Ares

So many cookies.

Frosted with hockey pucks.

But I can’t eat them.

Stomach’s in knots. Heart too. Head hurts. Ears rushing.

The cookies make me think of Felicity.

Of the cookies on Gammy’s grass. Her ex. Her touch. Her eyes.

Cookies will always make me think of Felicity.

The cameras, the reporters, the microphones waiting in the next room—those make me think of puking.

Played hockey all my life. I’ve skirted the edges of having to do the PR shit because I make up for it on the ice. Play hard. Toss pucks to kids during warm-ups. Sign jerseys for silent auctions. Take pictures at mom and pop restaurants. Usually while I’m holding the owners, because that’s what we do, me and Z.

We’re big-ass mother puckers, so we act like big-ass mother puckers.

Sing with Ambrosia’s band to get them more coverage.

Just got talked into posing for a cover of a romance novel that my buddy Knox’s granny’s writing too. Don’t have to talk to be on a romance cover.

But the Thrusters want me to be more.

They want me to grow.

Hockey team isn’t just one player. Not giving my all if I keep hiding.

And Coach wants me sitting in this morning. No hiding. Show the reporters I’m part of the team, injured or not.

“Gracie make these?” Lavoie asks Frey. He’s chewing on the cookie, pointing to the rest of the tray in the small conference room. We’re waiting for our doom.

Or a press conference.

Whatever you want to call it.

“Gracie has retired from cookie printing,” Frey tells Lavoie. Talks like he has a hockey stick up his ass, but he’s a good guy. Treats me like a brother.

Like a friend.

“Not now.” Jenna steals the rest of Lavoie’s cookie, tosses it in the trash, and shoos all three of us from the food table. “Come on. It’s time.”

I eyeball her.

Don’t want to go in there.

She gives me the don’t make me hide your ice skates twin-mom glare.

It’s more deadly than a normal mom glare.

Trust me.

Still barely enough to get me moving my crutches and swinging into the press room.

Don’t want to do this. Really don’t.

But it’s for the good of the team. Good for my future.

Probably good for me too.

“Ignore the cameras,” Jenna tells me, Lavoie, Frey, and Jaeger. But mostly me. “You’ve got this.”

Everyone in the room turns and stares at me when we filter behind the front table for questions. A massive Thrusters logo is on the wall behind us.

There’s cameramen.

Coaching staff.

Directors.

Teammates.

Journalists.

The group of fans who won tickets to watch the first major press conference the team’s held since last week’s brawl outside the dressing room.

Like they know I’m the one who’s gonna blow it.

Or blow chunks.

I take a seat on the end so I can stick my foot out—need ice and something to prop it on, like what Felicity would’ve gotten me—and while Coach gets settled, I pull out my phone under the table and text Z a gif of a drowning cartoon mouse.

He replies immediately with a gif of hearts showering all over my screen.

Fucker.

“When Murphy tears you limb by limb, shall we have a front row seat then?” Frey asks quietly beside me.

I level a Force glare on him. What the fuck’s he talking about?

He smiles. “There’s the Ares we all know and love. Welcome back, old chap.”

Fucker.

Just trying to get my goat.

Make me mad.

So I don’t puke.

Should appreciate it. But I don’t.

Water bottle in front of me. Don’t grab it. Can’t.

Hands are shaking.

Always hated pop quizzes.

Felicity—she’d dig this. Pull out Lucy on one side, Tim on the other, and skewer anyone who tried to be smart.

And I don’t mean book smart.

Felicity.

My heart hurts more than my fucking ankle. Painkillers won’t touch that ache.

I need her to love me.

And I don’t know how to show her she can.

How does that make me any better than the asshole who was stalking her?

It doesn’t.

It fucking doesn’t.

I’m not special. I’m not different.

I’m just one more guy who fell in love with a woman who’s so easy to love.

Coach settles in next to Frey. We had a talk.

Good talk.

Didn’t say much.

He didn’t ask me to.

We’re good.

He starts the questions by pointing to the first reporter. Used to this. Does it all the time.

They want to know if Murphy’s starting tonight. If he’s traveling to Philly. If a four-game benching was enough punishment.

Nothing new.

Nothing the papers haven’t covered every fucking day this week.

Except the questions about if Murphy was involved in last night’s skirmish outside the arena.

“That was a domestic violence issue unrelated to the team,” Coach says tightly.

Wasn’t unrelated to the team.

Felicity’s part of the team. She’s Murphy’s sister. Has my heart.

Somebody else asks if I was hurt in last night’s fight outside.

“The incident was unrelated to the team,” Coach repeats.

Issue closed.

Somebody asks Frey if he’s liking America.

Everyone snickers. Chuckles.

Like they’re asking if he likes sleeping with Gracie.

I fucking hate this bullshit.

He says yeah, he likes America. Leaves it at that.

Hands shoot up for the next question. Voices raise. A monkey runs through the room.

A—yeah. A monkey.

Loki leaps onto the table, hands me a sugar cookie printed with a hockey puck, and climbs up to sit on my shoulder.

Frey chokes on his water.

Loki flips him off.

Cameras flash.

How the fuck did the monkey get in here?

Goosebumps race over my arms. My heart skips a verse and goes straight to the chorus. I scan the crowd, and—there.

She’s here.

Elbowing in behind the reporters. Her gaze locks on mine, her eyes red-rimmed, searching, and I suck in a full breath for the first time since they put me in the fucking ambulance last night.

Her eyes are wet. Cheeks blotchy. But she doesn’t look away.

I believe in you. You can do this.

I need you.

My pulse hammers. Hope’s growing fast.

She’s here.

Did she get my message?

Yes, dumbass. You’re not a stalker. You’re YOU. And you’re perfect.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I need to leave this table. I’m done.

Fuck hockey. Fuck the team.

I need her.

Coach points at a reporter in front.

“Ares, how are your socks today?”

Felicity scowls. Assholes. Be bigger than he is. You show him before I fucking knock his head off.

She could talk for me.

Could get up here and say the right things.

But I need to do this.

I need to be more than a freak show.

I look at the guy asking.

Really look at him.

He’s just a man. Like me.

Has longer hair.

Smaller muscles.

A smirk he hasn’t earned.

Can’t answer that, can you, big guy? Do you even know what your socks are? Which foot to put them on?

I lean into my microphone. “Words are only as good as the man who uses them.”

Silence.

Silence, and a smile.

A soft, warm, THAT’S how you score a goal smile on a pretty girl with golden red hair who brought me a monkey.

Fuck this press shit.

“Ares, is that your monkey?” a voice calls out.

That’s one question the staff would probably rather I didn’t answer. Z would have a field day with it. I ignore it and grab my crutches.

“You want one?” Lavoie asks the reporter.

“Quite popular in Stölland,” Frey adds.

“Can’t choose the monkey though,” Lavoie says. “Monkey has to choose the man.”

“Coach Arietta,” Felicity calls out over the rumble of chuckles.

Coach’s eye twitches.

He reluctantly nods to her.

“It’s generally assumed that when Petrovsky retires next year, Duncan Lavoie will step into the role of team captain. Are the rumors true that Ares Berger is a top contender for alternate captain, given his mentorship of younger players and solid experience on the ice the last decade?”

Every head turns to stare at her. The reporters. The fans. My teammates.

My heart’s in my throat.

There aren’t rumors.

She’s making the rumors.

Captains and alternates have to fucking talk.

“You have spies, Ms. Murphy?” Coach asks.

“No, Coach, I have eyes,” she replies with a smile. A blotchy-faced, bloodshot-eyed smile.

All the attention swings back to me.

A stifled snort accompanies the shifting. Someone else coughs.

My face is getting hot.

“A man’s actions always do speak louder than his words,” Coach says. “Mr. Berger’s leadership qualities were a strong point in his favor during trade talks this summer.”

Not just my face is hot now.

Whole body’s breaking into a sweat.

I’m not a leader.

I’m a hockey player.

“Man’s actions speak louder than his words,” Frey mutters. “Quit being so bloody hard on yourself.”

“No one works harder,” Coach says. “Berger was born with a puck in his heart, and you see that every time he’s on the ice. We see it off the ice. Every day. That’s exactly the type of player we want leading the Thrusters.”

I drop my head.

Fuck.

Eyes are stinging. Heart’s pumping so fast it’s making my ankle throb.

Take a shuddery breath.

Don’t need to be a captain. Don’t need to be a leader.

But for the first time since I saw the news I was heading here to Copper Valley, I feel like I belong.

Like I’m seen.

Wanted.

I lift my eyes and search out Felicity again. Her smile’s wobbling, and she dashes a hand under her eye.

You matter, Ares. You matter to the team. You matter to me.

Fuck hockey.

Hockey isn’t my life.

She is.

She’s my sun and moon.

My stars, my air, my sunshine.

She’s every heartbeat.