Page 35 of Major Penalty

But she doesn’t look like someone who’s ever been left behind. She doesn’t look like someone who’s ever had to fight for every inch in life. Which is a wonderful thing, but it’s not something me or those kids are familiar with. So why the hell is she doing it? What drives her to put herself in a place where she’s surrounded by tragedy?

I roll my shoulders, turn off the water, and grab a towel. It doesn’t fucking matter. I made up my mind two days ago. I need to stay away from her for her own good.

I throw on a black hoodie and sweats, running my hand through my damp hair and head for the front door.

I’m supposed to have coffee at Rowan’s house before practice. The thought of some caffeine is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

That, and the fact that I’m going to pretend Irene doesn’t exist. That she isn’t a problem I need to deal with. That she didn’t just crawl under my skin in such a short time. We have practice. We have an away game coming up. I should be thinking about that. I should’ve taken the back exit yesterday. Because the second I turned the corner—boom. There she was. Instead, I’m thinking about how I nearly walked straight into her and made my escape by ducking into a utility closet. A fucking utility closet. I’m 6’6, 230 pounds. I don’t fit in utility closets, and I sure as fuck don’t hide in them.

But I can’t stop. Can’t think straight. I’ve kissed her once and already it feels like I’m in withdrawal.

I need caffeine. I need a distraction. I need to stop thinking about her like she’s mine.

I grab my keys, take a deep breath, and step outside.

The air in the rink is thick with sweat and exhaustion, the scent of ice and rubber lingering as the last of the guys shuffle off. I stay behind, stripping the tape off my stick and rolling it between my fingers before tossing it into the bin. My hip burns, but I ignore it.

Coach Brown watches me from the edge of the bench with his arms crossed and that sharp, unreadable look in his eyes. Irene stayed throughout the entire practice game and left after furrowing her brows at her phone, possibly at a message from Dr. Mathews. So, naturally, I’m taking that opening and getting the fuck out before she comes back.

“Ares!” I hear Coach Brown’s voice and stop, turning to face him.

“Coach,” I greet him as he steps closer.

“Good practice today,” he says. His voice is steady, the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to carry weight. “You feeling ready for the game in Florida?”

“Yeah.” I nod, rolling my shoulders.

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Your line’s been clicking,” he says after a beat. “But I see you favoring your left side.”

I look at him, my jaw tightening. He’s shorter than me—most people are—yet he always has a way of making me feel like I’m a kid in trouble. I guess that’s what I was when he found me all those years ago.

“You know what I’m gonna say, don’t you?” Coach sighs, rubbing his jaw.

I hum with a nod, not bothering to deny it. My hip is not getting better, and he’s not blind or stupid. He knows I’m in pain; he just hasn’t said anything until now.

“Then say it for me.” His mouth twitches as if he’s going to smile, but he doesn’t.

“I need to stop trying to play through it.” I exhale, running a hand through my hair. But I won’t. I can’t afford to slow down. I’ve always had to push myself and prove that I’m worth the investment. No one cares about a broken player. They care about who can perform when it matters.

“Damn right,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You think I don’t see the way you push through the pain out there? News flash, kid: you’re not invincible.”

“Never said I was.” I shrug. Kid. He’s always called me that despite me being a thirty-two-year-old man. I think I’ll always stay a kid to him.

“But you play like you are.” His eyes pin me in place. “And one day, if you’re not careful, you won’t be playing at all.”

He doesn’t get it. This game’s all I have.

If I stop moving, I fall apart. If I get benched, I lose everything.

“I can handle it, Coach.” I roll my jaw, feeling the frustration coil in my chest.

“I know you can,” he says. “That’s never been the problem.”

I don’t respond. What is there to say? I don’t want him to see me as someone he has to babysit.

Coach sighs, stepping closer and lowering his voice.

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