Chapter 4
The Goalie's Dilemma
~éTIENNE~
"The scheduling people certainly made a mistake."
Rafe is pacing the length of our shared living room like a caged animal, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood with every agitated step. He still hasn't put on a shirt. I'm starting to think he owns stock in a company that profits from public nudity.
His storm-gray eyes are wild, his jaw clenched so tight I'm surprised his teeth haven't cracked. The vein in his neck is doing that pulsing thing it does when he's about to either punch a wall or deliver a game-winning slap shot.
Neither option seems particularly helpful right now.
"We don't need some Omega in our space," he continues, running both hands through his damp hair until it stands up in frustrated spikes.
"How are we supposed to concentrate with the season starting?
Playoffs are in six weeks. Six weeks, and they want to throw a distraction right into the middle of our house? "
He gestures emphatically at the hallway leading to the bedrooms like the very architecture has personally offended him.
"She's going to be sleeping ten feet from my room. Ten feet! Do you know what that means?"
Cal is sprawled on the couch, scrolling through his phone with the practiced ease of someone who's heard this rant before.
Multiple times.
In the last twenty minutes alone.
His amber eyes don't leave the screen as he responds, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Is that why you couldn't concentrate enough to wear a towel in the locker room?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "Cornering her like she's property instead of, I don't know, a human being who walked into the wrong room?"
Rafe whips around, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
"That's OUR territory. The men's locker room. She shouldn't have been there to begin with! There are rules about these things, Cal. Boundaries. Sacred spaces that shouldn't be violated by random Omegas who smell like..."
He trails off, his nostrils flaring like he's reliving the scent memory.
Interesting. Very interesting.
"Smell like what?" Cal finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. "Please, continue. I'd love to hear you describe exactly how the Omega you were supposedly so annoyed by smelled."
"Shut up."
"Was it nice? I bet it was nice. Is that why you went full caveman? Because your big Alpha brain short-circuited from a pleasant scent?"
"I said shut up."
I lean against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, watching this unfold with the detached interest of someone who's learned that getting between Rafe and his temper is a losing game.
My position gives me a clear view of both of them, Cal's lazy amusement contrasting sharply with Rafe's barely contained agitation.
"Well," I say, keeping my voice neutral, "she had to get her bag. And remember, Coach mentioned the new students would need access to the equipment area? They probably didn't realize the timing would overlap with our post-game cool-down."
It's a reasonable point. A logical explanation for what was clearly just an unfortunate accident.
Rafe's gray eyes snap to me, narrowing into slits.
"I don't give a damn about what Coach said." His voice drops into that dangerous register that usually precedes someone getting checked into the boards hard enough to see stars. "And you don't even know her like we do."
The words land like a slap.
You don't even know her like we do.
I keep my expression blank, a skill I've perfected over years of practice. But inside, I feel that familiar sting. The one that whispers that no matter how long I've been part of this pack, I'll always be the outsider. The replacement. The one who filled a slot that was never meant for him.
Cal looks up from his phone now, his amber eyes flickering between us with concern.
The teasing tone disappears from his voice, replaced by genuine reproach.
"That was mean, Rafe." He sits up straighter, his broad shoulders tensing. "It's not his fault he wasn't part of our crew back in sixth grade. We were assholes. Complete and total assholes. That's on us, not him."
Rafe huffs, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The muscles in his jaw work like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to spit out. His Cedar smoke scent has soured with frustration, filling the room with an edge that makes my own Alpha instincts prickle.
"Whatever."
I push off from the doorframe, the movement slow and deliberate.
"If you liked my brother better, just say that."
The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
Rafe's face does that complicated thing where he wants to argue but knows he can't. His mouth opens, then closes. His hands flex at his sides like he's resisting the urge to punch something.
Because we all know what I'm really saying.
We all know who used to occupy this space in their pack. Who used to be the third point in their triangle before scholarships and fresh starts and a chance to leave the past behind.
Bastien.
My older brother. The louder Laurent. The meaner one. The one who fit so perfectly into Rafe and Cal's dynamic back when they were kids, terrorizing anyone weaker than them.
I'm not him.
I've never been him or wanted to be like him.
And some days, I think that's the problem.
"étienne..." Cal starts, his voice soft with an apology that isn't his to give. He's half-risen from the couch, one hand extended like he wants to physically stop me from leaving.
I don't wait to hear it.
I turn and walk out of the living room, down the hall, past my bedroom door with its pathetic little note asking people to knock first. Past the bathroom we'll apparently be sharing with an Omega whose scent is still lingering in my memory like a song I can't forget.
I push through the front door and step out into the evening air.
Behind me, I can hear Cal's groan through the still-open door.
"See what you did? Hurt our goalie's feelings. Coach is gonna kick your ass if he lets those pucks go right through during tomorrow's practice because you annoyed him before a crucial training week."
I don't stay to hear Rafe's reply.
A walk. I need a walk. Need to clear my head before I say or do something I'll regret.
Merde.
The campus is quieter now, the golden hour light casting long shadows across the pathways.
The buildings of Valenridge University rise around me like monuments to ambition and privilege, their brick facades glowing warm in the fading sun.
Most students are either in the dining halls or their dorms, settling into the routine of another evening.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and walk without direction, letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go.
The path winds through a small courtyard with a fountain at its center, the water catching the light like liquid gold. A few students sit on benches nearby, talking in low voices, but they don't pay me any attention.
Good. I don't want attention right now.
I want to understand why that Omega's scent is making me lose my mind.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I can't push it away.
Mabeline Mae Rose.
I didn't catch her full name until Cal said it in the locker room, but the moment he did, it clicked into place like a puzzle piece I didn't know I was missing. Mae Rose. MaeBell. The girl from their past. The one Rafe and Cal apparently tormented when they were children.
The one who looked at me today like I was part of that nightmare.
Except I wasn't.
But how would she know that?
I kick at a loose pebble on the path, watching it skitter into the grass bordering the walkway.
To her, I'm just another face from sixth grade. Another Laurent. Another potential enemy wearing familiar features.
She doesn't know that I spent most of that year in a different school district, only visiting during holidays when my parents forced Bastien to include me in whatever he was doing. She doesn't know that by the time I transferred to their school in seventh grade, the damage had already been done.
She doesn't know that I'm not my brother.
But why would she? We look alike. Same eyes. Same dark hair. Same last name stitched across the back of hockey jerseys.
Here's the truth that I've never told anyone:
I've never been attracted to an Omega before.
Not once. Not ever. In twenty-five years of existence, through puberty and presentation and every hormone-fueled phase that Alphas are supposed to go through, I have never felt that pull. That spark. That primal recognition that everyone talks about.
My packmates would come back from parties, reeking of Omega scent and satisfaction, bragging about conquests and near-misses and the intoxicating high of the chase. They'd describe it like a drug, like a hunger that could only be satisfied one way.
I smiled and nodded and pretended I understood.
But I didn't.
Not really.
I thought I was defective.
Actually, I was convinced of it. Spent years wondering what was wrong with me, why I couldn't feel what everyone else seemed to feel so effortlessly.
Why Omegas' scents were pleasant enough but never overwhelming.
Never consuming. Never the all-encompassing need that Alphas were supposed to experience.
Broken. That's what I decided I was. Broken in some fundamental way that couldn't be fixed.
Why else would our pack be sent to this school?
Sure, the scholarship was helpful. More than helpful, actually. It covered tuition, housing, training, everything. A fresh start wrapped in athletic opportunity, presented like a gift rather than what it really was.
A last resort.
Because underneath the official reasons, I knew the truth.
We came here because we're broken. All three of us, in different ways.
Rafe, with his mood swings and his inability to commit to anyone beyond a single night. The revolving door of Omegas who enter his bed and leave his life within hours, never touching whatever wounded thing lives at his core. His father's voice, probably, telling him he's not enough. Never enough.