Chapter 14 #2
Sage glides up beside me mid-drill, her face scrunched with concern.
"Why are you wearing those skates?" she asks, low enough that the rookies cannot hear. "You have your competition pair in your locker. I saw you pack them this morning."
"I wanted to test the waters first," I say. "See how the ice felt before bringing out the real ones."
Sage laughs, short and incredulous.
"You are such an evil bitch. Making them think you cannot skate while your actual blades are sitting twenty feet away."
I smirk.
"Let me switch out. I will be back."
I skate toward the bench exit, my movements deliberately unhurried. Archie watches me go, calling out to Sage.
"Where is she going?"
"You will see," Sage replies, her grin audible even from across the rink.
The bench is cold under my thighs when I sit down, and I immediately start unlacing the spare skates with fingers that are stiff from the arena's frigid air.
My competition skates are in my gym locker, and I had tucked the bag behind the bench earlier, just in case.
Just in case the ice called me back. Just in case my body remembered what my brain has been trying to forget.
"You okay?"
Cal's voice catches me off guard.
I look up to find him standing at the far end of the bench, still in full gear minus his helmet, his amber eyes fixed on me with an expression that looks suspiciously like genuine concern.
His blond hair is damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, and his scent is warm caramel and autumn spice, stronger now from exertion.
"Yeah," I say, tugging the lace free. "Why? Scared I am going to take a puck to the face?"
He huffs.
"Not with that helmet on your head, no. That thing could survive a meteor impact." He pauses, his eyes dropping to my outfit. The oversized sweatpants. The thin tank top that was fine when I was moving but is now leaving goosebumps on every inch of exposed skin. "But are you not cold?"
I glance down at myself.
"Not really."
Lie. I am freezing. The sweat from the practice round has cooled against my skin, and the tank top is doing absolutely nothing to insulate me from the rink's below-zero temperature.
My arms are covered in goosebumps, and I can feel the chill settling into my joints in a way that will make me stiff if I does not warm up soon.
But admitting that feels like admitting weakness, and I have met my quota for vulnerability this week.
Cal stares at me for three full seconds.
Then he is pulling his jersey over his head.
The motion catches me completely off guard. One second he is standing there, fully dressed in team gear, and the next he is tossing a red and white hockey jersey across the bench toward me. It lands in my lap with the heavy warmth of fabric that has been absorbing body heat for the last hour.
"I cannot be getting any form of sickness from you, MaeBell," he says, his voice gruff and pointed, his gaze fixed on the rink like he did not just strip off his jersey for an Omega he claims to have no feelings for. "So dress appropriately."
He turns his back to me before I can respond.
I stare at the jersey in my lap.
First Etienne gives me his helmet. Now Cal gives me his jersey.
If Rafe tosses me his stick, I am going to start thinking these Alphas actually care.
"Are you doing this because Laurent gave me his helmet?
" I ask, pulling the jersey over my head.
It is enormous on me, the sleeves falling past my fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh.
It smells like warm caramel and autumn spice and sweat and the unique musk of an Alpha who has been exerting himself.
The scent wraps around me like a blanket.
Cal huffs without turning around.
"No. What, you want my stick too?"
The words leave his mouth before he realizes what he has said.
I see the exact moment the innuendo registers. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his head dips a fraction of an inch.
I should let it go.
I absolutely should let it go.
I do not let it go.
I stand up, freshly laced into my competition skates, and walk over to him. Slowly. Deliberately. Until I am close enough that my breath ghosts against the side of his neck.
"Can I borrow your stick, Alpha?"
I whisper it.
Low and sweet and dripping with a tone that I did not even know I was capable of producing until this very second.
Cal's jaw drops.
His entire face ignites. From his neck to his cheekbones to the tips of his ears, a flush so violent it could be mistaken for a sunburn.
His amber eyes go wide, his grip on his hockey stick loosens, and for a solid three seconds, Calvin Graham Knox stands completely frozen on the spot like his brain has blue-screened.
I giggle, plucking the stick from his slack grip before he can recover enough to drop it.
"I take that as a yes," I say brightly, stepping back onto the ice with his jersey drowning my frame and his stick in my hands. "I will try not to break it!"
Behind me, I hear Cal blink back into existence.
"I have been bamboozled!" His voice cracks with indignation. "She just bamboozled me! In front of the whole team! Did you all see that? That was deliberate manipulation! That Omega weaponized her voice against me and I just stood there like a damn fool!"
The guys on the bench are cackling. Full, body-shaking, tears-in-their-eyes laughter that bounces off the arena walls.
"Bro, she took your stick AND your dignity!"
"MaeBell just ended your whole career, Knox!"
Cal groans, ruffling his hair with both hands, cursing under his breath in a stream that I am pretty sure includes at least three languages.
I am still giggling when I reach Sage and Archie at center ice, both of whom are staring at me with identical expressions of suspicious amusement.
Sage's gaze travels from the oversized jersey to the hockey stick to the competition skates now laced snugly on my feet.
"New wardrobe additions?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.
I shrug innocently.
"He does not want me to get him sick."
"Righttttttt," Sage drawls, the word stretching into infinity.
"Bullshit," Archie mutters, but there is a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Coach Mercer skates to the center, his whistle between his teeth.
"You three ready?"
We nod in unison.
I turn to Archie.
"Do you want to lead? You have the hockey IQ. You know the formations better than either of us."
He considers it for a moment, his sports goggles reflecting the overhead lights. Then he reaches up and slides them off his face, perching them on top of his disheveled ginger hair.
"Nah," he says. "You lead."
Sage and I both freeze.
Because without the goggles blocking half his face, Archie Hale Rosedale is a completely different person.
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT, ARCHIE!"
Sage and I say it at the exact same time, our voices colliding in a shared exclamation of pure, unfiltered shock.
"You have got a handsome face?" I blurt, gawking at him with zero subtlety.
Because he does. Behind those wire-rimmed glasses and the sport goggles he hides behind, Archie has sharp cheekbones, deep-set green eyes framed by ginger lashes, and a jawline that could cut glass.
The freckles that scatter across his nose are not nerdy.
They are charming. Distinctive. The kind of feature that makes a face memorable.
His eyes are vivid and startlingly intense without barriers dimming them, carrying an intelligence that the goggles somehow managed to soften into harmlessness.
Sage is beside herself.
"Holy shit!" She skates a full circle around him, her mouth hanging open. "When did you get hot? When did this happen? Were you always this good-looking and just hiding it behind academic accessories?"
Archie's entire face turns the color of his hair.
"I am putting these glasses back on and walking off the ice," he mutters, reaching for the goggles.
"NO!" Sage and I lunge simultaneously, both of us grabbing at his wrists to stop him from putting the goggles back on.
"Be our ally!" I insist, holding his arm in place. "Keep them off! The world deserves to see that face!"
"In fact," I add, glancing between him and Sage with a grin that is building in wattage by the second, "be Sage's Alpha at this point because damn. This dynamic is incredible."
Sage whips around to face me.
"MAE! Do not go setting me up! I am not in the market! I am closed for business! The shop is shuttered!"
I shrug, unfazed.
"Somebody has got to do it in Jace's absence," I say with a wink. "He would approve. He is probably manifesting this exact scenario from your flooded dorm right now."
Archie looks like he wants the ice to crack open and swallow him whole.
Sage looks like she wants to shove me into the boards.
I look like I am having the time of my life, which I am, because this is the most fun I have had in years and we have not even started the drill yet.
"Focus!" I clap my hands together, channeling every ounce of my father's coaching energy. "I lead. Let us make it quick. I want to actually pass by the library before they close."
"What a nerd," Sage teases, rolling her eyes.
Then she pauses.
"Actually, they got some new manga in! I will come with you."
Archie side-eyes her with naked disdain.
"You still read that comic book shit?"
Sage's expression darkens into pure, distilled menace.
"I will bite you if you say that again, you fiend. Manga is a respected art form with complex narratives and stunning visual storytelling, and I will not have some textbook-sniffing Alpha disrespect it in my presence."
"Alpha and Omega," I groan, pressing my palms against my eyes. "Take it to the bedroom."
"Fuck off, Mae!" they say in perfect unison, which only proves my point.
I snicker, deeply satisfied with myself, until Sage grabs my arm.
"Oh God, Mae, be easy on them." She jerks her chin toward the rookies who are waiting in formation. "The moment the commentary starts coming out, you are going to turn into Bitch Mae. I have seen it. It is not pretty."
I grin.
"I will try to be easy. Maybe."
Archie glances at Sage, uncertain.
"Should I be worried?"
Sage exhales through her nose, the sound carrying the weight of experience.
"All I will say is the Mae you see in class is a completely different Mae on the ice. Watch the shift."
I roll my eyes but do not argue.
Because she is not wrong.
There is a version of me that exists only on ice.
A version that does not second-guess herself, does not shrink, does not apologize for taking up space.
She is sharp and focused and merciless in her pursuit of perfection.
She reads the ice the way other people read books, seeing patterns and possibilities where others see only a frozen surface.
I have not let that version of me out in years.
Not since the day my parents told me I was a disgrace.
Not since the funding dried up and the rink time disappeared and the future I had built my entire identity around crumbled into dust. I locked that girl away because letting her exist meant acknowledging what I had lost, and the grief of that loss was too enormous to carry alongside everything else.
But the ice is here.
And I am standing on it.
And for the first time in four years, it feels like coming home.
I skate into position at center ice, Cal's stick resting in my grip with a weight that is different from what I am used to but manageable.
My competition skates hug my ankles with familiar precision, responsive and tight, the blades sharp enough to cut through the freshly resurfaced ice with a whisper.
The rookie facing me is broad-shouldered and grinning, his stance relaxed in the way of someone who does not consider me a legitimate opponent.
He leans forward, his grin widening.
"I will be easy on you," he says, adding a wink that is probably meant to be charming. "I do not bully Omegas."
I smile back.
"Okay," I say sweetly. "Thanks."
You will regret that wink in about thirty seconds.
Coach Mercer skates to the face-off circle, puck balanced on his open palm. The arena hushes. The rookies settle into their formation. Sage plants herself on my left, her posture coiled and ready. Archie takes the right flank, his green eyes sharp and calculating without the goggles dimming them.
Coach raises the puck.
I take a deep breath.
The cold air fills my lungs, sharp and clean and achingly familiar.
The rink hums beneath my blades. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
And somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the layers of trauma and grief and self-doubt that have accumulated over four years of surviving instead of living, a spark catches.
Small.
Fragile.
But alive.
I can feel them watching. Rafe with his crossed arms and his doubt.
Vanessa with her laughter and her cruelty.
Etienne with his quiet belief and his storm-blue eyes.
Cal with his empty jersey slot and his reluctant concern.
An entire arena full of people who have already decided what I am capable of.
They are all about to be very, very wrong.
For once, let that competitive side of you come back to life.