Page 88 of Play Dirty

It wasn’t a check, it wasn’t a play. It wasn’t even a collision.

It was a whole fucking train wreck.

He drove straight through him, shoulder to chest, lifting him off his skates and slamming him into the boards with a crack that echoed throughout the entire shitty arena.

Solomon crumpled, instantly. The wind left him in a violent rush, his body folding awkwardly as he hit the ice, gasping, clawing for breath.

The crowd went silent. Then—

Everything exploded.

Whistles. Shouting. Gloves flying, as players rushed in from both sides.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Because Ares—

Ares just stood there. Perfectly calm. He turned his head slowly, looking right at me.

And then he smiled. That same dark, satisfied smile.

My pulse spiked. Goosebumps erupted, spilling down my arms from the back of my neck.

Holy fucking shit, Haven.

The refs swarmed him, grabbing his arms, shoving him back as they already signaled the ejection. Major. Game misconduct. No question.

He didn’t fight it. Didn’t argue. He held my gaze, giving me the smallest nod.

Eventually he let them take him, just as Mercer leaned in.

“You have a hand in that?” the coach muttered.

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to.

“I—” I started.

Mercer grunted, cutting me off.

“Don’t,” he said.

I looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed. It was still hard. Still focused. But there was something underneath that expression, too.

Something much quieter.

“Sometimes,” he added, almost under his breath, “you gotta send a message.”

I blinked. It wasn’t what I’d expected.

“Get your lines ready,” he barked suddenly, louder now. “We’re not done.”

We weren’t. Not even close. The rest of the game was a blur, though. We pushed, hard, and Grayson buried one late.

7-5.

Not enough.

The final horn blared, overly loud, emblazoning our loss on our eardrums. It didn’t feel like one. Not entirely.