Chapter 14
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~MABELINE~
What did I get myself into?
I am standing on freshly resurfaced ice in borrowed skates that do not fit properly, wearing a goalie helmet that weighs approximately the same as my entire body, holding a stick I barely know how to use, about to demonstrate professional-level hockey flaws to a team of Alphas who think I can barely stand upright.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I have made excellent life choices.
The rink stretches out around me, vast and gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
The ice is beautiful. Freshly Zambonied, smooth as glass, reflecting the overhead lights in pale streaks that remind me of the practice rinks I grew up on.
The cold air bites at my exposed arms and cheeks, and the smell of the arena is achingly familiar.
Industrial refrigeration, rubber mats, the metallic tang of freshly cut ice.
It smells like childhood.
It smells like the version of me that used to fly.
The rookie team is resetting their formation on the far side, their jerseys a chaotic mix of practice colors. Rafe's senior team is clustered along the boards, some leaning on their sticks, others perched on the bench, all wearing expressions that range from amused disbelief to open mockery.
I can feel their eyes on me. Feel the weight of their judgment pressing against my skin like a physical force.
They think this is a joke. They think Coach Mercer lost his mind by putting an Omega and a nerd on the ice.
And maybe they are right. Maybe this is going to be a disaster.
Maybe I am going to fall on my face in front of the entire hockey program and confirm every assumption they have made about me since I walked through the door.
But I did not survive four years in communal housing, three years without a real meal, and twenty-three years of being told I was not enough just to let a little fear stop me from doing the one thing I have always been good at.
Reading the ice.
I could see the flaws in Rafe's team almost immediately.
Not because I am some hockey genius, but because I spent my entire childhood watching my father coach.
Thousands of hours sitting in cold bleachers, studying the way bodies move across frozen surfaces, learning to identify the microsecond hesitations and positioning errors that separate good skaters from great ones.
The senior team's problem is not speed or skill.
It is communication. They are moving as individuals, not as a unit.
Rafe barks orders but does not adjust his own positioning to support them.
Cal commits to shots without checking if his angle is actually open.
And Etienne, when he is not busy being pissed off at Rafe, telegraphs his movements in the goal so clearly that any attentive forward can read him like a billboard.
These are fixable issues. Fundamental ones that any coach's kid would spot after ten minutes of observation.
Whether they will listen to me is another matter entirely.
"Coach!" I call across the ice, my voice echoing in the arena's acoustics. "Can we do a practice round first? Before the demonstration? Just to warm up and get the feel of the formations."
Coach Mercer nods from behind the boards, waving his approval.
"Go for it, Rose. Take your time. Show them how it is supposed to look."
I turn to Archie, who is standing beside me with his sports goggles strapped tight, his ginger hair already disheveled from the cold air whipping across the rink.
"When was the last time you were on the ice?" I ask.
He frowns, his brow furrowing as he tries to calculate the answer.
"A hot minute," he says finally, which tells me exactly nothing and everything at once.
I sigh.
"Same."
He huffs, adjusting his goggles with one gloved hand.
"It does not matter. As long as you can see the technicalities of the play, the muscle memory will follow. We are not trying to outperform them. We are trying to outthink them."
I smirk at that.
"If you say so. But if you get hit by the puck, do not say it is my fault for your cracked glasses."
Sage skates up to us, her movements rough but confident, her short hair spiked in every direction from the wind.
"Are you not going to take those off, Arch?" She gestures at his goggles with her stick. "You do not even need them. Your vision is fine without them and you know it."
"Shut up, Sage."
I blink, looking between the two of them.
"Wait. You two know each other?"
The slight blush that creeps along Archie's cheekbones is subtle but unmistakable. His jaw tightens, his eyes dart sideways, and his entire posture shifts into the rigid defensiveness of someone who has been caught in a truth they were not ready to share.
Sage, naturally, notices none of this. Or pretends not to.
She laughs, bright and unbothered, and skids behind him, reaching up on her toes to ruffle his hair.
The height difference makes the gesture almost comical.
Sage is compact and athletic, built like a firecracker.
Archie, I realize now, is actually tall.
Really tall. Similar height to Etienne, which I had not noticed until this moment because every time I have seen him, he has been sitting behind a fortress of textbooks.
I take in his full image for the first time.
Ginger hair that falls across his forehead in an unruly mess.
A constellation of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks.
Sharp jaw, long limbs, and a slim build that carries better than I expected.
His posture is impeccable, straight-backed and balanced in a way that speaks to years of physical awareness, and I find myself wondering why he is not on the team.
He clearly knows the sport. He has the height, the hockey IQ, the coaching background.
But then again, I know exactly why. Being the coach's kid comes with a specific kind of pressure that makes the sport feel less like a passion and more like an obligation. Maybe Archie loves hockey the way I love skating. From the sidelines. Where it is safer.
Archie huffs, ducking away from Sage's reach.
"I need them for observation, so stop bullying me."
I laugh.
"Oh, she is not bullying you. That is Jace's job. Making your life annoying is his whole brand." I glance at Sage. "Speaking of, where is Jace? I have not seen him all day."
Sage waves a dismissive hand.
"He is not here because he is busy sorting our dorm situation."
"What is happening with your dorm?"
"Oh, nothing major." She says it with the casualness of someone reporting the weather. "Just our entire place flooded."
"WHAT?"
Archie and I say it simultaneously, our voices colliding in a shared pitch of alarm that echoes across the ice.
"Flooded?" I repeat, my eyes wide. "Your whole dorm? How? When? Are your things okay? Is Jace okay?"
"Pipe burst in the bathroom. Water everywhere.
Our mattresses are basically swimming pools now.
Jace is dealing with maintenance and trying to salvage what he can, but honestly, it is looking grim.
" She shrugs with the resilience of someone who has dealt with worse. "We will figure it out. Always do."
They will figure it out. The same phrase I have been telling myself for years. The mantra of people who have no safety net and no choice but to keep going.
I should help them. If their place is flooded, they need somewhere to stay. Somewhere dry. Somewhere warm. The apartment is cramped enough with four people, but I would rather sleep on the floor than let Sage and Jace spend a night in a waterlogged dorm.
Before I can press for details, Coach Mercer's whistle shrieks through the arena, cutting off the conversation with its sharp demand for attention.
"Focus up!" he bellows. "Practice round! Let us see what you three have got!"
We get into position, the three of us forming a loose triangle near center ice. The rookie team is spread out in their formation, looking eager and slightly confused about why they are being used as test subjects for an Omega, a nerd, and a tomboy.
The whistle blows.
The puck drops.
And I feel it instantly.
The wrongness in my feet.
These skates are my spares. The pair I keep in my bag for emergencies, the ones with duller blades and a slightly wider fit that I wear when I am not serious about performing.
I brought them intentionally today because I wanted to test the waters.
Get a feel for the ice again without committing my good pair. Keep the secret a little longer.
But the second I try to push into a sprint, the difference is staggering.
My edges slip. My turns lag by a fraction of a second. The responsiveness I need in my ankles is muted by the looser fit, making every stride feel like I am running through sand instead of gliding on glass.
The blade angle is wrong too. These skates have a flatter rocker profile, designed for stability rather than agility, and the difference is maddening when my body remembers exactly how a proper edge should feel.
My feet ache with the memory of precision, yearning for the pair tucked away in my locker.
I wobble.
Not dramatically. Not enough to fall. But enough that anyone watching closely would see the hesitation in my balance, the slight overcorrection in my hips as I compensate for the skate's inadequacy.
And people are watching.
From the sidelines, I can hear Vanessa and the other girls on the figure skating team. Their laughter carries across the ice in bright, cutting peals that are designed to wound without being direct enough to confront.
"Look at her ankles!" one of them whispers loud enough to carry. "She can barely stay upright!"
"And she is supposed to teach the hockey team? Please."
I let the laughter wash over me without reacting.
Breathe, Mae. You have heard worse. You have survived worse. A few mean girls on ice skates are not going to break what years of poverty and rejection could not.