Chapter 3
SERGIO
"Fuck!" I shout.
Being the hockey coach, I try and keep my profanities until I get home. So I can let loose and I don't have to be the role model. But with the team playing badly, I'm not sure what I am anymore.
How did we lose that last game?
Practice is crap.
The guys aren't in the game. It's all those damn teenage hormones.
Some want to be professional and the rest just want to get laid before Prom.
Kids don't have the heart that they did before and I'm starting to take after them, because I'm feeling demotivated.
Maybe that's the issue and Nacho's right and I just need to get laid.
If only it was that simple. Ever since I heard Jessica's marrying Callum. A guy that's supposed to be my best friend, I've felt sick. Distracted. I couldn't even go to their wedding.
Earlier I put my phone on silent for two reasons, one so I don't hear about the wedding and two, I just don't want to hear about the wedding.
10 missed calls!
Where was the fire?
"What's up?"
I say to Nacho as I pick up his call.
"Man. I was worried about you."
Yeah, I can't hide anything from Nacho. As soon as I told him that I wasn't going to the wedding, he didn't ask why.
He just pressed his lips against mine and left.
He knows. But then he's the damn sheriff of the town, if he didn't pick up on things including what goes on in our packhouse then he would be in the wrong job.
"I'm fine. Just finished practice." I grab my water bottle and take a long drink.
The rink is empty now, the last of my players having shuffled off to the locker room with their heads down.
We got destroyed last week. Destroyed. And today's practice didn't give me any confidence that next week will be different.
"The kids are playing like they've never seen a puck before. "
"That's not why I called."
Something in his voice makes me pause. Nacho doesn't do emotion. He's the steadiest of all of us. The one who can stare down a drunk driver or a domestic dispute without flinching. But right now, there's something underneath his words. Something that sounds almost like... concern.
"What's going on?"
"Have you checked your texts?"
I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. The missed calls are from Nacho, Pedro, and Carlos. But there are also texts. A lot of them.
From Mrs. Whight: Sergio, you need to know. Jessica just drove through Rio Way. In a wedding dress. ALONE.
From Coach Richards at the high school: Negrorio, wasn't that Callum's fiancée who just blew through town looking like she escaped a tornado? What's going on?
From my mother, who lives two streets over and has never met a piece of gossip she didn't want to share: Sergio, why is that sweet Jessica girl sitting on Dorothy Delacroix's porch in a destroyed wedding dress crying her eyes out? Call me immediately.
My heart stops.
My alpha roars to life, demanding I go to her.
Every instinct I have screams at me to drop everything and drive straight to that house.
Check on her. Make sure she's safe. Hold her.
Tell her everything's going to be okay. The need is so overwhelming I take a step toward the exit before I catch myself.
"Sergio? You still there?"
My hands are shaking. I grip the phone tighter.
Jessica.
Wedding dress.
Alone.
Crying.
"She's back," I manage, and my voice cracks on the words.
"Yeah." Nacho's voice is carefully neutral. The voice he uses when he's trying not to influence a witness. "She ran. From the wedding. Mrs. Whight called the station to report a 'suspicious vehicle' and then spent fifteen minutes telling dispatch the whole story."
Jessica ran from her wedding, and she's in Largo Waters.
"I'm calling a meeting," I say, because that's what I do. When things fall apart, I try to hold everyone together.
"Already texted Pedro and Carlos. They're on their way to the house."
Of course they are. Because that's what we do. That's what pack does. When something happens, we gather. We talk. We figure it out together.
Except this isn't something. This is Jessica.
And there's nothing to figure out. She's Callum's. They’re both betas, they both match. It doesn’t matter if she's back in town.
She's still his.
Isn't she?
"I'll be there in twenty," I say.
"Make it fifteen. Carlos's already pacing."
I hang up and stand there for a moment, alone in the empty rink. The ice gleams under the fluorescent lights. Cold and clean and uncomplicated.
Nothing like the mess waiting for me at home.
I grab my bag and head for the parking lot. My truck is the only vehicle left, sitting under a light that's been flickering for three weeks. I keep meaning to tell maintenance. I keep forgetting.
The drive home takes twelve minutes. I know because I count every single one of them, trying to get my head straight before I have to face my brothers. Now the evenings are getting dark earlier now, leaves skittering across the road in the wind.
Even when I'm falling apart inside.
Jessica's back.
She ran from her wedding.
She's in Largo Waters.
The thoughts circle like vultures, picking at something I buried a long time ago. Something I wasn't supposed to feel. Something that made me the worst kind of friend.
I fell in love with my best friend's girlfriend.
Not right away. Not the first time Callum brought her home and introduced her with that smug smile of his, like she was a trophy he'd won. But slowly. Gradually. In the small moments that added up until I couldn't ignore them anymore.
The way she laughed at Carlos's stupid jokes. The way she'd curl up on the couch between Pedro and Nacho during movie nights, all soft curves and warmth, so relaxed she'd fall asleep. Like she belonged with us. But she’s a beta, being with her, meant we could never physically be together, because she just couldn’t handle our knots. It wasn’t fair to do that to her, or maybe we should have given her an option.
No. There was no option. Callum is a beta. She’s a beta. And he’s our best friend.
You don't betray your friend like that.
You bury it. Deep. And you try to be a good person. A good friend.
Even when it kills you.
The packhouse comes into view, and I see three vehicles already in the driveway. Pedro's practical sedan. Carlos's work truck with the Negrorio Carpentry logo on the side. Nacho's patrol car, because he apparently came straight from the station.
I park and sit for a moment, hands on the wheel.
Whatever happens in there, I need to hold it together. For them. For Callum. For Jessica, even if she doesn't know it.
I need to be the good guy.
Even if it feels like swallowing glass.
I get out of the truck and head inside.
The living room is exactly what I expected.
Pedro is standing by the window, arms crossed, face set in that permanent scowl he wears when he's processing something he doesn't like.
His dark hair is perfectly styled even after a full day at the clinic, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the light.
He's still in his work clothes: dress pants and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with lean muscle.
The scent of sage and honey clings to him, the calming alpha scent that makes his patients trust him instinctively.
Carlos is pacing the length of the room, running his hands through his dark curly hair every few seconds like he's trying to pull his thoughts out through his scalp.
He's still in his work clothes too. Jeans covered in sawdust, a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off, exposing arms thick with muscle from years of manual labor.
At six-foot-two, he's built like he spends his days hauling lumber and building houses, because he does.
The scent of sandalwood and sawdust surrounds him, earthy and warm.
Nacho is sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, perfectly still, watching everything.
His sheriff's uniform is crisp despite the long shift, his badge gleaming on his chest. He's the shortest of us at just under six feet, but he's built like a tank.
Broad shoulders, thick chest, the kind of solid presence that makes people think twice about causing trouble.
His black hair is cut military-short, his jaw covered in dark stubble.
The scent of leather and rain surrounds him, clean and masculine and steady as hell.
Their eyes dart in my direction when I walk in, and I can see it written on their faces. The same thing I'm feeling.
Hope. Fear. Confusion.
"About time," Carlos says, and his voice is tight with emotion. "I've been losing my mind here."
"You lost your mind years ago," I say, but there's no bite to it.
I drop my bag by the door and move to the center of the room.
At six-foot-four, I'm the tallest, my frame lean and athletic from years of hockey.
My dark hair is getting too long, curling at my neck, and I'm still wearing my coaching gear—track pants and a team jacket.
The scent of cedarwood and ice clings to my skin, sharp and cold from hours at the rink. "What do we know?"
Pedro answers. His voice is clipped. Professional. Like he's giving a medical report instead of talking about the woman we've all been trying not to think about for six years.
"She drove through town approximately two hours ago. Wedding dress. Alone. No sign of Callum or anyone else from the wedding party. She went directly to her mom’s house and has been there since."
"Mrs. Whight saw her," Nacho adds. "Apparently she's been telling everyone that Jessica said she's on her honeymoon."
Carlos lets out a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "Honeymoon. On her mother's porch. In Largo Waters."
"It was probably sarcasm," I say softly. "That's so... Jessica."
The way I say her name makes my chest ache. Carlos stops pacing and looks at me, and I see it in his eyes. The same pain I'm feeling.