Chapter 13
The Scrimmage
~RAFE~
"MOVE!"
I bark the order across the rink, my voice bouncing off the plexiglass barriers and echoing up into the steel rafters. My legs are burning, my lungs are screaming, and the puck has just slipped out of our possession for the third goddamn time in ten minutes.
This is unacceptable.
I dig my blades into the ice, sprinting down the left side with everything I have. The rookie who stole the puck is fast, I will give him that, but he is sloppy with his handling. Telegraphing every move with his shoulders like he is sending a written invitation for me to intercept.
I close the gap in three strides, cutting across his path with a sharp turn that sends a spray of ice shavings into the air. My stick connects with the puck at the last possible second, stealing it back from his control just before he reaches the offensive zone.
The stop brings me dangerously close to the boards. Close enough that my shoulder pads scrape against the plexiglass with a sound that makes my teeth clench. But the puck is mine again, and that is all that matters.
I pass it to Cal in one fluid motion, sending it skimming across the ice toward his waiting stick.
Cal catches it cleanly, pivoting on his left skate to face the goal. He winds up for a shot, the motion powerful and practiced, his whole body coiling like a spring before releasing.
The shot is good. The angle is good. The power is good.
But the rookie defenseman reads it like a billboard advertisement, sliding into position and swiping the puck off Cal's stick before it ever leaves the ground.
"Fuck!"
Cal's curse carries across the rink as the rookie takes off in the opposite direction, racing down the ice with the kind of gleeful energy that only someone who has never been crushed by a real game can muster. His teammates are screaming encouragement, and our side is scrambling to recover.
I spin, pushing my legs to close the distance, but I am too far out of position. Cal is chasing, too, his skates cutting sharp arcs across the surface, but we are both several strides behind.
"Laurent!" I shout toward the goal. "Stay on your fucking guard!"
Etienne turns to face me through his helmet, and even through the cage, I can read his expression perfectly clearly.
It says, in no uncertain terms, go fuck yourself.
Great. He is still pissed about this morning.
I watched it happen in real time. The split second where Etienne's focus drifts, where his positioning loosens by a fraction, where his reflexes lag just enough for the rookie to find a gap.
The puck sails past his glove and hits the back of the net with a sound that might as well be a funeral bell.
Our half of the scrimmage groans in unison, sticks hitting the ice in frustration. The rookies erupt into cheers, bumping helmets and slapping each other's backs like they just won the damn championship instead of a practice drill.
Coach Mercer blows his whistle, the sharp blast cutting through the noise like a knife.
"Time out! Everybody in!"
The team gathers at center ice, breathing hard and dripping with sweat despite the rink's frigid temperature.
Helmets get pushed back, mouth guards get pulled out, and water bottles appear from the bench.
Laurent stays in his goal, leaning against the post with his arms crossed and his expression radiating the kind of simmering resentment that makes me want to skate over and check him into the boards.
But I do not.
Because the last time I pushed one of my packmates, Cal put his fist in my gut and I spent twenty minutes trying to breathe again.
Coach Mercer plants himself in the middle of our huddle, his graying hair stuffed under a backwards cap, his face carrying the permanent scowl of a man who expected professional-level performance and got a circus instead.
"Alright. Somebody want to tell me who the fuck pissed off Laurent today?"
A few chuckles ripple through the group.
"Has to be Rafe," one of the guys says, grinning behind his mouth guard. "He is a douche to everyone, so it is usually a safe bet."
"Fuck off, Dillon."
Cal nods, helpful as ever.
"Yeah, Rafe pissed him off earlier this morning. Had it coming, honestly."
Coach Mercer gives me a look. The look. The one that says I am seconds away from running laps until I vomit.
"Come on!" I throw my arms up. "I cannot be punished because he is being a moody douche!"
I say it loud enough to carry across the rink. Intentionally. Because if Laurent wants to sulk, he can sulk with the full knowledge that I do not care.
Etienne responds without turning around.
His gloved hand rises from his side, middle finger extended with impressive precision considering the bulk of a goalie glove.
He does not even look in my direction. Just holds it there for a solid five seconds, his gaze fixed on some point past the boards, before lowering it with the casual deliberation of someone who has rehearsed the motion specifically for this moment.
The team snickers.
I clench my jaw.
Dramatic little shit.
My attention drifts, pulled by the subtle shift in energy around me. Several of my teammates are looking toward the side entrance of the rink, their conversations trailing off mid-sentence as they track movement near the bleachers.
I follow their gaze.
And there she is.
Mabeline walks through the entrance in baggy pants that are at least three sizes too large for her frame and an oversized t-shirt that hangs past her hips like a dress.
I have to squint because I can tell immediately those clothes are not hers.
They are enormous on her, swallowing her skinny frame whole, but the effect is casual in a way that feels intentional.
Like she chose to drown herself in fabric because she did not want anyone looking too closely at what is underneath.
Whose clothes is she wearing? Those pants alone could fit two of her.
She is talking to Sage, the tomboy Omega who burst into our classroom like a small hurricane yesterday.
The two of them are wearing skates, though neither has stepped onto the ice yet.
Mabeline is pointing toward the rink, gesturing with animated hands while she explains a concept that is making Sage groan and look thoroughly unamused.
I still do not know what Sage's deal is. She is clearly an Omega, but she carries herself with the swagger of an Alpha who grew up fighting for every scrap. The biggest tomboy I have ever encountered. And that Jace guy is not around today, which means it is just Mae and her feral little sidekick.
"LISTEN UP!" Coach Mercer's voice snaps my attention back.
"Strategy time. You lot are moving too damn slow.
Every single one of you is skating like you got anchors strapped to your asses.
The rookie team just embarrassed you, and they have been on the ice for two weeks.
TWO WEEKS. You have years of experience and you are getting outplayed by children. "
Dillon raises his hand.
"In our defense, Coach, our cocks are heavy to carry. Just like these damn mouth guards. Lot of weight distribution issues happening."
The guys erupt in laughter, elbowing each other and adding their own crude commentary. Coach Mercer rolls his eyes with the weariness of a man who chose this career path and regrets it daily.
"Real funny. Hilarious. You are all comedians. Maybe you should form a stand-up team instead of a hockey team since you are clearly more talented at making jokes than scoring goals."
The laughter dies down, but the grins remain.
I tune out the rest of the strategy talk, my eyes drifting back toward the rink's edge.
Etienne is no longer at the goal post.
He has skated to the side boards, his helmet tucked under one arm, his dark curls matted with sweat.
He is leaning against the railing, talking with Mabeline, who is on the other side with her hands resting on the ledge as she points at the far half of the rink and explains what sounds like positioning.
Her head tilts, her brow furrows, and she moves her hands like she is drawing invisible diagrams in the air while Etienne nods along with the focused attention of someone receiving sacred instruction.
A sour taste fills my mouth.
There it is again. That feeling. That gnawing, acidic thing that coils in my gut every time I see the two of them together.
Jealousy.
No. It is not jealousy. It cannot be jealousy because jealousy requires wanting what someone else has, and I do not want Mabeline Mae Rose.
She is a temporary roommate with an ancient phone, a dead bag, and the audacity to kick me in the balls.
She is not a threat. She is not competition. She is nothing to me.
I can get whoever I want. Vanessa throws herself at me daily. Half the Omegas in this school would line up if I showed the slightest interest. I am the captain. The top prospect. The fucking alpha of Alphas on this team.
So why does watching Etienne smile at her make my blood boil?
As if the universe heard my internal monologue and decided to punish me for my arrogance, a high-pitched squeal erupts from the entrance.
Vanessa and her entourage descend upon the rink like a flock of designer-clad birds, their excited chatter bouncing off every surface.
They are in figure skating attire, leotards and warm-up jackets and skirts that are more decorative than functional, their hair pulled into tight buns that make their faces look even more angular and predatory.
"Oh my god, the boys are practicing!" Vanessa squeals, clutching her friend's arm. "Kyle! Kyle, look! They are so sweaty!"
More than one guy on my team groans audibly.
"Aye, Beaumont!" Dillon calls out with a shit-eating grin. "Go get your puck girl!"
The team dissolves into laughter. I resist the urge to crosscheck Dillon into the boards.
"Y'all can kiss my ass," I mutter, skating toward the bench for water.
Coach Mercer checks his watch.