Chapter 5
Korbin
The locker room’s loud as hell. Guys yelling over each other, laughing, throwing rolls of tape across the benches. Someone’s got music blaring loud enough to rattle the walls. It smells of sweat, liniment, and cheap soap—every scent fighting for dominance.
I sit with my stick braced between my knees, tape stretched tight between my fingers.
The white noise of the locker room blurs into the background as I fall into the rhythm—pull, press, tear.
White tape, clean lines, just the way I like it.
Every wrap takes the edge off, slows my pulse, keeps me from overthinking.
Milton drops down beside me, goalie pads creaking, helmet dangling from his fingers.
“Can you believe that crap from Allen and Marilyn?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s fucking bullshit. We need a better coach, not a fucking omega.”
He huffs a laugh that’s got no humor in it. “Well, we do need an omega. But we don’t need some stranger telling us how to find one."
“Agreed. We’re a pack already,” I say. “We’ll find her when it happens. Don’t need Allen or his PR stunt picking one out of a catalog.”
Milton rips a strip of tape with his teeth. “Probably think it’ll make us look ‘stable.’”
I snort. “Maybe they should start with a coach who doesn’t think screaming is leadership.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
Coach Miles storms in before we can say more, whistle hanging off his neck, face already red. “Listen up! This is it! You lose to the Krakens tonight, you’re all a goddamn embarrassment!”
The noise dies instantly.
Same speech, different game.
He paces in front of us, barking about heart and hustle, and how only pussies lose to their biggest rival. His voice grinds on my nerves like sandpaper. I keep my head down, rolling my shoulders, jaw tight. Every word hits the air like dissipating smoke.
He wants blood, not teamwork. Always does.
Milton mutters, “Guy’s gonna stroke out one of these days.”
“Yeah,” I say, finishing the last wrap of tape. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to the team.”
A few guys snort under their breath. Coach doesn’t notice. He’s too busy wearing holes in the floor from his excessively anxious pacing.
When he finally storms out, the room exhales all at once. I flex my grip on the stick, feeling the sting in my palms. The smell of sweat and adrenaline hangs thick, heavy enough to taste.
Someone chucks a towel across the room. Another yells that it’s time to get their heads in the game. The noise climbs again—back to the chaos I can handle.
I push up from the bench, grab my gloves, and roll my neck until it pops. Milton stands too, stretching his arms. “Think we’ll make it past period two without a fight?”
“Doubt it.”
We both grin. Fighting’s not supposed to be a strategy, but with the Krakens, it always is.
We head down the tunnel, skates clacking on the floor, the roar of the crowd growing louder with every step. The noise hits first—a wall of sound. Then the lights. Then the ice. Cold air rushes up to meet me, cutting against my skin.
The locker room door slams shut behind us, and our captain, Julius Keene, appears. Dark hair, a few days of stubble, blue eyes sharp. He’s got that same bad attitude he always does—half leader, half problem waiting to happen.
“Let’s move! Warm-up starts now!” he barks, voice rough from years of shouting. “If you’re not on the ice in two minutes, don’t bother coming out at all.”
A few guys groan, but everyone moves. That’s the thing about Julius—he talks like he hates us, but somehow we still follow him.
I stand, grabbing my helmet and stick, and that’s when I see him—Lennox, the right-wing for the Krakens—- bent down in the hall, tying his skate like he’s got all the time in the damn world.
Number twenty-three. The guy who’s been in my nightmares and my penalty box for years.
Same arrogant grin. Same lazy glide that somehow makes every reporter drool over him. I swear he smirks before he even sees me, like he can feel me watching.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
He ruined everything once—one omega, one mistake, one ugly piece of history that never stopped bleeding. And now, here we are again.
We file out, shoulders brushing, helmets clutched in hand. Milton walks beside me, eyes flicking toward the Krakens. “He’s looking at you.”
“He always is.”
“You gonna play smart tonight?”
I snort. “Define smart.”
He laughs under his breath, low and rough. “Try not to get ejected in the first ten minutes. That kind of smart.”
“Can’t promise anything.”
When we get to the team bench and take our seats, Coach Miles stomps along the boards, barking like a drill sergeant. “Keep your heads! Discipline! No stupid penalties tonight!”
Discipline. He loves that word. Says it like it’s holy.
One of the rookies cracks a joke. “Maybe Allen’s matchmaker can fix our discipline issues.”
A few guys snicker.
Coach whips around. “You think it’s funny?” His face goes red again. “You think being the league’s problem children is a joke?”
No one answers.
“Unbonded alpha chaos,” he says, spitting the words like poison. “That’s what they call you. Someone’s gotta fix that mess.”
I can’t help it—a growl rolls out of my chest before I can swallow it down. Milton elbows me lightly, a warning.
I breathe through it, jaw locking until the sound dies. Coach gives me a look but doesn’t say a damn thing. Probably knows better.
Crew Banks, our co-captain and defenseman, steps up from the end of the bench, tugging his gloves tight. Shaggy blond hair sticks out from under his cap, green-hazel eyes bright and watchful under that easy grin. He claps his hands once, voice steady but loud enough to cut through the noise.
“All right, fellas, let’s move. No funny business tonight—just skate, focus, and get your heads right to win.”
The gate clangs open, and I step out of the team box. The second my blades hit ice again, the noise of the crowd swells. Spotlights sweep the rink. Cameras flash. Fans pound the glass like they’re trying to break through.
This—this part always gets me. That one second before the game starts when everything’s balanced between chaos and glory.
I push off, gliding into a slow lap beside Milton. The rink hums under us, fans shouting our names, their breath fogging the boards. Milton bumps my shoulder with his own, a wordless check-in that says we’ve got this.
Across the rink, Lennox leans on his stick, grinning like a bastard. I don’t even try to hide my glare.
“Keep smiling, asshole,” I mutter. “See how long it lasts.”
He smirks wider, pushes off, and glides past me, shoulder brushing mine just enough to spark a reaction. The hit’s small, but the intent burns.
I inhale deep; the chill of the ice biting in my lungs. My gloves squeak when I tighten my grip.
Milton taps the butt of his stick against mine, voice steady. “Breathe. He wants you off your game.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t give it to him.”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling through my nose. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Warm-ups wrap up and we skate off, the ice crew already moving out with shovels and towels.
The air hums with noise: fans chanting, the announcer hyping the crowd, spotlights cutting across the rink.
I stand along the bench with my helmet tucked under my arm, shoulder to shoulder with Milton as the anthem starts.
Everyone goes quiet.
The music echoes through the arena; deep and heavy, the kind that hits your chest more than your ears. Helmets come off. Heads bow. For a second, all the noise and anger in me settles into one steady heartbeat.
When the last note fades, the crowd erupts again. We bang our sticks against the boards, a quick salute, and the buzzer sounds to signal game start.
We take our spots on the ice.
The world narrows to sound and motion; to the scrape of blades, the thud of bodies slamming into boards, the hard click of the puck against sticks.
Lennox flies down the right wing, fast as ever. I match him stride for stride, the boards vibrating with every hit.
The crowd loses its mind.
He slams into me, stick tangling with mine. I give it right back, harder. The referee’s whistle stays silent. Good. Let us play.
Milton shouts from the other side of the rink, “Shift!”
I pull back, lungs burning, chest heaving. Adrenaline floods everything. Every muscle in me feels alive, wired, ready to explode.
We switch lines, glide toward the bench. Coach Miles shouts orders that none of us really hear. I sit, catch my breath, eyes fixed on Lennox across the ice.
He’s laughing with one of his linemates, that same smug grin splitting his face. My teeth grind together so hard it’s a wonder they don’t crack.
Milton drops down beside me, sweat already slicking his temples. “You good?”
“Fine.”
“You look like you want to kill him.”
“I always want to kill him.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “At least wait ‘til period three.”
I grin despite myself, just a flicker. Then the buzzer goes again, and I’m back on my feet, heart already hammering for the next play.
This is the part I live for—the blur of speed, the hit, the roar. The way every thought burns off like fog until there’s only the ice and the fight.
Because when I’m out here, nothing else matters. Not the coach. Not the bullshit emails. Not the matchmaker.
Just the game.
Just the blades.
Just the fury.
And one thought pounding harder than the crowd ever could—
Beat the Krakens.