Chapter 1
BECKETT HANSEN
I hit the boards so hard, the plexi shudders. The echoes roll out, crash through the tiny rink, and die somewhere in the rafters. My shoulder throbs. I push back, unsteady, and rub the bridge of my nose. It would suck to break it again this year.
The first thing you ever learn on ice is how to stop.
It’s supposed to be second nature. Five-year-olds and idiots can stop.
Now it feels like I have to shout out commands to my own body…
hips, heels, lean, adjust, correct. My body listens, but it’s a half beat too late, and that’s too slow when you’re on ice.
It’s dumb. I’ve been skating since I could walk, and now I have to learn all over again. I feel like a baby giraffe that can’t figure out what to do with its limbs. The difference is I can literally break bones with barely a thought now.
Being an alpha is supposed to come with perks, speed, power, confidence. Nobody mentioned the part where you have to learn how to walk again and not seriously injure yourself or others. And the smell. I smell like Christmas at my grandma’s now.
Even the ice feels weird, like it’s not quite hard enough.
The air is humid. Not dry and crisp like most rinks.
Florida shouldn’t even have rinks. It can’t be good for you to go from ninety degrees outside to forty degrees inside and then have to stand on ice.
But we all have to suffer and make the pilgrimage to where Alec Volkov retired. He’s the best trainer in the league.
I make wide circles with my left arm, trying to open up my shoulder, then pick up my stick and line up for another sprint. Volkov left hours ago after telling me to shower, eat, rest. I can’t. I’ve already missed the season opener. Every day I spend here, someone could be taking my spot.
Two strides in, my right knee caves, and I’m face-down on the ice again. I stay there, forehead to the surface. You always get up. It doesn’t matter what hurts. You get up and get the puck. Even breathing hurts. I plant both hands on my knee to push myself upright.
My legs shake as I lean down to pick up my stick. My skate slips out, and I crash to one knee.
“Fuck.”
The word bounces off the boards. I slam my stick into the ice. It splinters with a satisfying crack and snaps clean in two.
“FUCK.”
I keep swinging until my arms shake and I’m breathing too hard to stand.
A voice carries from the players’ box. “What do you think melts ice faster? Your meltdown or your hotness?”
I spin toward it.
He’s leaning over the boards, forearms crossed, casual as hell. Too casual. Heat rushes up my face.
I shake my head, trying to process. “I’m sorry, what?”
He smiles, and I can’t look away. He’s an alpha. I can tell even from a distance. That’s new too. I just know who’s an alpha and who’s a beta now.
“There are better ways to work out frustration,” he says.
He’s good-looking. Messy brown hair. Stubble like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. Crooked nose. He’s wearing a black staff hoodie with the rink’s logo on the chest. Not a hockey player, but he’s definitely broken his nose more than once.
“Oh, come on, pretty boy. I’ve got game. Those lines should work.”
Was he flirting with me?
“Don’t make me resort to ‘Do you come here often?’”
I glance at the splintered carbon fiber scattered across the ice. Heat crawls higher up my neck. I’m supposed to be better than this. PHL rookies don’t throw tantrums. Alphas don’t throw tantrums.
Getting to my feet is slightly easier this time. I shake out my legs, one after the other. The movement takes me out of the mess of splintered stick.
“Fuck this alpha bullshit,” I mutter. “What’s the point of all this power if you can’t control it?”
I flick my eyes to him, embarrassed that I said it out loud. He tilts his head, watching me as I skate slow circles, trying to cool down.
“You’ve got all this extra energy and nowhere to put it,” he says in a way that makes me unsure of what he’s talking about.
I don’t think he’s referring to presenting as an alpha during your preseason after being signed as a rookie. I was written up in the press as a “Late Bloomer”. Coach said he was excited to see what I could do. If I can’t figure out how to handle myself, I’m going to get kicked off the team.
My circles bring me closer to him. I steer around the shattered stick.
“Reed,” he says, holding out a hand.
I coast to the boards. The bump is gentler this time. I pull off my glove and take his hand. His skin is warm, like that extra alpha energy simmers right under the surface.
“Beckett.”
“Beckett.” He repeats it like he’s testing the sound. “So… do you come here often? You’re not with the local TK team.”
“No. Yes.” My brain stumbles now, like it’s been over training as much as my quads. He’s better-looking up close. “I mean, I just signed with…” I stop. I don’t even know what I was about to say.
“So my lines are working.” He raises one eyebrow. His smile just about stops my heart.
“I’m signed with Ice Wolves, but I’m here training with Volkov for the week.”
“Yeah, he’s a dick.”
“He’s effective. He’s a legend.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not a dick.”
He nods toward the empty rink. “We’re about to close up, but I’ll stay if you want to abuse yourself some more. I like watching you.”
“Nah. I think I’m done. Over training leads to injury.” I glance over the ice. I should clean up the mess I made.
“Oooh, pretty and smart.”
I jump as two loud bangs echo through the arena.
“Yo, Reed. Let’s go. Bring your snack.”
I scan the rink, searching for the voice, but don’t find the source.
“I do need a snack,” I mutter. Reed laughs.
“Well, you heard him. Let’s go. We’ll get a snack for the snack.” He pops the door to the players’ bench open for me with a flourish.
“I’ve got to shower. I’m sure I reek.”
“You smell fucking delicious.”
How am I supposed to respond to that? “I, uh, should… I should clean up the ice.”
“Go change. I got this.”
I step, sheepish, into the players’ box. In my skates, I’m close to seven feet tall, not that I’ve measured.
He looks me up and down like I am, in fact, a snack.
I look over my shoulder as I walk under the stands toward the locker room. Reed has a push broom, cleaning up my mess. He bends to pick up a piece of my stick. I lose the battle not to look at his ass.
The rubber walkway squeaks under my skates as I push into the locker room.
It’s nothing like a team room. No wide stations or nameplates.
Just benches and rows of metal lockers. My gear alone takes up three.
I groan as I sit. I should be hitting an ice bath, or at least icing my knees and shoulder, not going on a date with an alpha.
My fingers freeze on the laces.
Date? Is this a date? My heart pounds so hard I’m lightheaded. I sniff at my shoulder. There’s no way I smell “delicious” after five hours in practice gear on the ice. I rip my gear off, kick it into an empty locker, and take the fastest shower of my life.
Ten minutes later, I’m pushing through the doors into the lobby.
My hair is still wet, my hoodie balled in my fist. Jeans and a T-shirt are too hot for Florida.
The hoodie’s too much, but I bring it every day anyway.
The heat hits me in the face as I step outside.
Then the smell, gasoline, wet dirt, grass clippings.
And Reed. He smells like the ocean, even though we’re miles from it.
Scent is hard to get used to. You don’t really notice it when you’re a beta. But now? Everything smells. It’s distracting.
Reed leans against an extended-cab pickup truck that’s seen better days. Someone keyed it, and paint has flaked off in patches. The rear bumper’s mangled. Mud splatters climb halfway up the sides.
A smile breaks across my face. Car shopping was the one thing I was actually looking forward to with my PHL paycheck. Reed gives the truck two thumps with his fist, like he’s finishing a conversation, and turns as I approach. He looks me up and down once.
“You showered. Kind of wish you’d asked for assistance with that. Locker room scenes are one of my fantasies.”
My jaw drops. I chuckle and look away. “Okay, wow. Is that confidence an alpha thing?”
“Oh no, baby, that’s all me.”
“Reed, put your snack in the truck. Let’s get something to eat.”
Reed’s smile is devastating. He pulls open the door with a little bow.
“You get shotgun. Your legs are too long for the cab row. We don’t want you cramping up, now do we?”
I don’t respond as I climb in and pull the door shut.
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t dated much.
High school was a blur of travel teams and skills clinics.
College was even more grueling. And when I made time for someone, I took the lead.
I don’t think I’ve ever really been hit on before. Not like this.
The driver looks me up and down. A smile slowly spreads across his face.
Stubble breaks across his jaw. There are dark smudges under his eyes, from lack of sleep, I’d guess.
His hair’s shorter than Reed’s, almost a military buzz cut.
A scar runs through his left eyebrow, which is currently raised.
His eyes are dark blue, and they don’t look through me, they look right into me.
“Hey,” he says as Reed climbs into the back and slams the door so hard the whole truck rattles.
“No Liam?” Reed asks.
“He’ll meet us at Chubby’s. You up for a burger? Or do hockey players have some complex nutrition program they have to follow?”
“I can do a burger,” I say, not wanting to admit that I do have a complex nutrition program. The right fuel is important.
“Pierce,” Reed says, leaning into the front seat, “used to date one of the cooks at Chubby’s. She always gives us extra fries.”
“I’m not too proud to date for dinner,” Pierce says as he puts the truck in gear. The tires squeal as he peels out of the parking lot. I don’t even have time to put on my seat belt.
Pierce. The name suits him somehow.
***