Page 2 of Major Penalty

A steady, rhythmic pounding echoes through the hall. Sharp, precise. I glance around. I should keep moving. I should find the PT’s office before my boss sends out a search party. But my curiosity has always been a little stronger than my common sense. So, naturally, I follow the sound to a big set of double doors.

The air shifts when I step into the large space.

Well, it looks like I found the gym.

It’s huge—high ceilings, glass panels overlooking the rink, and high-end equipment everywhere. But I barely register any of it.

There’s a man in here. Shirtless. Huge. Tattooed. Sweaty. Built like a weapon.

He’s at the center of the room, destroying a punching bag. His fists slam into leather so fast and brutal that the bag jerks like it’s been hit by a wrecking ball. Over and over and over. His muscles flex and coil with every strike; he’s all sharp lines, broad shoulders, and nothing but raw power and lethal precision. His entire body is covered in tattoos, from his neck to down his torso, even his hands and knuckles. And I can’t take my eyes off him.

I’d blame the all-girls school I attended when I was younger, but it would be a lie. As a college student, I’ve seena lotof boys. But this is no boy. I’m not sure if he’s even a man—a beast is a better word to describe him.

He doesn’t see me. He’s locked in, focused, eyes burning with something violent. And I can’t look away. I shouldn’t be staring, but I am. Because there’s something in the way he moves that makes it impossible to look away from.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

And then he stops. The silence is so abrupt that it feels deafening. He goes completely still. Like he sensed me. A shiver creeps down my spine as his gaze lifts painfully slow.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, and my heart drops to my feet.

Oh, God.

His chest rises and falls. Black strands of hair fall over his forehead, damp from sweat. His sharp features are assessing like he’s analyzing me. Like he’s figuring out exactly what I’m doing here and exactly what he’s going to do about it.

I feel pinned, even if he’s more than a dozen feet away. I’m stuck under the weight of his stare, like the air itself has changed.

He raises his right hand to his wrist and unfastens something.

It drops heavily to the floor. He does the same to his other wrist.

My gaze flickers down before I can stop it. Wrist weights, thick and heavy.He was throwing punches that fast with them on?I blink back up at him, wondering how fast he is without them.

My stomach tightens.

And then he slowly moves his head, turning it until he’s looking right at me over his shoulder.

No more mirror. Direct eye contact. A single dark eyebrow lifts. No words, just silence. Something about it feels way worse than if he’d actually said something. I make a sound—something between a nervous laugh and a tiny, terrified squeak.

“Sorry!” I blurt, my voice way too loud in the quiet.

And then I do what any rational, professional, competent adult would do.

I turn and bolt. My heart is slamming against my ribs by the time I round the corner.

Holy. Shit.

What the hell was that?

I burst into the PT’s office like I’m being chased by a demon.

Which, to be fair, isn’t completely untrue. Though, I’m a little disappointed to see no one chased after me.

That’s messed up, Irene.

I’m breathless. Flustered. Sweating. I try to school my expression into something professional, but I already know I look suspicious as hell.

The man behind the desk, Dr. Mathews, lifts a single bored eyebrow at my entrance. My father and I had dinner with him last night to go over the basics, so thankfully, I don’t have to introduce myself or wonder if this is the right office.

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