Page 41 of Major Penalty

It’s so much more than justmy job.

The knock at the door is sharp.

“Come in.” I keep my eyes on my screen, scrolling through my notes, still fuming, still simmering. Still thinking about those puck bunnies. Still thinking about Ares ignoring me. Still thinking about the way my stomach twisted at the sound of their voices calling his name.

But then I hear the door close, and I feel the energy in the air, the weight of his presence.

And my heart stutters.

Slowly, I look up, and there he is.

Impossibly tall and broad, clad in a black hoodie and sweats, tattooed hands casually at his sides, completely dominating the room.

I swallow hard, unable to react for a second because I wasn’t expecting him to show up so soon.

“Hey,” I force my voice to work.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t even look fazed.

“I talked to Coach Brown.” His voice is flat and detached. “I’m here for the hip.”

Oh.

I should be glad, relieved even. Because this is what I wanted, right? This is what I fought him on. He’s finally letting me examine him. Then why does this feel so off? Why is my stomach tightening?

“I didn’t tell him, I promise.” I shake my head. “Da…Coach Brown already knew about your hip.” I correct myself quickly, hoping he didn’t pick that up.

“I know,” he assures me before stepping forward.

I exhale as I rise to my feet.

“Okay,” I say carefully, stepping closer to him.

My pulse is pounding. I stop just in front of him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I try to break the ice that’s built between us ever since the kiss, but his expression doesn’t change. He just nods.

I inhale sharply, trying to be professional.

“You’re going to have to take this off.” I reach for the hem of his hoodie.

I expect something. A crack. Reluctance. A sign that this is getting to him. But there’s nothing.

Ares pulls it off and tosses it onto the chair, his clean, sharp scent hitting me. His undershirt stretches taut over his broad chest, the tattoos on his arms shifting with every movement.

“Can you, um,” I swallow, pointing at his sweatpants, “show me the area, please?”

Again, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he does exactly what I asked him to do. He hooks his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugs it down just enough to reveal his V-line, covered in more tattoos, and the huge, angry bruise on his right hip.

I swallow and step closer, reaching for it. I barely touch him when he flinches.

It’s subtle, hardly noticeable. But I see it. His jaw locks, and his nostrils flare slightly.

I glance up at him, my fingers hovering over his injury.

“You should’ve come in sooner,” I say.

Ares doesn’t answer. He just watches me with those unreadable, pale blue eyes.

---