Chapter 6
Bayleigh
I feel him before I see him — a shift in the air, the vibration of his steps hitting the metal bleachers.
My implant crackles uselessly, picking up nothing but static.
Not sure how it’s possible. He’s not my scent match.
I’ve already had that, and he rejected me.
Yet, I’m drawn to the tall asshole of a man.
I keep signing with James, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he makes his way over to us.
He’s carrying a tray, and my mouth waters when I see the popcorn.
Easy to remember, but does he have the nacho cheese? That’s the question.
He says something to the people in the row below us as he makes his way down the tiny space between the seats they expect people to walk.
Insane if you ask me, especially if someone is sitting in the seat.
My eyes trail up his body, my attention gone from what James was telling me to the alpha standing before me.
He hands a drink to James, then to me. I set it on the ground by my feet, and he passes me the tub of popcorn—bigger than the one I originally ordered.
My heart swells when he hands me a cup of cheese, and I catch the faintest trace of his scent—sandalwood and amber, soft but grounding—slipping past my guard before I can stop it.
A huge smile crosses my face, and I set the popcorn in my lap and quickly sign.
You remembered.
James laughs from beside me and translates while also signing for me. “She’s shocked you remembered the cheese. We both are. Well, I’m more impressed you actually came and found us. Thanks for the soda. Beer would’ve been better.” He winks, lifting the cup to his mouth and taking a swallow.
The alpha holds the tray in his hand with the remaining items on it as he runs his other hand through his hair, his nose scrunching slightly. Fuck, that’s hot.
“I’m still trying to figure that out. A cup of nacho cheese? No chips?” He tilts his head to the side. “I’m Lincoln, by the way. Nice to meet you both and again, sorry about earlier.”
Lincoln. The name suits him. But I like Linc better.
It’s for dipping the popcorn; trust me, it elevates the taste to a whole other level. I’m Bayleigh, and this is my bestie and translator, James. I sign to him, glancing at James to make sure he’s translating and not letting Lincoln struggle.
Before Lincoln can respond, James lifts his hand and signs my name—“B” tapped twice over the heart—the name sign I was given when I was little.
A name sign is tradition in ASL, something earned, not chosen.
Lincoln watches the movement like it’s something important, something he wants to get right, and the seriousness in his eyes makes my breath stutter.
While I’m caught in my musings, Lincoln takes the opportunity to climb over the seat and plop down in the empty one beside me. A rich, buttery wood scent, with a tinge of sweetness, drifts off of him—sandalwood and a hint of amber. Fuck, it’s intoxicating.
He sets the tray down on the floor beside him, right in front of the empty seat, then angles his body toward me. He picks up his phone, glancing at it quickly before dropping it into his lap, and signs.
I’m sorry.
My eyes go wide in disbelief, and I let out a small gasp.
You know sign language?
He doesn’t take his eyes off me, and I know James is translating what I’m saying. James smiles, and then his lips move, and I follow them, imagining what his voice sounds like.
“No.” He runs his hand along the side and back of his neck.
“I felt like a dickhead, and well, I Googled it. Figured out how to say at least that so it seems like I truly mean it.” He drops his head so I don’t see the last part, and I shift my gaze back over to James and wait for him to sign to me what he said.
It was a nice gesture. Not many people would even try. My fingers cut through the air as I respond to him.
James taps me on the shoulder so that he can sign to me what he’s about to say.
“Linkie. Can I call you that?” James asks with a seductive grin. “Nah, doesn’t matter if you say no. So, Linkie, if you look her directly in the face, don’t cover your mouth and speak slowly and clearly, she can read your lips.”
Lincoln nods in understanding.
“I know I kinda already sat down, and it doesn't look like the owner of this seat has arrived. Would it be okay for me to join you for the game?”
He did just as James instructed, and I understood every word clear as day.
Well, you're already sitting there. And this is a public arena, so I can’t really say no, can I?
I don’t need to look back over at James to know he’s told Lincoln what I said. I wonder if he feels like a third wheel? Unless I’m reading the signs wrong and this hot as sin man isn’t hitting on me.
“Well, if you tell me to leave. I will.” I tilt my head to the side, really looking at him. His face has softened since the first time I saw him. Sincerity seeps from his pores. He really means it. If I were to tell him no, I believe he’d get up and leave.
The problem is, I like having him close to me, like having his scent wrapped around me like a warm blanket.
I lift my hand, tapping my finger to my chin like I’m thinking about what to do.
I’m just messing with him. Curious as to what he’ll do.
He must think I’m going to say no, because he picks up his tray from the floor and stands.
My hand reaches out on instinct, taking hold of his arm, getting his attention.
He stops, turning his head to me, and I let go of his arm, my hand already missing his touch.
No, please stay. I mean, you did say sorry and replaced my food. But there’s one condition.
He instantly smiles and sits back down.
“What is it?” he asks.
You have to root for the Krakens.
His face goes slack, and his jaw clenches. Ahh, he’s here for the Scorpions. He has a poor choice in a team, but I can’t fault him for that. Maybe he just hasn’t seen a good team play hockey before.
“Sure. Go Krakens.” I can see the pain on his face saying the words.
I’m kidding. I finally sign, letting him off the hook. The real deciding point was your stance on nacho cheese and popcorn.
I reach down, picking up my bucket, taking a kernel of corn from it and dipping it in the cheese before holding it out to him. He doesn’t take it from my fingers; instead, he leans over, taking my fingers in his mouth and eats it, his eyes locked on mine as he does.
I have to clench my thighs, already knowing my perfume is leaking off my body. James reaches over, taking my hand in his and pulling it away from Lincoln, giving him a stern look.
He quickly signs to me, and I notice he doesn’t speak. James clearly intends what he says to be for our eyes only.
I know he’s hot, and your omega instincts are clearly taking over. Just remember where we are. You know your brother isn’t just going to let you come to a game without having eyes on you. If he’d seen what just happened, he’d kill Lincoln without a second thought.
Fine, I get it. I’ll behave. I wink at him before turning back to Lincoln and signing directly to him. Sorry, James just had to tell me something private for a minute.
I turn back to James, grinning as I add the next part knowing he won’t translate it.
He farted and wanted to make sure it didn’t smell.
“I just had to remind her about something. But let’s all remember to keep our hands to ourselves.” James glares at me, and I know I need to play nice if I want him to keep translating.
James is right. What I did was stupid. Being here without an alpha or a pack is reckless enough.
Benton is always reminding me to wear my blockers when I’m in public so no one can scent me.
A packless omega or an omega not being courted is only asking for trouble.
I’ve heard the horror stories of the omegas who have gone missing.
The lights dim, signaling the start of the game, and my pulse races. I love watching Benton play the sport he loves. He’s a natural at it. The crowd comes to life as screams and roars erupt.
The Krakens come out on the ice first, with my brother leading them.
The number twenty-three stands out in bold numbers on his back along with our last name.
They skate around the rink, warming up before heading over to their benches.
The Scorpions follow after them, doing the same until the starting players are called out on the ice.
I hold my breath as the players for the Krakens and Scorpions skate out onto the ice. Nelson heads to the goal, while Benton and the left wingmen, along with the two defensemen, get in place. Matt, the center, heads to the line at the circle for the faceoff against the Scorpions’ center.
Their helmets dip, and even without seeing, I already know that Benton’s gloves are tightening around his stick. He’s chomping at the bit to get into action.
The centers crouch low, and I know their eyes are locked on the small black disk in the referee’s hand.
I can’t even breathe. Waiting for the puck to drop and the centers to jump into action, each vying for control of the puck.
The referee leans in, arm raised, and drops the puck, causing the crowd to go wild.
Andrew gets control of the puck, passing it over to my brother.
He darts past a Scorpion defenseman, shouldering number twenty-one hard enough to send him spinning, and I grin.
Benton always sets the tone early. A deep vibration rolls through the seats as the crowd reacts, but my implant cuts out almost instantly, swallowing the sound before I can make sense of it.
Noise this loud always overwhelms the processor, leaving everything muted and distant.
Beside me, Lincoln leans forward in his seat, his jaw tight, and lets out a low growl I can feel more than hear. My implant catches a vibration, but not enough to understand anything. I brush it off and keep watching the ice.
A moment later, James nudges my arm and signs, He just called your brother a fucker.
I was right; he’s a Scorpions fan. We keep watching, and I even share my popcorn and nacho cheese with him, making sure our hands never touch. James has a point. I fight so hard for the freedom I do get that I don’t want to do anything that could jeopardize it.
The game continues with us currently in the lead.
Benton checks the same player again, harder this time, and the tension finally erupts—gloves come off, fists start flying.
The entire stadium goes wild. Lincoln’s on his feet before I can blink, shouting at the ice.
I can’t make out the words, just the deep timbre of his voice, vibrating through me even though the crowd’s screaming.
James taps my shoulder, getting my attention as he tells what Lincoln is screaming for me, and my stomach sinks. Lincoln’s yelling about my brother. My jaw tightens. It shouldn’t bother me—the Scorpions and Krakens are rivals—but it does. And not just because he’s cheering against Benton.
The noise reminds me of what I’m losing.
My implant’s been cutting in and out for months, sounds bleeding together until it’s just vibration and tone. The doctors warned me this would happen. By twenty-five, I’ll be fully deaf. No amount of surgery or technology can change it.
When Lincoln finally sits back down, breathless, he catches my expression and mutters an apology. James starts to translate, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
It’s okay.
Lincoln looks at me full of confusion, no doubt noticing the change in demeanor. He opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. Instead, I turn my attention back to the ice, to my brother.
The game rages on, the scent of beer and popcorn thick in the air. Benton’s back on the bench, wiping blood from his lip, and I know he’s fine. Beside me, Lincoln settles, watching the rink with a quiet intensity that feels… different now.
I should’ve known this alpha was too good to be true.