Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lennon
Idon’t want to move.
I am safe in my nest.
In here, there are no threatening text messages from unknown numbers. No photographs of myself taken while I was at my most vulnerable.
In here, I can pretend even for a moment that my father is still alive.
That I am not back in Vadena. That I am not the new majority owner of my father’s team, or at least I will be once this is all over.
Here I can pretend that the world doesn’t exist. But as my third alarm blares through the room, I know that I can’t escape reality forever.
Eventually, I will have to get up and face whatever fresh hell is waiting for me today.
My first coaching session.
I already went through the game plan with the rest of the coaches yesterday, learning the practices that had been put in place long before my arrival, and adding my own knowledge of the game to the schedule. Dad trusted me for a reason, and I have to remember that in case things go to shit today.
Finally, I grumble, wiggling my way out of the layers of blankets and pillows I had buried myself beneath, as though they will protect me from the world.
And they did. At least for a little while.
Unfortunately, soft cotton can’t shield me from a rink full of barbaric Alphas and Betas.
One especially grumpy Alpha comes to mind.
If Sasha’s reaction yesterday is anything to go by, the surly defenceman is going to make my life a living hell.
Finding a pair of comfortable slacks, my brand new Vadena Cardinals training shirt that still has that ghastly new polyester scent attached to it, along with a blazer, I get my own version of a game face on.
My makeup remains minimal for the most part.
A swipe of mascara and chapstick, nothing like the full beat I paint on daily back East for work.
I feel like makeup is a part of my armor, and right now it feels like I’m voluntarily setting that armor aside.
Letting down one of the walls I built to protect myself.
But I know my audience and if I’m going to gain the team’s trust, I need to level with them in a more natural, stripped back sort of way.
I am their coach and I need them to see me as one.
I just hope the reaction I got when I met them yesterday wasn’t fueled by adrenaline, because I could use every bit of support I can get if this is going to work in my favor.
Because when it’s all said and done, I am an Omega.
Can’t hide that fact. No amount of blazers, hockey knowledge, or confidence is going to change what I am.
I’m not my dad.
I can already hear the testosterone-filled Alphas and their snide remarks about where Omegas belong. That I don’t belong.
But fuck that. I refuse to let that be the thing that brings me down. I am not putting that energy out into the world. This is me simply thinking of every possible scenario so I can prepare myself. The ice runs through my veins just as much as it does in theirs. Maybe even more so.
I glare down at my phone, contemplating whether I even want to take the device with me today.
I have already considered just changing my number.
Only giving it to people that I trust. Which is a depressingly small list now that Dad is gone.
But I’m not a runner. Lennon Gilmore doesn’t hide from her problems, and I refuse to let this troll be the thing that changes that.
The thing that makes me second guess the sheer spite that’s going to make this group of NHL stars my bitches.
I was raised to be a winner. And so I will be.
Turning my phone on, I see an array of text messages from the same unknown number, and against my better judgment, I read them because…well, apparently I’m a masochist with zero self-preservation skills.
Unknown: Do you ever feel guilty for the things you do not know?
Unknown: Do you think that ignorance is enough to absolve you?
Unknown: This isn’t a fairytale where the main character comes out on top. Because in this story, Little Bird, there are no heroes. Only casualties. And you die in the end.
Unknown: You will regret coming here.
By the time I finish reading the text messages, all I can feel is rage.
I can feel my hands trembling. Fear twists low in my stomach, ugly and unwelcome, but the anger simmering beneath it burns far hotter.
I won’t take this bullshit lying down. Who the hell in their right mind picks a fight with a lawyer?
Cyberstalking. Harassment. Breaking and entering.
Intimidation. Revenge porn. I could tie their asses up in court for years, and I’d smile while doing it.
Whoever they are, they clearly don’t know who they’re dealing with.
Lucky for them, they’re about to find out.
Me: I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, and frankly, I don’t care.
You know nothing about me. You may think anonymous numbers and cryptic messages make you intimidating, but all I see is an asshole with way too much time on their hands.
Tell me, was it neglect, disappointment, or did your parents simply fail to teach you that actions have consequences?
Can’t say I’m surprised. Game on, fuck face.
I wait for a beat to see if I get a reply, and when I do, I’m almost shocked at the sudden glee that fills my chest.
Unknown: Good. I was worried you’d make this boring. Good luck, Little Bird. You’re going to need it.
Making my way into the locker room, I am pleasantly surprised that the majority of the team is already dressed. All except two players.
Sasha Volkov and Holden Woods.
Two members of Pack Ars Mortis.
If I were a betting woman, I would assume that Dominic Hart, the equipment manager, is also late.
Un-fucking-acceptable. Tardiness was something that my father despised above all else.
The same goes for me. The banging of the locker room door I just walked through draws my attention.
Speak of the devil and they shall appear.
There is a disgustingly attractive smirk on the forward’s face, one that completely contradicts the look on everyone else’s here.
Especially the one coming from the defenceman.
Unlike his, Holden’s is all ire. Venom intertwined on a face that has been chiseled by the gods themselves.
No, Lennon! I cannot find these men attractive.
It said right in the very contract I signed yesterday.
Fraternization with any of the players is strictly forbidden.
I will not lose my chance at holding my father’s baby in my hands for a man.
I clear my throat, leveling him with a glare.
“Mr. Woods. Mr. Volkov. You are late.”
Holden’s smile only widens, the arrogant bastard somehow managing to add even more fuel to the fire that had been burning since I read the messages earlier.
I’m in a mood. As much as I tried my best to smile my way through walking in here, I’m on edge.
The last thing I need is for Holden Woods to test my almost non-existent patience before I’ve even started the damn day.
Ignoring me, he walks over to his locker and casually begins stowing his belongings away.
Stripping off his shirt, he pulls on his shoulder pads, hiding the wide expanse of his chest, artistically perfected with black and gray ink.
Seriously, who gave him permission to look like that?
Sasha follows suit and I have to physically look away because I don’t think I’ll survive seeing him shirtless.
He’s got that broody bad guy thing going on, and my little heart can’t take it.
Instead, I focus on the lockers behind Holden, then grit my teeth when he continues to ignore me.
Like I am not his coach. Well, fuck that.
“Woods!” I shout, drawing the attention of the entire room.
If I can handle a courtroom, I can handle a locker room.
At least I hope. The chatter around us silences, but my eyes remain locked on Holden’s back, and when he finally stiffens, I know that he knows I mean business.
Deathly slow, he turns to face me, an almost shocked look on his face. Good.
“Team meeting is at six-thirty. Practice starts at seven. It is currently six-forty-nine. You and Volkov are late,” I say, double checking my watch before squaring them both with a look.
One I’m sure my father would be proud of.
When they say nothing, I decide to make an example out of them.
If this is going to work, I’m going to need to be taken seriously.
While I anticipated pushback, I can’t have the defenseman and the forward screwing this up.
It will affect everything. They’re too important.
Not overly irreplaceable, but they are highly sought-after and I’m nothing if not competitive.
They belong here as much as I do. It seems they want me to prove just how much.
“You know the standard. You also know that standard applies to everyone in this room. I don’t care how good you are, how many goals you’ve scored, or how good you look to the media. When you’re on my time, you’re mine, and I hate people wasting my time.”
I wait for an answer, pleasantly surprised when Holden gives me one short nod.
“Volkov. Did you hear me, or do I need to spell it out for you?” I turn to look at the Alpha, who’s already glaring daggers at me.
Fabulous. “You’re staying after practice.
One hour laps. If either of you has a problem with that, my office door is open and you can tell me all about it on your time.
But for now, we have work to do. Are we clear?
” My eyes bounce between the two towering figures before me, but I don’t budge.
Omega or not, they’re going to learn that I will not bow to them.
In fact, it’s they who’ll do the bowing.
Especially if they go out of their way to make this experience harder than it needs to be.
Several beats pass before Sasha finally nods.
It’s only slight, but it’s something. While there is still a note of surprise in Holden’s features, I don’t miss the heat hidden beneath the mask he’s wearing.
Whether that's from anger, embarrassment or something else, I can’t be sure.
Truthfully, I don’t want to know. It's not like I can do anything about it.
If I’m going to enforce the rules, I have to lead by example and follow them.
Something I seem to be reminding myself far too fucking often.
Gods help me survive this season.
Finally, I turn back to Sasha. That storm brewing in his eyes has only darkened. His body radiates fury. A lesser Omega would bear her neck. Show submission. Get down on her knees to suck the Alpha’s cock like the good girl she is. Make herself smaller.
But that isn’t me.
I have faced far scarier men than Sasha Volkov.
He doesn’t scare me. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The corner of his mouth tips up, and I swear I can’t tell if the man is planning my murder or wondering what I look like naked.
Frankly, neither option exactly inspires me.
Maybe it’s just an agreement and I’m reading too much into it.
Something I’ve learned to do in my career.
Reading people is half of my job. Am I always right?
No. But you can’t deny instincts. And my instincts are screaming at me to run.
Leave. Stay far the fuck away from these men.
But I can’t. I have a job to do. Whatever this season has in store for me, I sure as hell hope I make it out in one piece.
Because something is telling me that surviving this and surviving them are two very different things.