Chapter 3
GRACE
The cast apartments are a cheap hack—Reverie’s attempt to keep us corralled and close enough to the arena that no one misses a call time.
Each floor is identical, down to the slightly sticky elevator buttons and the abstract paintings that look like someone’s emotional breakdown rendered in primary colors.
Charlotte and I head up to our floor after the first day of rehearsals.
Our shoes squeak on the vinyl floor as we make our way to my door.
Charlotte is already in post-practice sweats, her hair in a messy bun.
A skating bag bumps her hip with each step.
I love how she can make even the most utilitarian outfits look like a lifestyle blog.
I, on the other hand, am still in my rehearsal leggings and sports bra with a hoodie thrown over the top. I unlock my door and turn on the lights to survey the small apartment that’s mine for the duration of Reverie. I toss my bag onto the sofa.
Charlotte follows me in and flops onto the chair in the corner. “So. You and Connor. What’s up with the weird tension?”
I freeze, then force my face into what I hope is nonchalance. “There’s no tension.”
Charlotte snorts. “Right. That’s why I could see literal sparks during the choreography meeting. And why Zev kept looking like he was about to start a fistfight from the stands anytime anyone ever got close. You know they left, Zev and Fowler? They were in the cast too until about a month ago.”
“Yeah, I know.” I pick at the fraying edge of the sofa cushion, avoiding her gaze. “It’s fine. We just… don’t get along anymore.”
She nods slowly. “Huh. That’s not what it looked like during prep camp.” She waits, and when I don’t say anything, she just keeps going, “Last I remember, you four were joined at the hip. Did something happen?”
A thousand possible answers rush to my mouth, but none of them make it out. I vowed to remain professional for my own sanity. But if Charlotte saw us during prep camp before they full-on rejected me, I can understand why she’s confused now.
“It just didn’t work out.” My voice coils around the words, betraying me.
Charlotte’s lips press together in a line, but she doesn’t push. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”
I wave it off and channel the version of me from three months ago, the girl who wasn’t about to break into a cold sweat at the mention of an alpha’s name. “No, it’s— I mean, it’s not like it matters. I’m here to skate, that’s it.”
She grins at me, but there’s a tightness in the corner of her eyes. She doesn’t believe me either. “I admire your dedication, Grace.”
“Someone has to have it, since the rest of you are here for the free Gatorade and mediocre cafeteria food.”
She barks a laugh and slaps my arm. “Wow.” The tension bleeds out of my shoulders.
We lapse into a companionable silence. I get up to fill a glass with water at the sink.
Charlotte pops up from the chair and stretches, arms overhead and bones popping. “Okay, real talk: I’m starving. There’s an amazing pizza place a few blocks away. Want to split a pie?”
I hesitate, remembering the exhaustion still in my calves and the haze of adrenaline crash that always hits after a long skate. But pizza sounds like a lifeline. “Yeah, pizza sounds perfect.”
“Awesome.” Charlotte shoves her feet back into her sneakers. “We can people-watch all the other poor souls who got sucked into this glittering circus.”
I grab my keys and pull on my least embarrassing pair of sweatpants.
The mirror near the front door catches my reflection: hair escaping my ponytail, face still flushed from rehearsal, and something fierce and wary in my eyes.
I look like someone who’s definitely surviving, not thriving. But pizza is a start.
We head out. Charlotte chatters about her favorite toppings and the most disastrous costume mishaps she’s ever seen. The air catches in my throat like the first sip of something cold, but the ache in my chest lessens, just a little.
Maybe tomorrow will still suck, but tonight, I can pretend nothing exists but carbs, cheese, and the rare, dizzying freedom of not being judged for who or what I am.
I swear I have a sixth sense for humiliation.
The minute I step into Pizza Palace, I just know something is off.
And it’s not the wall-to-wall linoleum or sticky booths.
Then comes the swirl of peppermint, chocolate, and campfire smells that blend so perfectly, like an evening hot cocoa on a camping trip so wonderful I catch myself swooning before reality crashes back down in front of me.
Because it’s then I see them.
Zev, Connor, and Fowler, already hunkered down at a corner booth with a pizza the size of a tire in front of them.
The three ex-NHL athletics sorely stick out.
Zev is impossible to miss—broad-shouldered, and in a t-shirt tight enough to qualify as a compression garment.
Fowler is next to him, his hair even redder under the neon lights, mouth already open as if the act of eating pizza is a competitive sport.
And then Connor, as if my body could ever forget moving beside him earlier today: blond, too tall for the booth, blue eyes fixed on the phone in his hand, studiously avoiding the rest of the world.
To their credit, they don’t look up to meet my gaze—thank god—but I do watch each of them start to shift uncomfortably.
If I can scent them, they no doubt scent me, too. Suppressants of all kinds need to start coming with a warning label: Does not work on scent-matches and fated mates.
Charlotte must see them the same moment I do because she stops mid-stride, then shoots me a look. “Want to go somewhere else?”
I want to say, “Yes, let’s leave and never come back”, but I’m already vibrating with something that is probably anger and definitely not fear. I refuse to let these alphas win at the very first skirmish of the summer.
My jaw sets hard. “Nope, we’re staying.”
Charlotte grins. “Hell yes.”
The only available table is directly in their line of sight, so I pretend not to notice as we snake past their booth.
The alphas’ scents flood the air in punchy, staccato waves.
The part of me that wants to drop to my knees and find a way past their rejection and my cold shoulder is drowned out by the part that remembers how badly it hurt to be rejected by all three at once.
We sit. Charlotte grabs a menu and holds it up between us, a shield against their stares.
“I vote supreme,” she says, “Unless you hate olives.”
“I’ll survive olives.”
Behind us, Zev’s laugh booms, echoing across the restaurant. The hairs on my arms stand up.
I refuse to look over.
Charlotte, who clearly has never met a tense moment she couldn’t bulldoze through, keeps the conversation rolling. “So, what’s your take on our odds? Do you think the show will actually pull off a full cast before someone gets stress-fractured?”
“Not if Connor keeps ‘accidentally’ body-checking everyone.” It’s petty, but I need the jab.
Charlotte snorts. “Seriously. He looks like he’s trying out for the Bruins.”
I risk a glance at the booth. All three are now fully tuned in to our conversation. Zev’s expression is unreadable and Fowler’s eyes dart from me to the pizza and back. And Connor—well, Connor is looking straight at me.
Our eyes lock. I can’t breathe for a second. It’s not longing or regret I see, but something more complicated: guilt… and a certain kind of primal hunger. I understand because part of that combination rings through me no matter how much I wish I could shut it out.
Blissfully, our server appears and breaks the tension. We order a large supreme, a pitcher of Diet Coke, and mozzarella sticks because Charlotte claims it’s “physically impossible to be sad with fried cheese in your mouth.”
When the food comes, I eat mechanically. The pizza is actually delicious. I try to focus that and nothing else, but the conversation at the other table keeps leaking into my head.
After a while, Charlotte looks between me and the pack, and asks, “Want me to body block you on the way out, just in case? The tension between these two tables is ridiculous.”
I shake my head. “I’m not running from them, Charlotte.”
She nods, approving. “Good. They should be the ones running from you.”
Then she glances at her phone, frowns, and says, “Back in a sec. I need to wash my hands. These olives are, like, turbo-brined.” She slides out of the booth and disappears, leaving me alone in the direct line of sight of three alphas who once wanted me more than air and then decided I was suffocating them.
I concentrate on counting the pepperoni slices on the pizza and memorizing the words on my napkin. But I can feel them approaching before I even look up.
First is Zev. He stops at the end of my table, arms crossed and an uneasy expression on his face. Fowler stands close enough that their shoulders brush. Connor flanks them, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
“Grace,” Zev says.
“Hey,” I reply, flat.
Fowler clears his throat. “How’s it going? Your first day at Reverie and all that.”
I stare at him. “It was fine.”
A beat passes. None of them have a script for this moment. It’s almost funny, if you ignore the fact that my entire body is in a state of emergency.
Connor is last to speak. “You looked good on the ice.” I want to claw his eyes out for being so calm. “It’s nice to see you back.”
I almost snort. “Yeah, well, I’m here to skate. That’s all.”
Another awkward beat. I can taste the apology they’re not saying, and I hate it. I wish I couldn’t.
“We, uh—” Zev glances at Fowler, who shrugs helplessly. “We just wanted to make sure you’re okay. After… last time.”
That does it. My anger, which had been a tight, humming but tamed beast in my chest, snaps.
“After what? After you all made it your personal mission to destroy my prep camp? Or after you decided being scent-matched to an omega was too ‘too much’ to risk when she didn’t even express desire for something long term? ”
Fowler’s mouth opens, then closes. He looks at Zev, who looks at Connor, who looks at the floor.
I keep going. “Here’s the deal. I don’t care what happened at prep camp.
I don’t care if you’re sorry, or if you regret it, or whatever.
I’m here to skate with Connor because I’m a professional, and that’s what the show needs.
Otherwise, I want nothing to do with any of you.
Which should be easy since you want nothing to do with me. You made that pretty fucking clear.”
Connor pales. Zev’s lips press together so hard they’re nearly blue. Fowler looks wounded.
I don’t care.
Zev nods. “Got it. We’ll keep our distance.”
“Please do.” I return to my pizza, hands shaking so badly the slice nearly falls apart in my grip. There’s so much left to say, but I don’t want to deal with any of it.
They linger for a moment longer, and then all three drift away, back to their table, then out the door. I force myself to wait a whole two minutes before I exhale.
Charlotte returns, sees the look on my face, and immediately guesses. “They came over?”
I nod, my throat tight.
She slides into the seat beside me. “Are you okay?”
I want to say yes. I want to say it doesn’t matter, that I’m better off. Instead, I say, “I don’t know.”
Charlotte bumps my shoulder. “Well, if they fucked up that bad, they can live with it. You don’t owe them anything.”
She plucks a mozzarella stick from the plate and offers it to me. “C’mon. Cheese heals all wounds.”
It doesn’t, not really. But it does help. We finish the pizza in relative silence, my thoughts spinning around what I said and I didn’t say. Nothing is ever really finished when it comes to alphas, omegas, and everything they refuse to admit.
Outside, the night is cool, and the walk back to the apartment is easy. I can almost pretend that I’m just another girl, on another summer night, with nothing to prove and nothing to hide. But under my skin, everything is electric, aching, and alive just from being near my alphas.
I nearly choke on air.
My alphas.
Oh, fuck. No, no, no, no, no.
They are not mine. I do not want them.
So what happens if scent-matches really are fate?