No Pucking Way

Chapter 1 Remi

The ice is unforgiving.

That’s the first thing they teach you when you’re five years old and your parents strap tiny blades to your feet for the first time.

The ice doesn’t care if you’re tired. It doesn’t care if you’re scared.

It doesn’t give a fuck about your dreams or the sacrifices you made, or that you’ve given up everything, everything, to be here.

The ice is brutal, and right now, it’s making me its bitch.

“Again!” Nikki’s voice cracks through the rink like a whip. “From the top, Remi. You’re telegraphing the jump. I can see it coming from across the fucking rink.”

I grit my teeth and push off, my blades carving sharp lines into the ice as I build speed.

The rising sunlight filters through the high, narrow windows of the practice facility, casting long silver beams across the empty rink.

For now, it’s just me, Nikki, and the sound of my breathing. And apparently, my complete inability to land a jump I could do in my sleep two months ago.

The triple axel.

I skate faster, readying myself for the jump that is now my enemy.

My backward crossovers build the momentum, each pushing deeper into the ice than the last. I change direction into the mohawk turn and my arms draw in like I’m gathering something precious against my chest, my free leg swinging forward, and then I launch.

The takeoff feels wrong the second I leave the ice. My body knows it. I’m rotating before I’m fully airborne, and the world becomes a blur of boards and lights.

One rotation. Two. Maybe I’ve got this.

But the air feels thin, as if there’s not enough of it to hold me, and this is where I’ve been failing.

The last half-rotation where my body forgets what it’s supposed to know.

I’m pulling in tighter, arms locked, finding my core, willing my body to complete what my mind has already mapped a thousand times.

Already committed. Already spinning. Nothing to do but brace.

I slam into the ice hip-first.

Pain explodes up my side. My breath leaves in a harsh gasp as I skid to a stop, sprawled out like a rag-doll someone tossed across the rink.

“Fuck!” I hiss, slamming my fist against the ice.

“Get up.” Nikki’s voice is bitter, clipped. We’re weeks away from the Olympics, and I’m skating like a goddamn junior competitor.

I drag myself upright, my hip screaming. My legs feel as if they’re not mine. They’re heavy, unresponsive, as if I’m controlling them through a delayed broadcast.

Two months ago, I had this. I owned this. My triple axel was becoming my signature move, the thing that set me apart from every other skater in the world. Now I can’t get off the ground without eating ice.

“Again!” Nikki barks.

“No fucking way.”

“Stop fucking swearing and get up.”

I never swore before she became my coach.

I push onto my feet and skate back to the starting position, ignoring the twinge in my hip. Ignoring the way my body feels like it’s moving through molasses. And also ignoring the fear that something is wrong with me.

The music blasts through the air.

I set up.

Launch.

And fall.

Again.

My knee takes the brunt of it.

“What the hell is wrong with me!” I shout, the sound echoing through the empty rink, and lie there staring up at the rafters, breathing through the pain in my leg.

“Off the ice.” Nikki’s skates scrape to a stop beside me. The edge is gone from her voice. “Now, Remi.”

I drag myself to my feet.

I’m not skating, I’m limping.

Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

I hobble off the ice, my blades clacking against the rubber matting. Nikki follows, her expression tight.

“This isn’t working,” she says, crouching to examine my knee. Her fingers probe the edges.

I wince.

“You’re not yourself. Your timing is off, your balance is off. Everything is off.”

“I know,” I snap. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I’m calling Dr. Peters again,” Nikki says, straightening. “We need to talk about your suppressants. And whatever the hell else you’re taking to keep your body in check.”

My stomach twists. “Nikki—“

“No!” She holds up a hand. “Don’t ‘Nikki’ me. Something is wrong, and we only have a few weeks to figure out what it is before you get on that Olympic ice and humiliate yourself in front of the entire world.”

“Thanks for the confidence.” But I know she’s right.

“I’ll be back in ten,” Nikki says, grabbing her phone from the bench. “Ice that knee. And for the love of God, don’t get back on the ice until I say so.”

She stalks off toward the exit, phone already pressed to her ear.

I slump back against the boards, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. My leg is throbbing. My hip is throbbing. My entire body is staging a mutiny, and I do not know how to stop it.

The sound of blades on ice pulls me up.

Isabella Olivetti glides onto the ice. Her movements are effortless, fluid, like the ice is an extension of her body.

She launches.

Three and a half rotations. A perfect triple axel.

My heart drops.

She lands cleanly, her blade biting into the ice with a satisfying crack before she flows seamlessly into a back flip, which is technically illegal in competition, but looks so fucking good that no one cares during practice.

I hate her a little bit.

Two months ago, that was me. I was the one making it look effortless. The one everyone else watched with envy. The one expected to walk away with gold.

Now I’m the one limping off the ice like a washed-up has-been.

Isabella finishes her routine and skates over, black ponytail swinging. She has the kind of face that sells a million magazines without trying. She’s also the world champion, and with the Olympics being in Italy, and her being Italian yet skating for the USA, she has the added home advantage.

She’s become the girl everyone expects to take home gold at the Olympics.

“That looked painful.” She nods toward my knee.

“It is,” I mutter.

She sits beside me, unlacing one of her skates. “You know what your problem is?”

I glance at her sideways. “Enlighten me.”

“You don’t need more tablets.”

“You overheard our conversation?”

She hums, pulling off her skates and setting them aside, turning to look at me with those knowing eyes. “And you definitely don’t need more suppressants.”

My jaw tightens. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” She leans back and stretches her legs out in front of her. “You’re an omega, Remi. Your body is screaming at you to have a heat, and you’re drowning it in suppressants and whatever synthetic bullshit your doctor is pumping into you. No wonder you can’t land a jump.”

“What the hell are you suggesting?”

“What I’m suggesting,” Isabella’s voice drops, “is that you don’t need pills, but you do need to be fucked.”

I almost choke. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” She grins, clearly enjoying my reaction. “You’re wound so tight you’re about to snap. Your body doesn’t know what to do with itself because you’re ignoring every instinct it has. You need an alpha. Or two. Or three, if you’re ambitious.”

“I don’t…” I shake my head, heat crawling up my neck. “I don’t have time for that. I have the Olympics to practice for.”

“And you’ll never make it through if you keep pretending you’re not an omega,” Isabella says.

“Trust me. I’ve seen it before. Girls who suppress and suppress until their bodies give up?

It’s bad for you. You’re preventing your body from doing what it needs to do.

And everything I’ve read, and Dr. Peters will tell you the same. You’re heading for a drop.”

The image sends a chill down my spine. “Oh God.”

“Just do something about it.” She stands, picking up her skates. “Find an alpha. Have a heat. Let your body do what it’s supposed to do. You’ll skate better. Problem solved.”

“Do you... do you have a pack?”

Isabella laughs. “No.”

“Why not?”

Her smile fades slightly, replaced by something harder. “Because my brother would kill anyone who touched me.”

“Your brother?”

“Knox.” She says his name like it’s a curse. “He’s protective. Controlling. Pick your adjective. The point is, I don’t get to have a pack until he decides I’m ready. Which, apparently, is never.”

“So how can you give me advice about heats when you don’t go through them yourself?”

Something shifts in her eyes. “Who said I haven’t gone through a heat? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. His job takes him out of the country. And I plan well. I don’t want to fail.”

My stomach flips.

Before I can figure out why, Nikki’s voice echoes across the rink. “Remi! Dr. Peters can see you this afternoon. Let’s go.”

I glance at Isabella. She’s already pulling her skates back on.

“Three weeks, Remi,” she whispers. “That’s all you’ve got. Don’t waste them trying to be something you’re not.”

She skates off.

You need to be fucked.

The words sit in my chest like something lodged. My palms press flat against my thighs. My knee throbs.

Three weeks until Italy.