Chapter Sixteen
The stadium shakes as the crowd roars. Fans stomp their feet and scream with full lungs and arms raised.
I’m in the loge to the left and behind the net, not at the ice level but one up, and it’s exactly where I want to be. Trick offered me a box pass but there’s no better seat than this.
The deafening noise reverberates in my chest and steals my breath.
This is why I love the games.
Yes, the players are hot. That helps.
But my family has been attending since I was little for moments like this.
The third period isn’t even a few seconds in and already the players are jockeying for position. My guys are up one and none, and the old rivalry with the Airmen tinges every exchange of the puck.
They fly along the surface, ice flying with each turn, and stop, and that little black disc ricochets and rockets along the boards.
Vin waits crouched in front of the goal. He snatches a puck from the air with his glove and casually flips it to the ref while the crowd loses it.
I scream even though he’ll never hear it and add my voice to the chant in his name.
Vin-son!
Vin-son!
Vin-son!
He circles his glove at the crowd and they go impossibly louder.
More frantic plays ensue. A Cannon defensemen shoves the Airmen’s into the boards, and Mason skates by easily then takes the puck. A bit of footwork and careful skating, and it’s passed to the center.
The wingers and center trade the puck back and forth in exacting movements.
Each of the three is positioned precisely in a triangular pattern near the Airmen’s goal. Trick and another defensemen lock sticks with the other players and blocks their lines of sight.
Another pass to the center.
Back to Mason.
To the other winger.
To Mason.
He takes the slapshot.
The goalie lunges for it.
But it’s not fast enough.
The alarm over the net lights up in bold red and signals the goal.
The crowd explodes in a cacophony as the music blasts loud enough to deafen.
Concrete shakes under my feet and adrenaline rockets through my veins. An animation of a cannon blowing a hole in a net fills the massive overhead screens while the lights flash.
The Airmen call a time-out and everyone sits for the first time since the period began.
The crowd calms with the adrenaline dropping off, and I take the opportunity.
“VIN FOR THE WIN!”I scream, and he pauses to turn to me.
He knows my voice.
There’s no way he actually heard me over the crowd.
Yet this ridiculous man still turns and points his glove at me. The audience erupts in wolf whistles.
I blow him a kiss, and his helmet shakes while he turns back to his crouched position.
Fuck, I love this.
It’s the highest high watching them play.
For the millionth time, I skim through the texts with Brad this morning.
A little thrill raises the hairs on the nape of my neck every time I read it.
He’s finally giving in.
It’s perfect timing. If all it took was a heat, I’d have stopped the suppressants months ago.
Brad clocks my interaction with Vin though.
He’s stewing on the bench, his face turned to me in the stands beyond Vin. His skin flushes red.
Good. He still has to follow through. If Vin and I can still make him jealous, then it’ll push him more certainly toward what I want.
The game proceeds and another eight minutes of gameplay are tense. Both sides trade the puck but every shot is caught.
My Cannons are up two-nil, so they only need to maintain momentum.
The Airmen push in close to the Cannons’ goal. Vin perches in the crease, his attention ping-ponging between players as the puck is passed mercilessly.
The players drift right. They’re so close to the net they could touch it with their sticks.
The Airmen have two players beside each other jockeying with Brad and one of the Cannons’ defensemen.
The Airmen make a shot, but it bounces off Vin’s leg pad. It rebounds and skids to the grappling players several feet away.
The clashing players drift closer to the net.
The Airman makes a second attempt.
Vin stops it again, his eyes glued to the puck. He skates forward a half a foot to catch the puck and take it out of play.
They inch closer to each other.
A third shot, and again Vin reaches for it.
Brad backs off the player he’s guarding.
The puck slides free a foot from where the sticks are locked together.
Vin claps his glove down on the puck, but not before the player from the Airmen barrels into him. His arm is crushed under the legs of the falling player from the opposing team.
The stadium halts, the crowd holding its breath to see what comes next.
The players clear, and Vin’s there with the puck still trapped under his glove.
The audience screams its approval, and Vin twists his arm and shakes out his wrist.
Brad and the defensemen involved in the dustup check on their goalie. The guy who fell over him joins the huddle.
The Cannons’ defensemen shoves Brad out of the way. Brad punches the guy in the arm.
The Airman who’d fallen over Vin gets involved.
The guys grab each other’s jerseys and wrestle the other.
Vin backs away but skates into a ref.
The two fighting drop their gloves, and the Cannon gets an arm around the other guy’s head.
The other Airmen players barrel over to the fight and it knocks Vin into the goal.
And then all hell breaks loose.
You do not hit a goalie in the crease. Ever. It’s a personal offense.
Chaos descends and a dozen players on the ice find a target to pummel.
Vin backs away and slaps his stick on the ice.
Brad’s screaming at a ref and the ref screams back. They’re furiously pointing at each other and the ref is waving his whistle—yanked off its lanyard—around in the air.
The referees blow whistles and attempt to separate people, but it’s absolute bedlam.
It takes a full minute for order to be restored.
Players end up in the sin bin and lines change. The Cannons call a time-out to regroup.
Brad dramatically points two fingers at his eyes and then at the defensemen who started this all.
Except, I saw what happened.
Brad backed off. He let the guy by, knowing Vin was unguarded.
The last twelve minutes of the game are a blur because I’m so fucking pissed.
It’s bad enough that he failed to protect the goalie, but he did this to Vin.
MyVin.
If he’d broken his arm, it would’ve ended his season.
It could end his career.
Brad’s pettiness used to be entertaining. I’ve never been a target of his ire, and having it directed at someone I care about rattles me to my core.
Allowing the goalie to get hurt on his watch because of his jealousy is a whole new low.
The Cannons win, two to none.
The victory is sour. Mason scored one of those two goals, but it all comes crashing down that after tonight they aren’t mine to celebrate with.
I’m an absolute fucking idiot.
I fell for the guys who were supposed to be useful props.
And I can’t wait a year.
I don’t have it in me, and clearly neither does Brad.
It’s time to finish this. My vendetta is now getting Vin hurt.
As I pace near the locker room exits in the hall, I scroll my feeds for news about the game and the fight.
All of my troll accounts have gone silent today. I log into my most used burner to see what the gossip is.
There, on the feed, is a 30-second cut of Brad talking to himself in the mirror.
Barely covered in his towel, he slaps his own face and points at himself as he hypes himself up.
The comments reflect the full gamut of reactions.
Shirtless Brad Cameron, yummy.
LOLOLOLOL does anyone know who little league is? I’ll buy him a drink.
What kind of guy talks about women like that?
Who’s this “she?” Is Cameron going off the market?! I heard he’s dating like eight women.
FUCKING INSANE! Ahahaha, I’d say everyone will resist his “ultimate alpha game” after this.
What a fucking tool. We all saw him let that hit on Vinson.
The source of the video is an anonymous account that’s only a few days old. It was posted less than 10 minutes ago and already has 200,000 views.
And it’s tagged Brad’s official account.
The comments beneath the video are flooded with ats to his account again.
This video is inescapable.
I recognize the guys’ locker room. This has Vin written all over it, although I have no idea how.
My phone is heavy in my hand. I pace near the entrance.
The stadium quiets as the echoing crowd heads for the parking lot.
A gaggle of fans linger in the hopes a player will exit from here and sign a jersey. The crowd grows to around 50 people, including a two-person news crew. The cameraman films B-roll of the ice being cleaned, and the reporter shoots a short segment about the win and the fight in the third period.
Security guards keep people from getting too close to the player exit, but they know me now. I slip past and wait where the locker area hallway bisects the broader concourse.
The video is on-fire viral. It doubles in views, reactions, and comments on every platform in the time it takes for players to filter out of the locker area.
What am I doing here?
Fans cheer as players exit, but the one I need to talk to most doesn’t emerge.
After a long stretch, voices prick at my attention.
Brad’s walking with Trick, and the two of them are arguing. I strain to listen.
“ . . . had a deal,” Brad says.
“You had an idea, that’s all,” Trick replies.
What? Since when do Brad and Trick coordinate?
“Don’t go back on your word now.”
“You’re lucky you’re a Cannon at all after that shit you pulled in the third, let alone captain.”
“If you kept your beta in check, we wouldn’t have a problem.”
Their voices are raised now. Even from around the corner, I can hear them clearly.
“Is that why you wanted to trade the captaincy? You’re unable to control your impulses?” Trick asks.
“Fuck you! We both know I’m the better leader ten times out of ten. There’s a reason Izzy’s picked me.”
“Don’t bring Izzy into this.”
“No? She’s why we’re talking, isn’t she? Why is she still in your house? We had a deal. The captain spot for Izzy. Unless you’re about to tell me that she’s packed her shit and is ready to head to my apartment, you’ve backed out.”
“I never—”
But I swing around the corner before Trick finishes his angry reply.
“What the fuck does that mean?”I scream.
They both pivot to me as if I’ve attacked them.
“Hey, baby,” Brad says. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t be around these guys any longer.”
Brad takes my arm and walks me out to the concourse, but I wrench out of his grip.
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain what you were arguing about,” I seethe.
“You weren’t giving in and I got scared. I made a deal with Trick—I’d give up the captain title and grease the wheels for him next year, and he makes you leave so you’ll come to me.”
“You mean he promised to kick me out.”
“Trick did what?” Vin asks, his tone acidic. He and Mason walk to the end of the tunnel with their hockey bags in hand.
“Apparently, a deal was struck to trade me for being captain. Is what he said true?” I ask Trick.
He’s already shaking his head, but I can feel the grain of truth in it.
The guys hate having Brad as captain.
Who wants a high maintenance “beta” around with inconvenient heats and parents who randomly show up? Someone with no skills or job prospects, and the only money to her name has been given to her by the alpha sheltering her?
“I didn’t agree to it,” Trick insists.
“But you got the offer and didn’t say anything,” Mason says.
“There wasn’t time. Izzy—we all got sick, and then it was constant practice to get back in the game. There’s barely been time to breathe, let alone talk about this shit.”
“You didn’t reject it immediately,” Vin notes. “You were ready to throw her out?”
“No! I was fucking pissed when he said it, but we were surrounded by donors and cancer kids.”
“Ha!” Brad barks. “He had plenty of time to have a whole-ass conversation with me while you and Vin were groping my girl in public.”
“I suppose a guy like you would think standing next to a woman is groping her, given your ultimate alpha game,” Mason spits back.
A dramatic pause registers the words loudly in the dimming noise of the stadium. Brad’s face blows wide in shock.
“What the fuck does that mean?” he splutters, but it isn’t convincing.
“That’s what you call yourself, isn’t it? Your ultimate alpha game. Very embarrassing, man.”
Vin’s already got his phone out and the volume at max to display the video of Brad talking himself up in the mirror.
When it gets to the part where he slaps his own flexed bicep, Trick bursts out laughing.
“That’s fucked up!” he says though bellowed laughter. “Where’s that posted?”
“Everywhere,” Vin says with a smile. “Already has 890—excuse me, 900,000 views on Cl!ck.”
Brad explodes. He lunges for Mason, and Trick gets in the way to swing him around.
The three of them throw fists and kicks, all of which are aimed for damage zones.
“Which one of you fuckers did this?” Brad hollers.
Trick wrestles Brad off Mason, but Mason and Vin round on both of them.
“You seriously wanted to trade Izzy like some poker chip,” Vin accuses.
“No! I turned him down.”
Vin stalks over to where Trick and Brad are struggling, and he lands a hard punch to Trick’s gut.
“The fuck were you thinking giving her away like that?”
“I didn’t—”
Brad bursts out laughing.
The four of them clash again. The security guards do nothing. Granted, they’re both betas and probably have no interest in getting in the middle of several pro hockey players.
The fans snap pictures and hold their phones up to video the whole fight. The news reporter and her camera guy swing around to film what’s happening.
I stagger away until my back hits the wall on the other side of the wide hallway.
I cross my arms and attempt desperately to keep the tears from falling.
Trick wanted me out of his house so much he was considering trading me like a horse he no longer wanted.
Vin wants me to stay and possibly destroyed Brad’s reputation enough that even he can’t save me from the Admin.
Hell, this very public fight could be enough to prove he’s too unstable. That they all are.
The guys are still pummeling one another. Other players exit, see what’s happening, and drop their bags to break it up.
I’m having a full-blown meltdown while the guys are screaming and lunging.
And then Jolie pushes her way through the crowd.
We lock eyes, and that’s all it takes for the fight and her tattling to dissolve like salt in hot water.
“Izzy!”she screams. She rushes over to me and gathers me up in her arms.
“What happened?” she demands.
“I . . . He . . . ” is all I can get out through my blubbering.
My bestie braces me against her body and turns her ire on the four disheveled guys watching it happen. They’ve shaken off the other players and are standing, still keyed up, ten feet apart each.
“You’re supposed to protect her!” Jolie screams. I don’t know who it’s directed at, but it lands on all of them. They visibly shutter.
“That’s what I was trying to do!” Brad exclaims.
“Oh, shut the fuck up. You are so juvenile. You and Mason. All you want to do is fuck around, and Izzy’s the one who ends up finding out.”
The gathered fans whisper excitedly.
“What did I do?” Mason retorts.
“You got her into this! She wouldn’t have moved in with you at all if you hadn’t fucked with her head.”
“It was my idea for her to move in,” Vin says.
“That doesn’t change the fact that she shouldn’t have lived with you in the first place. What made you think it was a good idea to invite a beta in? You’re breaking her heart!”
“I don’t want to break her heart! I want her to fucking stay!” Vin screams back.
Every ounce of heartache pours out of me at the admission.
I can’t handle knowing they want me too. It’s never going to happen, especially not now.
The best thing I can do is leave before it gets worse.
“You’re upsetting her more,” Trick says. “We should all calm down and take this into a more private office.”
“Right, because you’re the alpha?” Mason spits. “Your house. Your pack. Your rules. You decide who stays and goes. Would you trade me away too if the price was right?”
“I didn’t fucking do that. If you don’t stop saying I did—”
“You’ll what, Trick? Kick him out?” Vin asks, the tone a clear accusation.
Trick lets out a heavy breath, but before he can reply again, an obnoxious, high-pitched voice cuts through the crowd’s gasps and gossiping.
“There you are, Brad-y baby. Ready to go to the club?” Livvy asks. She’s coming from the direction of the player’s locker room, which is odd all on its own.
“Not now, Livvy,” he says through gritted teeth.
Livvy sees the tableau of the guys all circled around each other, each with a teammate or two guarding them, and their collective focus on me in Jolie’s arms.
“But you said we could get dinner,” she says, simpering. “I’m starving after all that activity.”
“Activity,” Jolie says.
“You betcha, bitch.”
“Who is that, Izzy?” she whispers to me.
“Livvy.”
Jolie clenches her jaw. “That’s Livvy?”
“Yeah.”
My best friend releases me, takes off all of her jewelry except her engagement ring, and hands it to me. She stomps over to the woman who’s victimized me for the last several months.
Livvy’s standing there like an idiot with a wide smile on her face, leaning against Brad even though he isn’t engaging with her.
The fatal flaw, of course, is that Livvy doesn’t know my best friend.
Once within reach, Jolie draws back a cupped hand and slams it into Livvy’s cheek. My bestie strikes her with total follow-through, and it snaps Livvy’s head to the side while she falls to the ground.
“You’re the bitch who was blowing him in the bathroom!” Jolie screams at the woman crumpled on the floor.
Livvy reaches for Jolie’s hair and yanks. Jolie falls ass over tea kettle on top of Livvy, and the two slap and tear each other’s shirts while cameras flash.
“I’ll kill you!” Jolie screams.
“Not if I kill you first!”
“Damn, they’re really going for it,” Brad comments.
Trick clasps onto Jolie’s arms and wrenches her out of the fray.
Livvy makes a final, pathetic swipe at her but misses, so Jolie spits on her.
The stadium’s queen bitch staggers to her feet on shaky legs.
“Let’s go, Brad!” she screams.
“About that,” he says and scratches his neck. “I’m taking Izzy home today.”
Like hell he is.
I’m not going home with any of them.
“What the fuck does that mean?” she screeches. “I’m your girl!”
“You’re a fun time, Livvy. That’s all.”
“Ouch, man,” Mason says. “That was harsh.”
“Shut the fuck up, little league.”
Mason bellows a laugh. “Naw, man. I prefer calling you on your shit.”
“Is that why you’ve been pranking me all season?”
“Not me. Have you considered that karma’s a bitch instead?”
“Not such a bitch when I’m going home with your omega though, huh? I’ll shed a tear for you when I bite her while we’re fucking our brains out. Come on, Izzy. Let’s go.”
The world drops away as Brad, for the second time, oh so casually tosses out my most important secret.
Except this time, there’s no hiding it.
Cameras flash and I feel the weight of every phone being swung in my direction.
The Cannons’ star captain has done exactly what I asked him to do—he’s publicly claimed me as his in a way he can’t take back.
Except, the only thing he can’t take back is announcing to all the world that I’m an omega.
I have no bond, no ring, and only a forced agreement from Brad Cameron to make one of those things happen at some point in the future.
“Your what?” Livvy shrieks at decibels that would make dogs howl.
“My omega, Livvy. Happy? Izzy’s an omega. Do you understand now? It was never going to happen. I’m choosing the omega. Call me when you’ve calmed down and we can talk about it.”
Choosing “the omega.”
Why do they need to talk about it?
They’re stupid thoughts to have under the weight of everything that’s happened.
My stomach churns.
Sacrosanct dreams buried deep shatter into finite shards that I am absolutely certain will never reconstitute.
I am well and truly fucked.
Jolie’s pupils blow wide as she frantically searches the people around us.
The red light over the news camera taunts me.
The crowd holds its breath while they wait for what comes next.
There’s no escape now. No choices remain.
This is the end of my freedom.
A hundred people heard Brad out me, and more will once the video goes viral.
Which it will. On the heels of the earlier clip, there’s no circumstance where this doesn’t go viral.
I reach for Jolie because I know she understands perfectly. She knows what all this means.
My best friend grabs my hand and hauls me through the crowd of players.
The last view I have is of Mason chasing after me and Trick blocking his path.
I’m hurried down the player tunnel until we find a back exit and run into the night.