Double Pucking Trouble

Chapter 1

Scotty

One day, I'd wake up and realize walking in on Ken fucking my next door neighbour, Amber, was the best thing he's ever done for me.

But today would not be that day.

I was not feeling especially grateful towards my piece of shit ex-fiancé as I crawled down the freeway at approximately the speed of a depressed turtle, heading back into my hometown like some kind of emotionally unstable prodigal daughter who forgot to bring dignity in her overnight bag.

There's a huge game this weekend, and the Evercrescent Wolves are the team to beat in the NHL right now, which means every hockey fan within a three state radius has descended upon the city like it's the second coming of Wayne Gretzky, and apparently, none of them understand the basic concept of carpooling.

The very least Ken could have done for me was to schedule his infidelity at a more convenient time. Like, late at night. That way, I didn't have to be stuck in fucking traffic.

I finally reach my exit and took the off-ramp to Evercrescent, which is just as jammed as the freeway, cars inching forward bumper to bumper as people try to get home or to overpriced hotels before the looming storm cracks open the sky.

I desperately wish the road would clear so I could speed up and pretend I'm outrunning something other than my own humiliation.

Because every time my brain goes quiet for half a second, it replays this morning in cruel, high definition detail. Ken thrusting into Amber. His ass cheeks doing this weird, enthusiastic jiggling thing.

Did they always do that? How did I miss that?

He looked more annoyed at being caught than ashamed, like I'd interrupted him taking a shit and not fucking the blonde Beta next door.

If I hadn't come home early, I'd still be planning our wedding right now, blissfully ignorant and debating linen colors while he auditioned for Worst Man Alive behind my back.

I am so tired of crying over a man who clearly does not deserve my tears.

He was so worried about me leaving him for an Alpha that he decided to self-sabotage first. Insecure little Beta prick. No, that's not fair to other Betas. This wasn't a Beta problem. This was a Ken problem.

What grown ass man is named Ken anyway? It sounds like he should come with interchangeable outfits and zero emotional depth.

His name alone was a fucking red flag.

My phone vibrates with an incoming call, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to roll down the window and frisbee it into oncoming traffic when I see Ken's name lighting up the screen.

My eyes are off the road for maybe half a second.

One tiny, rage filled half second, but when I look up there's a car stopped dead in front of me, and I have exactly zero time to brake.

I yank the steering wheel, and my car goes flying into the next lane just as a black Range Rover pulls into the same spot from the other side.

Its front bumper collides with my passenger door in a crunch that reverberates straight through my spine.

My head smacks against the window, then snaps back the other way as the impact spins my car around.

When everything finally stops moving, I'm facing the wrong direction, oncoming traffic splitting around me like a traffic cone.

I sit there, hands welded to the steering wheel, heart hammering so hard it feels like it's trying to claw its way out.

My lower lip starts to tremble, and I bite down on it hard because I absolutely refuse to add "public meltdown in the middle of the road" to today's highlight reel. I will not cry. I have already cried enough for one day.

There's a knock on my window, and I flinched so hard I nearly headbutt the steering wheel. When I turned my head, the air caught in my throat like I'd swallowed a fistful of cotton.

A man is peering in at me, golden brown hair pushed back from his forehead like he's just run a hand through it, stormy gray eyes scanning my face with concern.

He's tall—absurdly tall—with broad shoulders I could comfortably sit on.

Even through the cracked door and the chaos of the street, I catch the warm, sweet scent of cinnamon rolls coming from him.

It's subtle but steady, the kind of warmth that doesn't overwhelm so much as settle, and my Omega perks up and takes notice.

No. Absolutely not. We are concussed. We are furious. We are not evaluating men based on how amazing they smell.

"Fuck, are you okay?" he asked, opening my car door, his nostrils flaring when he caught my scent.

His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the air between us, the kind of sound that made my Omega sit up and pay attention, whether I wanted her to or not.

I blinked up at him, trying to drag my brain back into working order.

"I'm fan-fucking-tastic," I mutter, because apparently sarcasm is my emotional support animal. "I'm so sorry. It's been a rough day." That's putting it mildly. "Was that your car?"

"Yeah," he said easily, extending his hand toward me. "But the damage isn't nearly as bad as—" He glanced at my passenger door and visibly winced.

I refused to look. If I can't see it, it doesn't exist. That's just science.

Someone let out a low chuckle behind him, and when he shifted his weight to the side, I caught my first glimpse of the second man.

And ohhh boy.

He's even taller than the first, blonde hair neatly styled, sharp blue eyes taking in everything with a kind of calm assessment that makes me suddenly aware of how small I am in comparison.

If the first Alpha was a cozy blanket, this one was the sturdy frame of the bed itself.

As he stepped into my space, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wrapped around my senses, dark and potent.

And then, because my Omega has no chill, my body betrayed me with a burst of sweet, unmistakable cherry scent that practically screamed "interested Omega" to anyone with functioning nostrils.

This is inappropriate. This is wildly inappropriate. It has been approximately six hours since I left my cheating ex. I have just wrecked my car. And my biology has decided that now is the perfect time to acknowledge two Alphas who smell like warmth and stability.

And they're not just any Alphas. Nope. They are Hunter Lowell and Ryder Thomas.

Top defensive pairing for the Wolves. Power couple of the NHL.

The league's favorite Alpha duo, who are very publicly and unapologetically dating each other, which has only made them more famous because apparently talent, size, and devotion are the holy trinity of marketability.

If the gossip blogs are to be believed, they occasionally enjoy female company too—but that is not relevant to me. At all.

Hunter is still holding his hand out. I take it, because apparently I make terrible decisions in threes.

The second our palms meet, warmth slides up my arm and settles low in my belly, subtle but undeniable. His hand engulfs mine, and I am suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I am five-foot-three on a generous day and standing between two men who look like they bench press each other for funsies.

"I'm Hunter," he said, tilting his chin toward the blonde. "And that's Ryder."

Ryder's lips quirked at the introduction, and he draped one massive arm across Hunter's shoulders without breaking eye contact with me.

The casual possessiveness of the gesture shouldn't have made my stomach flip, but watching these two mountains of men lean into each other sent a wave of heat straight through my core.

"I know who you are," I said, because feigning ignorance about two hockey stars in this town would be like claiming I'd never heard of oxygen. "My dad's talked about you a lot."

"Is he a big fan?" Ryder asked, and the way his mouth curved should have come with a warning label.

"Worse," I said solemnly. "He's your coach."