Chapter 5
GRACE
If you’d asked me at the end of high school where I’d be at twenty, the answer wouldn’t have been here—straddling a sagging couch at the edge of a party, mortified by the presence of three ex-NHLers who I’d rather eat glass than see again. But life, like the universe, loves irony.
It’s Thursday night, the last day of rehearsals.
Tomorrow is opening night for this season’s Reverie Ice Show.
Only neither Charlotte nor I plan to drink at this party.
Showing up hungover to the first big show of our careers would probably end them.
Instead, we’re experiencing this party sober.
Which means dealing with them while sober. Again.
Charlotte is already on the dance floor, or what passes for one. She’s sandwiched between two of the chorus girls, shouting the chorus to “Mr. Brightside” into a soup ladle.
She catches my eye, beams, and points to her plastic tiara. It’s bedazzled, the words “Ice Queen” spelled out in micro-glitter along the band. I can’t help but laugh.
Until I spot Connor entering the room.
He’s wearing a Reverie track jacket like it’s the last shroud of dignity he owns. The music seems smothered by his very presence. It’s impossible to look elsewhere.
I’m aware that’s more from primal instinct than me wanting and failing to avoid him.
Connor isn’t alone. Behind him are Zev and Fowler, both of whom are physically incapable of fitting in any normal doorway without first ducking and turning their shoulders.
The room rearranges around them in a matter of seconds, clusters of skaters and stage crew peeling away, making a path like they’re royalty.
As if.
Clenching my cup is all I can do to successfully suppress a snarl. Charlotte notices. She shoves the soup ladle at her nearest dance partner, squares her shoulders, and stalks over to me. “They’re not supposed to be here. Connor, sure. But not Zev and Fowler.”
“They’re not,” I agree. My tongue feels like it’s lined with sandpaper. My skin crawls. I pop the rest of seltzer water and really debate with myself if staying sober is worth it tonight.
It’s not until Zev’s laugh booms out that I realize the three of them have posted up at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, scanning the room like bouncers at a VIP lounge. Worse, I realize they’re looking for someone.
That someone is me.
“Let’s dance,” Charlotte says, suddenly bright. She hauls me up before I can protest and drags me into the linoleum clearing. The chorus girls cheer us on.
I let myself have fun. It’s a conscious permission given to relax in the face of the three biggest worries in my life. Charlotte’s a good dancer. But then the song ends, and I turn around and find the alphas are closer now.
Connor leans against the wall with a posture that would be cocky if it didn’t look so exhausted. His eyes flick from me to Charlotte to me again. Zev and Fowler flank him, but there’s a current of something—unease, maybe—buzzing between the three of them.
I don’t want to be the one to break the silence. I want to melt into the linoleum.
“Grace,” Connor says. My name on his lips hits like a punch.
I swallow. “Connor.” I keep my voice flat. He doesn’t get to have an outwardly emotional effect on me. Not anymore.
Zev nods at Charlotte, who lifts her chin but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge him. Fowler is the first to actually smile, though it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to check your phone for weird texts after.
“We just wanted to wish you luck,” Connor says. “Tomorrow night. Big deal, right? Our opening night.”
His eyes flicker to mine. The mask slips, and I see the old Connor—the one who’d offer to tape my ankles. Who’d once caught me mid-spiral and whispered, “I’ve got you, princess.”
I want to spit on that memory.
“Thanks,” I say. “But you didn’t need to crash the party to do it.”
Connor opens his mouth, hesitates, then snaps it shut like a steel trap. Connor is the other lead in the show. He was invited. But the other two… No.
Zev’s gaze is gentle, almost apologetic, which somehow makes it worse.
“Good luck to all of you,” Zev says. “We’ll be at the show.”
“Super,” I mutter. “I’ll tell security to roll out the red carpet.”
Zev’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry. We’ll stay out of your way.”
For a moment, none of us say anything. I can smell them, and it’s infuriating. My omega side perks up and stretches toward them, inviting and trusting. Things I am not. The cocktail of their alpha pheromones—peppermint, chocolate, and bonfire—sneaks around my suppressants like a ghost.
My body wants, even as my brain screams at it to shut the hell up.
Fowler cracks his knuckles. “Place looks better than the locker rooms at our own arena.”
Charlotte snorts. “The smell is about the same.”
The reprieve is brief. Connor’s gaze won’t leave mine.
His nostrils flare, and I know he’s catching the hints of my own scent, roses behind a locked gate.
We’re both pretending it isn’t there, but it is, loud and humiliating.
Zev and Fowler do a far better job of hiding it, but I know they’re no better off.
This is the closest we’ve all been for the longest amount of time since they rejected me.
Charlotte tugs my elbow. “Come on, Grace. I need air.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s already dragging me through the mob of dancers, past a guy doing keg stands, and out onto a sad little patio that overlooks the parking lot.
The air outside is wet and tinged with pot smoke from a couple of the background figure-skaters sharing a joint under a nearby fire escape. Charlotte pulls me into the darkest corner and just stands there, arms crossed, her breathing as shallow as mine.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t even say anything.”
But I can’t not. It’s all welling up, ugly and familiar and sharp.
“Why do I care?” I blurt. “Why do I still care? I spent the whole spring convincing myself I didn’t give a shit, and then one whiff of them and I’m—” I gesture at my chest, as if that’s where the ache is. “—I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” Charlotte says. “You’re an omega. Biology sucks.”
“That’s a cop-out,” I mutter, but the tears are already threatening.
“I wanted—I wanted the fairytale, you know? Three alphas, one omega. Like my own damn storybook. And they just—” I choke, “—they rejected me. Scent-matches are supposed to be fate. It’s supposed to be perfect. Why isn’t it perfect?”
Charlotte pulls me into a hug. I cry into her shoulder, quietly, because the last thing I want is to become a spectacle for anyone loitering outside.
She rubs my back. “Fate is bullshit. You know that, right? Fate is just statistical probability, plus the right amount of pheromones, plus the universe having a sick sense of humor.”
I snort into her jacket. “You sound like a motivational podcast.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’re not alone. And you’re not broken, either.”
I let her words settle. I wish I could believe them.
I want to skate the perfect show tomorrow and really make a splash with the first big show of my career.
But right now all I can think about is how Connor’s gaze following me, and how Zev’s voice got soft when he looked at me.
How even reckless Fowler seemed to regret something.
It isn’t fair.
“I just don’t want them to ruin this for me,” I say. “I worked my ass off for this. I deserve to be here.”
Charlotte pulls back and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re going to be magnificent. They can’t ruin something meant for you. So get out there and skate this summer like nothing else matters. And don’t give them a single inch. Got it?”
I nod, hiccupping a little. “Got it.”
She grins. “Now, let’s go grab our stuff and then get ice cream.”
I wipe my face, laugh, and follow her back inside. The music is louder now, the lights dimmer. The alphas are nowhere to be seen. Maybe they left. I’m forcing myself to not care. They don’t matter. Not tonight.
Charlotte and I grab our jackets, tell everyone we’re going on an emergency ice cream run, and make our escape.