Page 18 of Major Penalty

I shake my head, trying to focus. I’m the team’s PTA. I’m supposed to do my job, not be fantasizing about the tattooed menace with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. I groan, pressing the heels of my palms into my face.

It was just a dream. A stupid, stupid dream. I exhale slowly. Because on Monday, I have to see him. I have to touch him. Put my hands on those muscles, check his hip, and watch him move for me.

Pretend like I didn’t just wake up soaking wet from a dream where he pinned me down and growled “little thing” in my ear.

I shift under the sheets, pulse still thumping between my legs, thighs pressed tight together in a pathetic attempt to will away the need. It doesn’t work.

It’s been two days since I saw him. Two days of having him on my mind. It’s Sunday, game day, and I walk into the arena with a plan. Act normal. Be professional. Forget. It was just a dream, that’s all. A stupid, meaningless dream. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t change anything. I tell myself that over and over again.

And yet, what is the first thing I do when I step inside the rink? I look for him.

The arena is a war zone. The roar of the crowd is deafening, the walls practically shaking with the pulse of thousands of fans. The Panthers are hosting the NY Bears, and the energy is unlike anything I’ve seen. There are screaming fans, pounding drums, flashing lights, and the smell of ice and fresh popcorn. It’s chaos. It’s noise. It’s everything a home game should be.

But I can’t focus on any of it, not with the buzz in my chest and heat in my cheeks. I look around, scanning the ice, my eyes searching for him.

I spot his jersey immediately. He’s lightning-fast.

He moves like a force of nature, all power and precision, like he was born to do this. Like nothing can touch him.

The crowd’s roar grows louder as he skates past the Plexiglass, the sound of his blades carving into the ice, slicing through the madness around us. He moves like a beast in the wild, his body cutting through the chaos with brutal precision. He’s everywhere, slamming into the Bears’ defenders, dominating the puck, orchestrating the play along with DiMarco like he’s the conductor of a symphony of violence. His every stride looks effortless and powerful. Every hit is a message. He’s untouchable.

But I know better. I know he’s playing through pain. And yet, he gives away nothing. His strides are sharp, his hits brutal and unforgiving.

How the hell is he doing this? That has to hurt like hell. He’s skating like a machine, but I can see the cracks. I can see the way his body moves, the way he compensates, shifting his weight ever so slightly.

No one else notices, but I do. I watch his hips rotate, the sharp angles of his body cutting through the ice. I see the tiniest hesitation, the microsecond pause, the flicker of tension before he absorbs or delivers a hit.

The crowd is too loud to notice. Too caught up in the game, in the action. But I’m watching him like he’s the only one in the entire arena. I see the flex of pain every time he braces himself for impact.

It’s so fast, so subtle, but it’s there. He’s hurting. I swallow, my fingers tightening around the tablet in my hands.

He shouldn’t be playing like this. He should be resting. Healing.

But, of course, he’s not. And that’s what makes this worse.

I should be watching all the players. But I can’t because my eyes are glued to him. The intensity of the game, the hits, the battles for possession, the roar of the fans—none of it matters. My heart thunders in my chest every time he skates past. Every time his body collides with another player, I feel it in my own fucking bones. My body reacts like it’s happening to me.

I catch his eyes through the glass as I make my way to the area designated for staff. The crowd’s roar is suddenly a muffled hum in my ears. He slows down for a second, just long enough for our gazes to lock. His eyes pierce into mine, intense and so blue. My breath stalls. The entire rink could be shaking, but I wouldn’t notice. All I see is him.

Ares Black. In the middle of his storm. And then, just as fast as he looked at me, he turns away. He skates off toward the puck, knocking the rival team’s forward with his shoulder before stealing the puck. He’s momentum in its purest form. A train barreling down the track. A storm that doesn’t yield.

The final horn sounds, and the arena erupts like a volcano. The Panthers have won, and the place shakes with the roar of thousands of screaming fans. The glass rattles from the force of it, the lights flash in victory, and the air smells like sweat and triumph.

“Hell yeah, boys!” my dad screams. The players are celebrating, slapping each other on the back, and raising their sticks to the crowd. It’s pure chaos, pure joy. But not for me. My eyes are on one thing, one person.

Ares.

The adrenaline of the game still runs high, but I can see the toll it’s taken. The celebration is loud and chaotic, but I can barely hear it. The crowd’s cheers blur into a dull hum as I watch him glide across the ice, leaning slightly to his left side, favoring his hip. I watch as he pulls himself off the ice with more weight on that side, clearly compensating for something.

My stomach tightens. This can’t go on. It just can’t.

The other players are celebrating, their bodies circling around the rink like it’s still part of the game. But Ares is already moving toward the tunnel. That’s not how you celebrate a victory.

I have to help him.

I force myself to stay calm, swallowing down the hesitation building in my chest as I watch him disappear. I can’t let him get away with this, not when he’s pushing himself and hiding the damage.

The celebration rages around me as I take a heavy breath. But I don’t feel the thrill of victory; I don’t feel the rush of the win.

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