Page 31 of Major Penalty

“I’ve always loved helping others. It’s something my dad and I have in common. And as for the Panthers, he has a hand in that, too. He’s always loved hockey. It’s always been a huge conversation at our house, so it just felt natural as a summer job.” It’s true, but not the whole truth. I spare him the fact that my father ishiscoach.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment; he just watches me, weighing my response. I start to feel self-conscious under his gaze, wondering if he’s catching on to the fact that I’m holding something back.

“You two must be close,” he murmurs, and there’s something in his voice, something I can’t quite place.

Before I can say anything, Ares angles closer, and his knee brushes mine.That’s all it takes—just one small touch—and my whole body goes tight.

Neither of us moves. Not even a breath.

We sit there, watching each other like as if the air between us is about to snap.

I study him quietly, trying to figure out what to do with this warm, ridiculous feeling blooming across my chest. And before I can stop myself, my gaze flicks down to his mouth.

That’s when I hear it—small footsteps and the sound of excited voices.

The kids are coming back.

I jolt, blinking and turning just as the moment shatters. Whatever that was, whatever it was about to be, it’s gone.

Ares drags his gaze away from me, unfazed. Calm, like he wasn’t just seconds away from…something.

The kids skid to a stop in front of us, holding out tiny bouquets trophies.

“Look!” one of the little girls beams. “I found the best ones!”

“No, mine are!” Viki shouts, holding hers up high.

“They’re all wonderful, guys,” I say with a smile, leaning in. “You really did find the best ones.”

“These are the prettiest flowers I’ve ever seen,” Ares says as he moves forward to take one. I watch his fingers. The way his large tattooed hand is now holding something so fragile.

He leans back, stretching his legs out in front of him, one arm braced behind him as he tilts his head slightly.

“Alright,” he says, voice calm. “Everyone, sit down.” The kids scramble, dropping onto the blankets around him with zero hesitation. “Put all the flowers in the middle,” he continues. “We’re making flower crowns.”

My head snaps up.

I’m sorry, what?

Did he just say flower crowns?

The kids gasp, nearly vibrating with excitement and they toss their flowers into a colorful heap.

I blink at him. “Do you know how to make them?” The question comes out stunned, mostly because I’m genuinely not sure I heard right.

Ares doesn’t answer right away. His eyes meet mine, and the look he gives me isn’t smug or cocky. It’s quieter. Softer. But then he smirks, slow and knowing, and reaches forward.

“I want everyone to watch carefully,” he says, grabbing a few stems.

And just like that, I forget how to breathe.

Because those hands—tattooed, rough, probably responsible for broken bones and at least a few black eyes—are now gently weaving delicate little flowers together like he’s done this a hundred times.

He works with practiced ease, his fingers working the stems together, and the kids fall silent, completely captivated.

“You have to twist them like this,” he explains. “Keep the stems long so they don’t snap.”

The kids mimic him, their little fingers fumbling to follow his movements.

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