always. Everyone says he’s obsessed. It's why he’s one of the best.

When I step inside the gym, it’s mostly empty, save for a few players I recognize. But none of them are 6’6, covered in tattoos, and look like they’re about to suck the soul out of you. He’s not here. The faint hum of weights clinking and machines buzzing fills the air. Most of the guys are already prepping for practice, which means he’s probably on the ice already.

I sigh, turning toward the door.

That’s when I see him. He’s in the stretching area. Black workout shorts, black T-shirt, and black aura that screams, stay the hell away from me.

And my heart? It’s a mess at the sight of him. It skips, twists, flips, clenches, and then malfunctions entirely. Even with the hoodie, I can see the flex of his forearms as he rolls his wrist. The way he moves—tight, coiled, efficient—it’s like he’s holding himself together with thread and instinct.

This man doesn’t just make me nervous; he does something I’ve never felt before. He makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a live wire, hot and electric, sparking under my skin. He scrambles my brain. Scares me. Excites me.

I should leave. I should turn right back around and catch him after practice.

But then I see something unusual, and my brows furrow. He’s rotating his hip, his jaw clenches, and his brows dip together in a wince. It’s fast, barely noticeable, but I catch it.

He slowly straightens up, his strong jaw flexing, his inked hand curling like he’s fighting the urge to press it to his side.

He’s hurt.

My pulse skips again, this time for a different reason.

He’s trying to hide it.

Before I can think, my feet are already moving. I’m halfway through the door of the stretching rooms before I realize what I’m doing.