Chapter 13 #2
"Fifteen-minute break! After that, free reign on the ice. Work on whatever you need. And for the love of God, fix your formations before the first game or I am benching every single one of you."
The team disperses, some heading for the bench, others doing lazy laps to cool down. I grab my water bottle and take a long pull, trying to focus on hydration instead of the vanilla sugar scent that has somehow reached me from across the entire rink.
How the fuck does her scent travel that far? We are in a freezing arena and I can still smell her like she is standing right next to me. Vanilla and frosted roses cutting through the ice and the sweat and the industrial cold like it is nothing.
Vanessa appears at my side before I can escape, her skates carrying her across the remaining distance with alarming speed. She crashes into me, her hands gripping my jersey, her jasmine perfume invading my nostrils with an intensity that makes me wince.
"Oh my god, babe! Are we going out tonight? There is this new lounge that just opened and everyone is going and it would be so fun if you came and we could sit in the VIP section because Kyle knows the bouncer and..."
"No." I peel her fingers off my jersey. "I have got plans."
She laughs, the sound high and disbelieving.
"Plans? With who? Not the nerdy bitch, right?"
The way she says it makes my jaw tighten. I do not know why. I should not care what she calls Mabeline. I have called her worse.
"Fuck no," I say, shoving the words out with more force than necessary. "Why would I have plans with her?"
I push Vanessa away, putting distance between us.
"Go warm up. You have got figure skating practice, do you not?"
She squeals, grabbing my arm one more time.
"It is so nice that you remember!"
I only said it to get her the fuck away from me.
She skates off toward her group, giggling with her friends about God knows what, and I exhale for the first time in sixty seconds.
I slide back toward the team bench, pulling my helmet off and running my gloved hand through my sweaty hair. The cold air feels good against my overheated scalp.
Near the boards, a group of our rookies are clustered together, their voices carrying in the arena acoustics with a clarity they probably do not realize.
"Did you see the new girl come in?" one of them asks, gesturing toward the side of the rink where Mabeline is fiddling with the laces on her skates. "She is apparently smart as fuck."
"Smart how?" another asks.
"Like, actually genius-level. That is Mabeline. You do not know? She legit has a scholarship waiting for her at fucking Harvard. Full ride. They already accepted her."
I stop pretending I am not listening.
Harvard?
"What the fuck is she doing here then?" a third rookie pipes up, voicing the exact question forming in my own head.
"She is an Omega," the first one explains, lowering his voice like he is sharing classified information.
"Even Harvard will not let you enroll unless you have a recognized pack.
Government regulations. So they told her to attend here, get her pack status sorted, and her enrollment and scholarship are set and waiting. "
She has a Harvard scholarship. Nerdy MaeMae has a full ride to Harvard and she is stuck here because the system requires an Omega to have a pack before they can do anything with their life.
And she did not mention it. Not once. Not when she was listing her rules or kicking me in the balls or telling me to pick up my dirty hockey gear. Not when she was crying over coffee or eating a bagel like it was the best meal she had ever received.
Harvard. And she is living in a closet-sized room with three Alphas who cannot even eat breakfast without fighting.
I notice Cal leaning against the boards nearby, his amber eyes sharp and attentive. He has been listening to every word.
"Is she not Coach Rose's daughter?" another rookie adds. "Theodore Rose? The figure skating guy?"
"Fuck yeah, she is. She is a professional figure skater. Like, prodigy level. Her dad trained her since she was a kid. She was supposed to go international before everything went sideways."
One of them laughs, his tone dripping with the ignorance of someone who has never been humbled by life.
"No fucking way. She looks basic as fuck."
Cal pushes off the boards.
"Watch it, broski."
The warning is quiet but carries the weight of an Alpha who is done being amused. The rookies shift uncomfortably, exchanging glances that communicate a shared understanding that Calvin Graham Knox is not someone you talk back to.
"Wait, Cal." One of them whistles. "You catching feels for the new girl?"
Cal rolls his eyes with theatrical exhaustion.
"No. I am telling you not to be disrespectful because it makes you look like a clown. There is a difference."
Harvard. Figure skating prodigy. Coach's daughter.
Who the fuck is this girl?
Movement near the entrance catches my eye.
The nerd from the classroom, Archie Holloway or Rosedale or whatever the hell his name is, walks toward the ice with the tentative steps of someone who does not quite belong but refuses to be turned away.
His wire-rimmed glasses are replaced with sports goggles, and he is wearing skates that look far too professional for someone who claims to be nothing more than a bookworm.
He reaches Mabeline and Etienne at the boards, the three of them forming a small huddle that looks more like a strategy session than casual conversation.
"What is the nerd doing here?" one of the rookies asks, echoing my thoughts exactly.
Coach Mercer speaks up from the bench, his gruff voice carrying clear authority.
"Archie Holloway-Rosedale should have fucking applied to this team, that is what. The kid has more hockey IQ in his pinky finger than half you lot have in your entire bodies."
Laughter erupts through the group.
"Coach, either you are high or drunk," Dillon says, wiping his face with a towel, "because why would that nerdy kid be on the team? He is skinny as fuck with no muscle. A strong wind would knock him off his skates."
Cal tilts his head, considering.
"He could be hiding his build, actually. How would we know? I have never seen the guy in the change room. He could be jacked under those blazers for all we can tell. Cannot really judge a book by its cover."
"Since when are you the philosophical one?" I mutter.
"Since you decided to be the asshole one full time."
I clench my jaw but say nothing, watching as Coach Mercer skates over to the small group by the boards.
He exchanges words with Mabeline and Archie, gesturing toward the ice, toward the rookie team now resetting their positions.
Mae and Archie share a glance. She shrugs.
He fixes his sports goggles and says what I can only assume is some variation of sure.
Coach Mercer skids back to us, a grin splitting his weathered face in a way that immediately puts me on edge.
"Listen up!" He claps his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man about to enjoy watching his players get humiliated. "Rookies, back into position. Same formation. Same play."
The rookie team shuffles into their spots, confused but obedient.
"Mae Rose and Holloway-Rosedale are going to show you exactly what you lot are doing wrong."
Silence.
Complete, incredulous, brain-short-circuiting silence.
Then the laughter begins.
Nearly every player on our side bursts into the kind of unrestrained cackling that echoes through the arena like a comedy show's laugh track. Guys are doubling over on the bench, slapping their knee pads, wiping tears from the corners of their eyes.
Everyone is laughing.
Except Cal.
Cal is arching one eyebrow, his amber eyes fixed on the ice with an expression that sits somewhere between curiosity and anticipation. Like he knows a secret the rest of us do not.
"Wait, hold on." He pushes off the boards, looking directly at Coach Mercer. "You are letting the Omega who can barely stand on the ice and the nerd who cannot see shit without his goggles teach us, a supposedly professional team, how to get a goal in?"
Coach Mercer crosses his arms, utterly unbothered by the skepticism.
"Professional my ass if you lot do not know how to grow and learn from coaches' children.
Rose and Holloway-Rosedale grew up watching elite athletes make and correct these exact mistakes.
They have been analyzing technique since before most of you learned to tie your own skates.
If you are too proud to listen, you are too stupid to win. "
The laughter sputters out, replaced by a murmur of reluctant acknowledgment.
"But Coach..." Dillon starts.
"Did I stutter, Dillon?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up and watch."
Coach Mercer blows his whistle, the sound sharp and final, and the rookie team settles into their formation on the far side of the ice.
My gaze tracks Mabeline as she reaches the edge of the rink.
Etienne is already there, his goalie helmet in his hands. And before she can step onto the ice, he reaches over and places it on her head.
It is comically oversized. The helmet swallows her skull, the cage dropping down past her chin, the back resting on her shoulders like a turtle shell. She looks like a child playing dress-up in her father's gear.
She pouts, those hazel eyes barely visible through the cage, and waves her hands at Etienne in a gesture that clearly communicates take this ridiculous thing off my head.
But he shakes his head, that gentle stubbornness I have come to recognize as uniquely Laurent.
"Wear it. I will be fine. Just do not try to hit my head, thanks."
She laughs, the sound muffled by the helmet but still carrying across the ice.
He gave her his helmet. He took his protective equipment off his own head and put it on hers without a second thought. Like her safety matters more than his own.
When the fuck did Etienne Laurent grow a spine?
Mae looks at Archie, who looks back at her. He shrugs. She shrugs. Some unspoken agreement passes between them, the kind of communication that only exists between people who speak the same language of strategy and competition.
The two of them skate toward center ice, and I notice it immediately.
The wobble.
Mae's ankles look uncertain, her balance shifting with each glide like she has not been on ice in years.
Which, based on what I overheard, she has not.
She grips her borrowed stick with an awkwardness that suggests she does not fully know what to do with it.
And Archie, for all his apparent hockey knowledge, moves with the careful precision of someone who understands the theory but lacks the muscle memory.
"Let me join!" Sage calls out from the side, her voice carrying with the volume of someone who has never known an indoor voice. "You need three people!"
She pushes off from the boards and skates onto the ice, reaching them in no time. Her skating is rough but confident, the kind of raw athleticism that comes from natural ability rather than formal training.
I hear Vanessa's laughter from across the arena, sharp and mocking.
"This is going to be embarrassing as fuck," she announces to her group, loud enough for half the rink to hear. "An Omega who can barely skate, a nerd, and a tomboy against our rookies? This is a joke."
I frown.
Why the hell does that bother me?
It should not bother me. Vanessa is right. This is probably going to be a disaster. Mae has not skated in years. Archie is a textbook analyst, not a player. And Sage is a wild card at best.
But watching Vanessa mock her hits different than when I do it. And I do not want to think about why that is.
I cross my arms, leaning against the boards with the practiced indifference of someone who does not care about the outcome of this little experiment.
Except my eyes will not leave her. Will not leave the oversized helmet bobbing on her head.
Will not leave the way she grips the stick with fingers that do not know its weight yet but hold it with a determination that feels familiar.
Like the way she held her crumbling bag together with safety pins.
Like the way she held herself together this morning after I ripped her living situation apart with five careless sentences.
Her scent reaches me again, carried across the cold air, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily. Not with disgust. Never with disgust. With the effort of trying to resist breathing it in deeper.
Vanilla sugar. Frosted roses. That maddening sweetness that has invaded my car's memory, my dorm's atmosphere, and apparently my ability to think clearly.
I watch Etienne watching her from the bench, his storm-blue eyes tracking her movements with the protective intensity of an Alpha who has already decided she belongs to him.
And it pisses me off.
Every cell in my body clenches with an emotion I refuse to name, refuse to examine, refuse to acknowledge as anything other than territorial irritation at a packmate overstepping his bounds.
She is just a temporary roommate. She will be gone by Valentine's Day. Whatever Etienne thinks he is building with her is pointless because she has a deadline and a Harvard scholarship and a life that does not include any of us.
So it does not matter.
None of this matters.
I huff, settling deeper against the boards.
"She is just going to mock herself, so whatever."