2. Kallis
Kallis
“Istill don’t understand. Are you telling me that only seven players are allowed on the ice when each team has twenty? Why don’t they just use them all?”
“No, it doesn’t work like that. Look, see those two in the center of the rink? That’s called a face-off. If there are more people, they wouldn’t be able to skate properly once the puck comes into play,” Aspen says as we watch the players position themselves to begin the game.
“Then why does each player only stay on the ice for a minute?”
“Because it’s hard work skating at those speeds.”
“But they could simply—”
“Bee, just relax, okay? You don’t have to understand it to enjoy it.”
“But then how do I know who’s winning?”
“You’ll see,” Aspen says unhelpfully, grinning as she hands me a paper bag of buttery popcorn I don’t plan on touching.
The crowd buzzes around us, and it’s mildly distracting, but Aspen claims they will settle when the whistle goes.
The white ice lights up the entire arena, and the players stand bold against it.
We sit near the red line that cuts through the center of the rink.
The Golden Bears are to our left, dressed in bright yellow and brown, and the Thorny Beasts are on our right, in deep red and green.
Despite barely knowing the rules, excitement still hums through me, and it’s not just because the smell of alpha is so powerful that even my muted omega side is sitting up and paying attention.
“Keep your eyes on the Bear’s center,” Aspen points to one of two alphas standing by the referee.
“That’s the team captain, Orso Williams. He’s the best player our state has ever had.
They call him ‘Daddy Bear’,” she purrs, throwing me an exaggerated wink.
“You get cozy with him, and your future as the director is secured.”
We were close enough to the tall walls of clear plastic that I could narrow my eyes and watch him directly. But it’s not the same as seeing his determined glare on the huge screens that hang above the ice rink, which display the game.
“Cozy isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I reply.
Though she’d swayed me with the promise of management training, sponsored research, and a new house by the rink.
Aspen tricked me by taking me to the house first for a tour, then lunch at a gorgeous Mexican restaurant, before showing me how easy it is to walk to the rink from there.
Or my ‘future job’, as she said, since Aspen is so sure I’ll take it.
I’m determined to hold my ground; I insist I’m only here for a visit, but Aspen just smiles with a twinkle in her eye every time I say it.
“They call the rink The Woods because they are the Bears. Get it?” Aspen laughs.
“But it’s made of ice,” I say, my brow furrowing as I scan the rink. There are tree motifs and pictures of their bear mascot painted around the stadium, but it doesn’t exactly scream ‘woods’.
“Try to have a bit of imagination, okay?” I know she wants to pat me on the shoulder, but she is one of the few people in my life who respects that I hate suddenly being touched. “And don’t let the Bears hear you talking like that about their rink. They are very protective of their territory.”
“Like bears…?” I ask dryly.
“Now you’re getting it!” She grins.
A buzzer goes off, and the entire rink of twenty thousand people plunges into silence again as the clacking of sticks and the slice of skates on the ice take over.
Before I know it, we’re halfway through a game, and the tension has already captured me.
I don’t want to admit that I’m rapt, but I’m definitely leaning forward in my seat, my ponytail swishing over my shoulders as my head whips back and forth as I track the puck, and half my popcorn has mysteriously disappeared—into my mouth.
They are lining up for another face-off, this time on the Bears’ side of the rink. My heart catches in my throat as Orso gives a small smirk, enhanced on the screen in beautiful HD, and the puck drops.
Players shout, and Orso flies, gliding down the ice like a rocket as the puck darts between him and his teammates.
I can barely keep track of him as he swerves and dances around the opposing defensemen, skates screeching on the ice.
It happens so fast that one moment my eyes are glued to his black hair and yellow shirt with a 26 stamped on the back; the next, the crowd erupts as the puck flies into the back of the net, and his teammates drag him into a group hug in front of us.
My hand curls around the bar along the front row as I nearly slip from my seat. Because swirling up from the spot where they celebrate is the slightest brush of clover that grips me instantly.
I gasp, my eyes wide, jerking as popcorn spills onto my lap, but the players have sped off before I can even tell what’s happened.
All I know is that the pounding in my heart matches the heat in my body, and my gaze hops among the alphas as they scatter, seeking out who had set me off.
Some omegas embody their designation naturally; they can follow their instincts and listen to the needs of their omega side, but mine has always been quiet.
I regulate my heats; I have no sexual desire outside of them, and my scent is rarely noticeable with or without suppressants.
It’s a great advantage when it comes to working in an intense, alpha-led environment, and I’m never distracted by alphas the way some omegas are.
But this is different.
The players slide and cut over the ice with the same precision as my scalpel.
All I can do is watch and measure the force of them as they fling themselves into the game.
It takes just the right angle of the stick, the correct pressure on the puck, a single balanced second, the perfect timing to hit it, and it all comes together to land the puck into the back of the net.
And the whole time, players smash into each other, the speed and urgency beating with the same energy I experienced when I worked in the ER.
The Bears’ medical staff on the far side of the rink is on point, ready with their kits to fix up the players who shuffle around as they swap places on a long bench as easily as they skate, replacing each other in a rolling line by hopping over the low green boards in front of their team’s bench.
It isn’t just a game. No matter which Bear is on the ice, they dodge and weave with expert synchronicity. Even though the screen above them says they are losing, they don’t falter. Their determination remains the same, and I recognize the need to succeed instantly.
Losing can be a tragedy, especially when you pour hours or days into fighting. Back at the start of my internship, the pain of my first loss of life made it harder to perform when I encountered the same situation, but the Bears keep going.
I become so entranced by their play that I almost forget about the clover-scented alpha, his crisp scent complementing my honey.
There’s a whisper of it every now and again, like the lightest breeze floating by, only to be lost in the mesh of smells and shouts as the alphas keep pushing toward both goals.
“And you say that the Bears are one of the lower teams in the NHL?” I ask softly, turning back to Aspen, who’s beaming over my response to the game.
It isn’t even about the clover that smells like fresh fields from my childhood holidays. But more on how rough the players are, how careless they are with their bodies, and how much work the medic team puts in during the game.
Aspen gave me a rundown of all the facilities during lunch, but I didn’t quite believe that a professional hockey team would need that much assistance.
Until there’s another yell, and a slam, and a Bear topples, his knee cracking into the solid ice.
And he picks himself up as if it’s nothing and races back into the game.
“Well, they aren’t exactly in the top rankings, but they get by. They didn’t really make it near the playoffs last year, but the whole state is proud of them.”
If the Bears aren’t considered the best, what are the teams at the top of the league like?
“And I would only work a season?” I ask.
“Hm, something like that, yeah. It depends on how much you learn and what kind of recommendation the team owner gives you. As I said, if you pioneer this hockey-based CTE research, you’ll get even farther ahead than your colleagues. It just depends on how much you wanna commit.”
I nod, unable to hide how receptive I am to her offer now that I’ve seen them play, even just for thirty minutes.
“I’ll take you down to meet them all when the game is over. Maybe a room of huge, sweaty alphas might convince you more.”
“That doesn’t have the appeal you think it does.” I wrinkle my nose, and she bursts out laughing. Most of the patients I treat are fully clothed, washed, and under anesthesia.
The speed and energy are exciting, and another glance at the medics shows that they are indeed surrounded by hot, panting alphas.
But I can’t focus on them, because Orso keeps snatching my attention every time he flies past.
There’s something about him, like he demands my gaze. Even when he’s on the bench, I’m drawn to him.
I don’t know why I think he’s noticed me. He occasionally stops to scan the crowd, and I look away every time. It’s silly of me, really. I haven’t had a reason to avoid an alpha before, even though my omega side is already telling me something is happening.
I could easily ask Aspen about his scent, but I don’t want to break the illusion that I’m unaffected by him.
I’ve never felt this before… this hunger to be near someone. Not even in the cloying depths of my heat have I needed this closeness. Alphas are simply necessary requirements for my heat, and that’s all. My career is my priority; I have no need for a mate.
As a female omega in a predominantly alpha male field, I couldn’t afford to fall behind because I had to sacrifice at least five days of work, four times a year, just for sex.
Three days for my heat, and a day before and after for preparation and recovery.
Though I usually push through my pre-heat and post-heat days to work.
I didn’t have plans to be attracted to an alpha. Until Orso Williams skates past and suddenly looks up. My breath catches as his green eyes widen, his jaw drops, and a Beast smashes him into the barrier with a resounding boom.