“Too late,” I replied.
He smirked. “Good. You’ll last longer that way.”
They trickled out one by one, a storm of dark suits and cologne and careless swagger—leaving me alone with the only one who mattered.
And the only one I couldn’t figure out if I wanted to run from… or run to.
I looked at him.
At Hades.
At the man who had just gone feral on the ice like it was a goddamn battlefield and he’d been waiting all season to draw blood.
Now he sat there on the bench, jersey peeled halfway off, steam rising from his skin like war still clung to him. His knuckles were split wide open—bruised and raw and angry red. Blood crept down the ridge of one hand, trailing a thin line along his wrist like a threat someone didn’t finish making. His cheekbone had a shadow blooming across it, deep and already swelling, and a small cut traced the edge of his jaw like it had been carved there on purpose.
I hated the way my stomach twisted.
Hated that it wasn’t disgust I felt.
It was… concern.
Worse than concern.
It was that soft, stupid thing that wanted to reach out and fix him.
My gaze tore away from him and swept the locker room. It was pure testosterone in here—walls of gray cinderblock, sweat-stained jerseys draped over open lockers, steam still clinging to the air from the post-game showers. It smelled like victory and blood and something darker—something territorial.
Benches ran along the walls, gear scattered across the floor, and half a dozen empty Gatorade bottles were lined up like trophies beneath the overhead vents. There was a speaker in the corner still quietly buzzing with bass, the echo of a playlist no one had paused.
And then I saw it—mounted just beneath the flat screen where they watched game tape: a first aid kit.
Bright red.
Clean.
Untouched, probably.
I walked over and opened it without a word.
“Let me guess,” I muttered, pulling out gauze and antiseptic. “No stitches. No doctors. No complaints.”
Behind me, I heard the low scrape of his chuckle.
“You forgot no apologies.”
I didn’t turn around.
“Of course I did,” I muttered.
I sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically.
Then grabbed the kit and turned back toward the devil bleeding all over his gloves like it was foreplay.
“Sit still, Hades,” I said through gritted teeth. “This time, I am touching you.”
I turned back toward him, med kit in hand, already regretting every ounce of empathy still rattling around in my chest.
Hades sat there, blood on his hands, bruises blooming like artwork across his skin. And still—still—he had the audacity to smirk like I was the one out of line for caring.
