Page 53 of Play Dirty

“You showed up right after.”

“That doesn’t make me the reason.”

His fingers dug deeper into the cedar bench. Biceps bulged. Triceps screamed.

I should’ve looked away, but I couldn’t.

“Seems pretty convenient,” Ares went on. “First, Sutherland gets traded. Perfectly good goalie. Just disappears, overnight, no explanation...”

For now, I let him talk. I couldn’t risk the opportunity to get to the bottom of things.

“Then the rookie shows up, with a big bow on his head. Like he’d been locked and loaded.”

“You’re talking about Sebastian.”

“Yeah,” Ares confirmed. “Not a bad kid, but he’s no Carter Sutherland.”

Carter Sutherland was losing games, I wanted to point out. And lots of them.

But I kept my mouth shut.

“So we’re playing with him for a few weeks, fast and loose, trying to adjust,” Ares continued. “And then suddenly coach Trees gets cut, in the dead of night. Office cleared out. Desk gone. Not even a single fucking push-pin left, on any one of the walls.”

“That sounds… shitty.”

“It was shitty,” he grunted, looking down at the floor. “It is shitty.”

There was the gravity of sorrow in his voice — almost like mourning.

That part didn’t make sense. It just wasn’t… Ares.

“So then all of management shows up,” he continued. “And I mean all of them. Suits. Private jets. Rolex Pearlmasters on every fucking wrist. They install Mercer overnight, like they’re doing a software upgrade. But first… they announce you.”

“But I didn’t get here right away,” I protested.

“No, but you were a big part of the package,” Ares replied. “The suits pumped you up like you were the Second Coming. Talked about you ushering in a ‘new era.’”

“New era?” I repeated, numbly. “What the hell does that mean?”

Ares laughed, and shook his head.

“You tell us, Spreadsheet. We only hit people and shoot pucks.”

I sat there silently absorbing the info, every bit as much as my body soaked in the heat. The air smelled like cedar, and sweat, and something deeper. Something older.

It was getting hard to think, hard to breathe. I’d planned on stripping down a little, upon coming here. But I hadn’t planned on Ares.

By now the cold had been driven from my body, and sweat was pouring down my face. I pulled at my collar, which felt way too tight. A wave of heat rose up from within.

“Looks like you’re sweating through your sweatshirt,” chuckled Ares.

His sardonic expression dared me to take it off, knowing the whole time that I wouldn’t. I did it anyway. Without giving it a second thought, I pulled it — and my T-shirt along with it — right over my head.

Hot air folded around my exposed skin, as my sweat evaporated. Right away, I felt immeasurably better.

“You ever wonder why you got inserted into the house?” Ares asked, offhandedly.

He made no attempt to look away; his eyes lingering shamelessly on my sleep bra. Likewise, I made no attempt at giving a shit.