Chapter 1 Reina
REINA
PRESENT DAY
The airport smelled like burnt coffee and recycled air and I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of nostalgia at being back in Winter Crest, Massachusetts.
Home.
I kept my head down as I dragged my suitcase through the terminal, my camera bag bumping against my hip with every step. My free hand went to the suppressant patch automatically, pressing against the adhesive through my shirt. It was still there and still working.
Probably, I thought as I bit at my lip
The flight had been fine until the descent. That's when the first spike hit, a sharp twist low in my belly that made me grip the armrest hard enough to leave marks. The Beta flight attendant had asked if I was okay and I'd smiled, nodded, lied through my teeth.
"Just nervous about landing."
She'd believed me because people always did. I'd gotten very good at pretending I was fine even though I’d looked around the plane wondering if any nearby alphas would stir.
None had, and I tried to relax afterwards.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I cleared security. A text from the NIHL's director of media operations. My eyes scanned the text, Welcome! Looking forward to having you on the team. Report Monday, 9 AM sharp. League HQ, bring your gear.
Monday was three days away.
Three days to get my suppressants adjusted, find a new doctor, and convince myself that taking a photography position with the National Ice Hockey League wasn't the worst decision I'd ever made.
Even if it meant being in the same city as them.
It was at the baggage claim, when a second spike hit me.
This one was worse,sharp enough that I had to stop walking, one hand braced against a pillar while my vision swam. Heat crawled up my spine and my skin felt too tight, like my body was trying to claw its way out from the inside.
Not here. Please not here.
I fumbled for my purse, fingers shaking as I dug past lens caps and memory cards to find the emergency suppressants at the bottom. The pills were supposed to be a last resort. Take too many and they'd stop working altogether. But I was already pushing the limits of what my patches could handle.
The bottle was empty.
"Fuck," I whispered, staring at it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I'd refilled it two weeks ago. Had I really gone through thirty pills in fourteen days?
My reflection caught in the chrome of a nearby trash can. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that hadn't seen a proper brush in days. The strap of my camera bag had left a red mark across my shoulder. I looked exactly like what I was trying so hard not to be.
Unstable.
The word tasted like acid in my mouth. That's what the doctors had called me when I was fifteen. What the league officials had written in their reports after The Incident. What my mom had whispered when she thought I couldn't hear, her voice broken and desperate.
"She's unstable. We have to do something before someone gets hurt."
Someone had gotten hurt.
Just not the someone she'd been worried about.
I made it to the rental car counter on autopilot, smiling at the attendant while my insides felt like they were liquefying. He upgraded me to an SUV without asking, probably because I looked like I was about to pass out. I didn't correct him.
The drive into the city should have been familiar. I'd grown up here, learned to skate at the public rink on Fifth Street, spent every winter weekend watching hockey games before everything went to hell.
But nothing looked the same.
New buildings had sprouted up where empty lots used to be. The old diner where we'd gotten victory pancakes after games was now a yoga studio. Even the street names seemed wrong, like someone had repainted the signs while I wasn't looking.
Or maybe I was the one who'd changed.
Probably that.
I'd reserved an apartment on the north side of town, deliberately far from both arenas.
The Frost Kings played at Glacier Arena downtown.
The Steel Wolves had their home ice across the river at Iron Stadium.
League headquarters sat between them like a referee at center ice, which meant I'd be shooting games for both teams.
Both teams.
My throat tightened.
The job posting had been perfect. League photographer, travel required, portfolio-building opportunity. Good pay, great benefits, and the kind of access that would make my career. I'd applied on impulse at two in the morning, half-drunk on cheap wine and convinced I'd never hear back.
Then they'd called.
Then they'd offered.
Then I'd said yes before my brain caught up with my mouth.
I hadn't let myself think about the fact that photographing NIHL games meant I'd be rink side. Crouched behind the glass with a 400mm lens while players I used to know skated past. Close enough to hear the impact of bodies against boards, close enough to smell the ice and sweat and testosterone.
Close enough to photograph players like Luca Vale and Jaxon Roarke.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
I hadn't let myself think their names in years, hadn't let myself remember the way Luca used to adjust my helmet before every game, his fingers gentle against my temples. Or the way Jaxon would save me a seat on the bus, sprawled out across two spaces until I arrived.
Hadn't let myself remember the locker room.
The scent that had poured out of me like poison.
The snarling.
The way Luca had stood frozen, knuckles split and bleeding, staring at me like he didn't recognize what he'd become. The way Jaxon had fought security like a feral animal, snarling my name over and over until his voice went hoarse.
The way they'd looked at each other after, like something fundamental had broken between them and it was all my fault.
A horn blared behind me.
The light had turned green. I pressed the gas, willing my hands to stop shaking.
This was fine. Everything was fine. The league had thirty-two teams across North America.
I'd be rotating coverage, not assigned to specific franchises.
And even when I did have to shoot the Frost Kings or Steel Wolves, I'd be behind a camera. Professional. Invisible.
The chances of actually interacting with either of them were basically zero.
I repeated that to myself as I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot.
Zero chance.
Absolutely none.
The third spike hit me as I was unloading my camera bag from the trunk.
This time I didn't stay upright.
My knees hit the pavement hard enough that I felt the impact through my jeans.
The bag slipped from my fingers, expensive lenses rattling inside the padding.
My vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again.
Somewhere in the distance I could hear someone asking if I needed help but their voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
The scent that rolled off me was visible in the cold air, a shimmer of heat that made the atmosphere warp.
Category Red, the doctors had called it.
Aggression-triggering.
Dangerous.
A car door slammed nearby and suddenly there were footsteps, fast and purposeful. An Alpha. I could tell by the way the air pressure changed, the way my body reacted instinctively by trying to make itself smaller.
"Hey, are you okay? Do you need me to call..."
The voice cut off abruptly.
I looked up, my vision still swimming, and met a pair of wide eyes. The Alpha, a guy maybe my age, had gone completely still. His nostrils flared as he caught my scent and I watched in real time as his expression shifted from concern to confusion to something that looked almost like hunger.
Then his scent turned sharp.
Aggressive.
Territorial.
"No," I managed to say, scrambling backward. My palm scraped against the concrete. "I'm fine. I'm okay."
But I wasn't okay and we both knew it.
He took a step closer and my body locked up, every instinct screaming at me to run. This was how it always went. This was why I'd left in the first place.
My scent didn't make Alphas want to protect me.
It made them want to fight each other for the privilege of claiming me.
"You should go inside," he said, and his voice had gone rough. Strained. Like he was fighting himself. "Right now. Before..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
I grabbed my camera bag and ran for the building entrance, leaving my suitcase on the pavement. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the lock. Behind me, I could hear the Alpha pacing, his footsteps heavy and agitated.
The door finally opened and I threw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me.
Then I slid down to the floor and tried very hard not to cry.
My camera bag sat beside me, a reminder of why I was here. Of the job I'd fought so hard to get. The career I'd built from nothing, one photo at a time, until someone finally noticed.
Welcome home, I thought bitterly.
This was going to be a disaster.