Page 45 of Major Penalty

The emergency being me.

And now, she’s here on the bench, tucked behind the staff barrier, where she shouldn’t be able to get to me. But she already has. Because even without looking, I know exactly where she is. And that is what makes this so much worse.

I tighten my grip on my stick, pushing forward. The second I see the opening, I take it. The puck hits my stick—fast, clean—and I don’t hesitate. I snap my stick back and launch the shot, a bullet to the net.

Top shelf. First goal—and the crowd goes quiet. Not our barn, not our fans. But my teammates crash into me like we just lit the place on fire. The noise doesn’t touch me. None of it does.

I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look. Because if I do, I’ll remember the way she felt against my fingers, the way she trembled, the way her little gasp nearly broke the last shred of my control.

I skate back toward the bench for a line change, jaw clenched and pulse hammering, right as one of the players from Florida slams into Stone, our goalie. Hard.

Rule number one in hockey?

Never. Fucking. Touch. The goalie.

Instant chaos.

Gloves drop. Shouts erupt. Bodies crash.

And I don’t even think. I drop my stick and skate straight for blood.

My fist connects with the guy’s jaw—hard. Hard enough to send his helmet flying. Hard enough that pain shoots through my knuckles like fire.

We grab each other by the collar, our teeth bared and eyes locked, all instinct and rage. He swings. I swing harder.

I barely register the refs swarming in.

The whistle shrieks in my ear, but it’s nothing compared to the roar in my head.

It’s not about the penalty. Not about the fight.

It’s about the hit.

The disrespect.

The line he crossed the second he fucked with our goalie.

Flashes go off, cameras click, and reporters fire questions from every direction.

I barely hear any of it. Rowan is at my side, sitting at the long press podium with some of the other guys. He leans forward, elbows on the table, answering some questions about our defensive play.

I sit back, arms crossed and jaw locked. I can feel the slight sting of torn skin, the bruising under my wraps. I should be focused and present. But I can’t be because she’s here, standing near the media barricades.

She’s with Livia, Rowan’s girlfriend and Panthers’ PR agent, who’s eyeing us like hawks.

I drag my gaze back to the front just as another reporter fires off a question.

“Ares, your first goal set the tone for the game. Did you know the shot was going in when you took it?"

I blink, forcing myself to focus. The cameras flash again, the heat of the room pressing down on me.

“I don’t take shots I don’t think will go in,” I answer truthfully.

The reporter chuckles. “Right, but you had a tight angle. Were you confident it’d hit the top shelf?”

“Wasn’t about confidence. It was about execution.” I arch a brow.

“You’ve got one of the hardest shots in the league, and it was a laser. Do you feel like your game is peaking at the right time?”

---