Chapter 4
ZEV
The hardest part of leaving the NHL isn’t missing the games. It’s missing the near-constant puck-to-the-face adrenaline. It quickly becomes a driving force for waking up every day while you’re in it. Now that I’m out I find summoning motivation much harder.
I left the NHL for good reason—in solidarity with Fowler—but it took me a long time to find a new driving force. Especially this early in the morning.
My apartment smells like instant coffee thanks to my coffee pot still being broken.
I keep forgetting to replace it. Outside, Boston is glazed with that washed-out morning light that’s never sure if it wants to be summer or if it’ll lapse right back into March.
New England weather is fun like that, although by June it should be settled.
I run my palm over the stubble on my jaw. I should clean up a bit before coaching starts for the day but I honestly can’t be bothered after yesterday.
Grace.
I’m so fucking doomed. We all are. She’s just as beautiful as the day she first walked into our lives, and we’re still just as stupid.
Does she know why we rejected her? Why we tried to get her far away from Reverie? Not that we had good reasons. But they were reasons nonetheless.
We told her that her scent was wrong—a lie. One so thin everyone around us saw through it.
We told her that scent-matches had no place in Reverie Ice Show—and yet two of the three of us alphas left.
We told her we didn’t want someone who couldn’t even make the main cast during Reverie.
She’s now the princess. And what are we?
Fools. Fools too scared of something good so we not only chased her away, we humiliated her first.
I slap together a breakfast so bleak that even my phone camera sighs at it. A bowl of bran with a side of protein shake and a banana. Then I brush my teeth and take my vitamins like a good boy.
Like a guy who might’ve thrown away his one shot at a real happily-ever-after with a scent-matched omega.
Our own reverie.
I’m parked outside the high school’s hockey rink at exactly 7:04AM. It’s a relic from the ‘90s with a lobby full of vending machines.
I unlock the coach’s office with the key the district had to dig out of a janitor’s closet to give to me, and flick on the lights, which hum like a squadron of bees and take their sweet time to warm up.
The smell in here is always equal parts mildew, sweat, and whatever fresh chemical weapon they used on the locker room floors last night.
I set out the cones and check the sticks because the kids will definitely not. This results in me fixing the tape on half. I roll a puck between my hands until it’s warm. I wonder if the kids will finally listen to the new drills I spent half of last night sketching on printer paper.
I swallow hard. This time last year, I was lacing up for another endless away-game and watching the world slip by from a window seat. Now my world is this: forty kids, two hours, and one omega-shaped mistake constantly replaying in my head.
The rink door slams open. Brayden barrels in first, a storm of limbs and bluster. Behind him is Clara, her ponytail already wet with nervous sweat, followed by the rest of the summer crew in an order that rarely changes. They’re all in various states of awake and collectively so very loud.
I raise my voice. “Good morning!”
They hush quickly before I make them do exercises for not listening.
I scan their young faces. “Lineup, blue line.” They clatter into formation.
The first hour is drills: footwork, passing, shooting, looped circuits. Clara’s the most promising. She already moves like a college prospect. Brayden’s got the personality of three team captains, but he can’t finish to save his life.
I skate beside them and the others, shouting encouragements and corrections, always careful not to break anyone’s pride. You can tell, even with teenagers, who’s here because they want to be and who’s here because some parent said so.
They rotate in and out, and stumble through the new drills. I want to believe I’m helping. I tell myself I’m helping. But every time I see one of them catch a pass on their backhand or make a killer drop-shot, I think: What’s the point if I’m just spinning them up for the same heartbreak as mine?
And I made it to the NHL.
I’m about to blow the whistle for a break when Brayden wipes out and skids spectacularly into the boards, taking two teammates with him.
The entire line crumples into a pile. Nobody gets hurt, just bruised egos and a lot of cursing.
They stagger upright, and I laugh, because how can you not?
Even the perfect ones eat shit sometimes.
I skate over and make sure none are crying behind their visors.
“Wipeout of the century,” I tell Brayden.
“Coach,” he grins, “the ice is extra crap today.”
“Maybe your balance is,” I counter, but my voice is gentle. These kids have heard worse from TikTok.
I watch from the bench during the water break. They huddle around their phones, comparing playlists and laughing too loud.
I think about what happened with Grace. It’s impossible not to. Her scent is all over me now just from being within feet of her. The scent match between us and Grace was so strong, it nearly knocked me out that first day at prep camp.
We didn’t have to reject her. But Connor panicked, Fowler doubled down, and I—fuck, I just stood there.
I didn’t even speak, just let her take the hit.
Let her look small and embarrassed in front of the whole cast. Later, after hours, I heard her crying in the bathroom stall, and I left.
I couldn’t face it. Even now, the memory tastes like blood in my mouth.
If I could go back, I’d do anything to fix it. I’d take all that weird, terrified energy and say the right thing—just one right thing—to her. But you don’t get do-overs when you’re an alpha, you just get regret and maybe a hockey whistle if you’re lucky.
I tap the whistle against my palm. The kids see me, groan, and line up for another hour of practice.
My old NHL jersey is pinned to the wall behind the cash register at Empire Sports. Tonight I’m here for discount shin guards.
Promise me life gets better.
I park in the back lot of Empire Sports, wedged between a minivan with soccer decals and a Civic with its bumper zipped up with twist ties.
The sun’s just sliding down, gold against the buildings and thick as honey.
It should be too nice a night to be inside, but here I am: cardboard box under one arm and a shopping list printed from a district email.
I push through the door and inhale the scent of rubber.
The hockey section is in the back, tucked beyond the more popular soccer and football aisles, as if they’re embarrassed to stock anything for a dying sport.
I’m loading up on mouthguards and tape when it hits me—the crisp, punch-you-in-the-face sweetness of roses.
Not real roses, nothing so tame. Something engineered, amplified.
Omega roses.
I know before I look that it’s Grace.
She’s by the figure-skating display, comparing two different blade guards.
She’s got her hair twisted up, and she’s wearing jeans, sneakers, an Old Harbor University sweatshirt.
It’s nothing like the glittering Reverie show costumes, but she draws the eye anyway.
Not just mine. The kid at the skate-sharpening counter does a double take so hard, he nearly drops a pair of blades.
I freeze, three packs of shin guards dangling stupidly from my fingers. My pulse is a sudden mess. I could leave, just back away and pretend I never saw her, but that’s not what an alpha is supposed to do, and definitely not what a reformed asshole should do, either.
I walk up, steadying my hands by fidgeting with the boxes, and try to keep my voice from breaking. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Grace.”
She looks over. It’s a controlled look, calculated for minimum contact, but there’s a flicker of surprise. “Zev.” Her gaze darts from my face to the pile of child-size shin guards in my arms. “Stocking up for the apocalypse?”
I almost laugh. “Just trying to keep the next generation from shattering every bone in their legs.”
She picks up a pack of sparkly blade covers. “Hockey or figure?”
“Hockey. High schoolers. I coach them now.” I say it too fast.
Grace blinks. “Really? Didn’t know you were into… teaching.”
I shrug and try not to look at her full, soft lips. “It’s a living. And it keeps me off the streets.”
She sets the blade guards down. Her face softens just a little. “So that’s what you’re doing now after the league?”
I want to explain everything, the mess with the NHL, with Reverie, the way everything spun out after Connor and Fowler and I couldn’t keep it together. But it’s not something you dump on someone in a sports aisle, next to a shelf of unicorn-patterned water bottles.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “Coaching is different. But I like it. The kids are good, most days. Sometimes I think they might end up better than me.”
She smiles, and the knot in my chest tightens. “That’s good,” she says. “Sounds like it suits you.”
We stand in a silence that is not quite comfortable, but not painful either. Her roses scent feels defensive. Measured.
I deserve that.
She gathers her things, two blade guards and a tiny tin of something that smells like vanilla. “Well, good luck with the team. And the shin guards.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Break a leg with Reverie. Not literally.”
She almost smiles again. “Not planning on it.”
She turns to leave. She moves in an easy way, as if the world has never weighed her down, even though I know it’s done worse. That we did the worse.
I want to call out, say sorry, say something, but the words feel wrong in the fluorescent aisle. She’s already halfway to the checkout before she pauses and looks back.
“Hey, Zev?”
“Yeah?”
She points to the top box in my arms. “You got the wrong size. Those are for kids, not high schoolers.”
It takes a second to process, then I look and sure enough, the label screams YOUTH in bold red letters. I feel my ears burn. “Good catch,” I say, grinning in spite of myself. “Could’ve been an expensive mistake.”
She shakes her head, but I can tell she’s holding back another smile. “See you around, Coach.”
“Yeah. See you, Princess.”
She doesn’t correct me.
The air where she stood seems lighter. I put the boxes back, pick the right size this time, and head for the checkout, feeling both embarrassed and relieved at once.
On my way out, I glance at my old jersey behind the counter. The clerk rings me up and hands me the receipt without making eye contact.
As I step into the evening, arms full of gear, the memory of her voice lingers.
So does the scent of roses.