My Knotty Pucking Valentine (Valenridge University #1)

Prologue Knots And Ice

~MABELINE~

What's more humiliating than walking into a men's locker room full of half-naked hockey players while wearing a ruined sweater, no bra, and the sticky remains of a blue raspberry slushie dripping down your cleavage?

Realizing the hockey player staring at you like you just murdered his entire family is your childhood bully—and he's not wearing a towel…

I'm not saying the universe has it out for me.

But I'm “not” not saying that either.

The locker room door slams shut behind me with the subtlety of a gunshot, and the echo bounces off tile walls thick with steam and the heady, intoxicating musk of victorious Alphas. My Omega hindbrain—the traitor—perks up like a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball.

Down, girl. We hate Alphas. Remember?

Except my stupid hormones didn't get that memo, because the man standing six feet away—water droplets tracking down abs that belong on a Roman statue, a towel that exists only in theory somewhere on the floor—smells like cedar smoke, winter air, and trouble.

Capital T.

Rafe Calder.

Team captain. NHL-bound golden boy. The architect of my sixth-grade nightmare.

And currently, very, very naked.

My eyes do that traitorous thing where they trace a path downward without my permission—across pecs that could double as a shelf, down the ridged ladder of his abs, following the dark trail of hair that disappears into—

Nope. Eyes up. Eyes UP.

His storm-gray eyes lock onto me with the intensity of a predator spotting wounded prey. His nostrils flare, and a sound rumbles from his chest that shouldn't be legal outside of a nature documentary.

It's low, primal, and it vibrates through my body in a way that makes my thighs press together involuntarily.

"What the fuck are you wearing?"

Charming. Really.

No 'hello.'

No 'sorry I tormented you until you cried in the girls' bathroom every day for a year.'

Just—what are you wearing—like I chose to accessorize with another Alpha's jersey and a gallon of frozen sugar water.

But let me back up.

Because this disaster didn't start in a steam-filled locker room with a naked hockey god looking at me like he wants to either devour me or bench me into next week.

It started three hours ago, when I stepped off a Greyhound bus with one suitcase, a dream deferred, and exactly six weeks to find a pack before my parents did it for me.

Bond by twenty-five or we choose for you, Mabeline.

That was my mother's ultimatum, delivered over brunch like she was suggesting I try the quiche. Casual. Breezy. As if she wasn't discussing handing my future to strangers like a second-hand sweater.

Never mind that I'm a late-blooming Omega who only fully presented at twenty-one years behind my peers, which apparently makes me 'damaged goods' in the marriage market. Let’s also ignore the fact I've spent the last three years grinding through a soul-crushing desk job, watching spreadsheets blur while my figure skating career gathered dust like a forgotten trophy on a shelf I stopped looking at.

And should I dare mention that the thought of some stranger's knot—

Nope. Not going there.

The point is: I had a plan.

Accept the six-week placement at this fancy new arts-and-sports university for Alphas and Omegas.

Buy myself some time. Maybe, should I dare believe in it, rediscover the girl who used to live for the ice instead of the hollow-eyed zombie who stares back at me in the mirror every morning, wondering where she went wrong.

Simple, right?

Ha. I clearly enjoy making myself laugh.

The universe took one look at my sensible plan and said, Hold my beer.

I should've known something was wrong when I arrived at the hockey game—part of my 'reconnect with ice sports' initiative—and felt the prickle of hostile eyes on me before I even reached the concession stand.

The arena smelled like popcorn, sweat, and too much Alpha cologne, the crowd still buzzing from the team's brutal victory. I'd planned to buy a hot chocolate, find a quiet corner, and watch the Zamboni smooth the ice while pretending I belonged here.

Instead, Vanessa 'Viper' Voss materialized out of nowhere, flanked by her posse of simpering betas like some kind of mean-girl Voltron.

"Well, well." Her voice dripped synthetic honey, sweet enough to give you cavities and a healthy dose of diabetes. "Fresh meat. Let me guess—transfer student hoping to snag yourself a hockey Alpha?"

She was all sharp angles and sharper smiles, blonde hair shellacked into submission, wearing a custom jersey with CALDER'S QUEEN bedazzled across the back.

Because apparently subtlety was dead and Vanessa had stabbed it with her stiletto heels.

"Actually, I'm here for the ice." I offered a polite smile. "The sport. Not the players."

Her laugh was pure glass shards.

"Oh, that's adorable." She stepped closer, and I caught her scent—something cloyingly sweet, like artificial strawberries left too long in the sun.

Overpowering. Aggressive. The kind of scent that screamed I will mark my territory and you're standing in it.

"Let me make this simple for you, Nerdy MaeBell—"

My blood went cold.

Nerdy MaeBell.

The nickname I'd buried under years of therapy, hair products, and contact lenses. The words that used to follow me down hallways like a curse.

How the hell did she—

"—stay away from Rafe Calder. He's mine. I'm going to be his prom Omega Queen at the Valentine's Day dance, and I will destroy anyone who gets in my way."

Okay?

Jeez. Can a girl dare settle into the school program before she wins herself a target on her head for existing?

"Lady, I don't even know who—"

That's when fifty ounces of blue raspberry slushie hit me square in the chest.

The cold was instant and brutal, soaking through my thin sweater, plastering it to my skin in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. My bra—white since my dark blue bra needed a wash—became see-through on contact, my nipples pebbling against the frozen assault.

The sticky syrup ran down my stomach in icy rivulets, soaking through my jeans, pooling in the waistband of my underwear in a way that made me want to scream or cry or both.

Vanessa's posse erupted in laughter—high, cruel, achingly familiar.

Phones lifted like weapons.

Someone muttered 'Already trending' with visible glee.

And me?

I stood there, dripping and mortified, flashbacks to sixth grade hitting me like a body check—braces glinting under fluorescent lights, frizzy hair escaping its scrunchie, glasses sliding down my nose as I tried to make myself small.

The endless chants of Nerdy MaeBell, go to hell echoing in my skull like a song I'd never asked to learn.

Not again.

Not again.

Not again.

"Hey." A soft voice cut through the chaos, accented and gentle. "That's not cool. Back off."

I blinked through sticky lashes to find a goalie—still in partial gear, black curls damp with sweat, pale skin dusted with freckles like someone had scattered stars across his cheeks—shouldering between me and the mean-girl brigade.

His scent hit me like a blanket fresh from the dryer: snow-dusted evergreens, old books, and something warm underneath.

Instantly calming.

Dangerously lovely.

And I dare actually know who this man is as he approaches.

étienne Laurent.

I'd seen his name on the roster earlier, memorized it the way I memorized everything—a coping mechanism from the days when knowing things was the only power I had. The shy French-Canadian goalie with eyes the color of a winter storm.

"What is wrong with you?" He addressed Vanessa, his accent making the words soft but no less sharp. "She has done nothing to you."

"Mind your business, Laurent." Vanessa's voice could've frozen the slushie she'd already weaponized. "This doesn't concern the backup goalie."

Something flickered across étienne's face; hurt, maybe, quickly buried.

But he didn't move.

Instead, he shrugged off his spare jersey—number 31, LAURENT stitched across the back in crisp white letters—and draped it over my shoulders without a word.

The fabric was warm from his body, swimming on my frame, and it smelled like safety.

My Omega hindbrain—my arch-nemesis whenever an Alpha’s scent catches midst—practically purred. She clearly adores the attention.

"You okay?" His accent thickened on the words, making them soft as fresh snow. "You need a ride somewhere? Somewhere... away from here?"

I should've told him I don’t need assistance. Or should've explained that the housing office had assigned me to a four-bedroom 'pack integration' house with some random Alphas, which I may interact with, wishing one of them was him so I’d maybe have someone by my side.

I should've said anything coherent…

But Nerdy MaeBell has never been good at standing up for herself unless she’s on the ice…

Instead, I managed:

"Thanks. I—thanks."

And bolted like the disaster I apparently am.

Which brings us back to the locker room.

See, my keycard—the one that would let me into my new living situation—was in my purse.

My purse was in a locker near the equipment room.

The equipment room was accessible through the men's locker room.

And apparently, nobody bothered to mention that the hockey team would be using it after their game.

So here I am.

Covered in slushie.

Wearing a stranger's jersey that smells like pine and promises.

Facing down a naked Prime Alpha who's looking at me like I just committed treason against his crown.

"I asked you a question." Rafe stalks forward, and my back hits the door with a thud that echoes through my spine.

Up close, he's even more devastating—sharp jawline dusted with playoff stubble, that tiny scar through his left eyebrow making him look like trouble wrapped in muscle wrapped in pure, concentrated Alpha energy. His cedar-smoke scent spikes with something darker.

Possessive.

Hungry.

Lickable…

And why the hell am I thinking that?

"Whose. Jersey. Is. That."