Page 6 of Major Penalty

“No,” I growl. “It’s not that. I’d remember. I don’t forget faces like that.”

Damien’s smile fades just a little, his sharp eyes studying me now. He knows I’m not full of shit.

“If you say you’ve seen her before, then I know you have. What do you think her deal is, then?”

I don’t know how to explain it to him. I don’t know what the deal with her is either. Everything tightens—my jaw, grip, restraint. I don’t move. I just watch.

We’re in the final weeks of the regular season, and we’re already bleeding from every angle. Guys are burnt out, bodies are breaking down, and the playoffs haven’t even started yet. I should be locked in. The last thing I need is a distraction, but it feels like someone turned the volume down on everything else.

The second my skates hit the ice, everything else fades. Out here, I don’t have to feel. I just move. The puck hits my tape, and I take off. Rowan’s right on my heels, but I don’t need to look to know I’ll beat him to the goal.

I feign left and hard cut right; he bites just enough for me to slip past him. Damien’s next. He doesn’t make mistakes often, but when he does, I catch them. His weight’s too far forward, which means his balance is off. I shift my grip, making it seem like I’m about to pass, then cut the other way. But he knows me too well. I slam into him as he blocks me, both of us grunting from the impact. I push him off me, seeing Davidson race toward the puck. Yeah, good luck.

He’s already too late. I retake control of the puck and shoot. One second later, the puck slams into the back of the net.

The goal horn blares.

I coast to a stop, breathing steadily. The guys hit their sticks against the ice.

“Fucking hell, man,” Davidson mutters, disappointed as he skates past me.

I skate back to the center, waiting for the next play. That’s when I feel a stare.

I keep my gaze on the ice, flexing my grip on the stick. But I know exactly where she is. She’s by the boards, standing next to Dr. Mathews, tablet in her hands. I glance up. She’s pretending to listen to him, but her focus keeps slipping. It keeps landing right back on me.

She thinks she’s being subtle. She’s not.

I take the next face-off and win it instantly, sending the puck flying down the ice. The guys are playing at full speed, but I’m still moving quicker, still getting to the puck first. And every time I skate past the boards, I can feel her eyes tracking me. I ignore it at first, but then I start to play into it. Speeding up, cutting corners sharper. I don’t need to show off, but I do anyway. Which is so unlike me that it takes me by surprise.

Am I trying to impress her?

I lose concentration for a second, and Rowan snatches the puck from me.Fuck. I chase after him, catching up instantly before passing the puck to Noah. He’s fresh out of the AHL and needs the practice, so I let him take center stage while I stay in range, ready to assist.

And then, just for fun, I get close. I fly past where she’s standing, just a blur of black and speed. At the last second, I cut my skates hard. The boards rattle as I slam into them. I don’t even feel it through all the gear, but she does. She flinches, body tensing. My gaze snaps to hers instantly. And fuck, those eyes.

The color of dark honey. Wide. A little startled. A little something else.

Keep watching, little thing.

I push off the boards, and that’s when I feel the sharp pain in my hip that’s been getting worse and worse recently. Gritting my teeth, I skate back to the center just as Noah shoots, and Langley saves it.

I win the next face-off without trying, sending it flying toward Davidson. He barely has time to react before I shoot forward, cutting through Damien’s defense.

“Fuck,” Damien growls as I slip past him.

He should be used to it by now.

Langley, the goalie, slaps his stick against the ice. “C’mon, Ares, at least pretend to struggle. You’re making us look bad.”

Langley braces, expecting another shot. Instead, I deke—once, twice, dragging the puck like I have all the time in the world.

He bites. I shift, lift my stick, and rip a slapshot straight at him.

Langley’s reflexes are solid; he drops low, gets his glove up, and the puck flies past the tiny opening between his head and arms.

Langley whips his mask off, shoving his damp brown hair back. “Motherfucker,” he yells, throwing his arms up. “Really? Again?”

I skate past him, patting the top of his shoulder pads.

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