Chapter 4 #3
Those gorgeous hazel eyes, full of guarded intelligence, slide past the two idiots in front of her and lock onto mine.
Recognition flickers across her face. Surprise, then uncertainty, then a calculation so quick I almost miss it.
She's deciding whether I'm a threat or an ally.
And I feel it again. That pull. That spark. That recognition.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, dropping into the space between us like a gauntlet thrown.
"Qu'est-ce que vous faites avec ma copine?"
What are you doing with my girl?
I don't realize how threatening my voice sounds until I see the two Alphas jump. They whip around, their confident postures deflating like punctured balloons the moment they recognize me.
"Oh shit." Miguel's face goes pale. "Laurent. H-Hey."
I don't respond. Don't smile. Don't give them anything to work with.
Just stare.
It's a trick I learned from Coach Moreau. The power of silence. The way it makes people uncomfortable, forces them to fill the void with whatever guilt or fear they're carrying.
Tyler clears his throat nervously, shuffling his feet like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"We were just, uh... asking if she needs help. You know. With her bags and stuff. Being gentlemen."
"Gentlemen." I let the word hang there, flat and unimpressed. My eyes don't leave his face. "Why would she need help when she's waiting for me?"
They exchange a panicked glance.
Behind them, I see Mabeline lean to the side, angling her body so she can see past the wall of anxious Alpha blocking her view. Our eyes meet again, and I watch the calculation complete.
She's decided.
"Laurent." Her voice is clear, carrying a hint of that sharp wit I witnessed in the locker room. "I need help, please."
I need help, please.
Four words.
Four simple words, spoken with just enough emphasis to sound like a command dressed in a request.
They shoot straight down my spine and settle somewhere considerably lower.
Merde. Merde. Putain de merde.
I keep my face neutral through sheer force of will, refusing to let these idiots see how thoroughly she just undid me.
"Sure."
One word. Casual. Like my entire nervous system isn't currently on fire.
I step past Miguel and Tyler without giving them another glance, dismissing them from my attention as thoroughly as one dismisses furniture. They're already mumbling excuses, something about needing to be somewhere, practice, dinner, or anywhere that isn't here.
Their retreating footsteps echo down the hallway, and then they're gone.
Good riddance.
I stop in front of Mabeline, close enough to catch the full effect of her scent. It's even more intoxicating than I remember. Vanilla and roses and ice, with something warmer underneath that makes me want to bury my face in the curve of her neck and just breathe.
Focus. Focus. You're supposed to be helping, not fantasizing about scenting her like some desperate—
I reach for her suitcase, and the handle wobbles ominously under my grip. A piece of duct tape peels away, revealing a crack in the plastic beneath.
"Didn't I say I'd buy you new luggage?"
The words are out before I can stop them, casual and teasing like we're old friends instead of virtual strangers with a complicated history.
What are you doing? You've exchanged maybe ten words with this woman. You can't just—
She blinks at me, those hazel eyes widening slightly.
"I'm sorry?"
I gesture at the disaster of a suitcase, committing fully to whatever charade my mouth has decided to initiate without consulting my brain.
"This." I lift the handle, which responds by listing dramatically to the left like a drunk sailor. "Why did you use this one? I distinctly remember offering to replace it."
I don't know why I'm playing this game. Don't know why the words keep coming, building a fiction that never existed.
Could it be the way she looked at me like a lifeline when those Alphas were crowding her space? Or it's the relief I saw flash across her face when she realized she had an exit strategy.
Perhaps I just want her to stop looking at me like I'm one of the monsters from her past.
She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. I can practically see the gears turning behind those beautiful eyes, weighing her options.
Play along with the stranger's bizarre fiction? Or call him out and deal with the awkwardness?
Then, slowly, her lips curl into a smirk that makes my heart stutter.
"But it still works."
She's playing along.
The relief that floods through me is embarrassing in its intensity. I feel my shoulders relax, feel the tension I didn't know I was carrying start to dissolve.
I groan, shaking my head with theatrical despair.
"Your practicality is going to make my black AMEX collect dust."
She laughs.
The sound alone dares to make my cock twitch.
It's not the polite, restrained laugh people give when they're humoring you. It's a real laugh, bright and surprised, like it escaped before she could catch it. The sound bounces off the hallway walls and settles somewhere deep in my chest.
The sound does dangerous things to me. Warm and expanding, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
"Well." She tilts her head, that smirk still playing at her lips. "Now that I'm going to be situated in your dorm, I best start shopping, shouldn't I? Would Rimowa be best fitting?"
Rimowa.
I blink, genuinely surprised.
Most people don't know high-end luggage brands. Most people, when they think expensive, default to whatever logo they've seen on Instagram ads. Louis Vuitton, maybe. Something with obvious branding that screams money from across the room.
But Rimowa?
The German aluminum suitcases that cost more than some people's rent? The kind of luggage you see in first-class lounges and celebrity candids? The choice of people who actually appreciate quality over flashy labels?
She knows her brands.
Which proves she knows exactly what she's doing.
I feel my lips curl into an answering smirk, a real one this time.
"That would be the bare minimum." I lift her terrible suitcase, ignoring its protesting squeak and the way another piece of duct tape surrenders to gravity. "But it's a start. Let's go so we can make an order."
I offer my hand.
It's instinct…or maybe it's the Alpha in me, finally awake after years of silence, reaching for what it wants without asking permission from my rational brain.
She looks at my outstretched palm. Studies the lines and calluses from years of gripping hockey sticks.
Looks back up at my face.
For a moment, I think she's going to refuse. That she's going to remember that I'm technically one of her tormentors' roommates, that she has no reason to trust me, that taking an Alpha's hand means things in their world that she might not be ready to offer.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
Please.
I don't know why it matters this much.
Why does this moment feel like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if I'll fly or fall?
But it does.
But then she reaches out.
Her fingers slide across my palm, small and warm and impossibly soft.
She takes my hand.
We start walking, her damaged suitcase rolling behind us on its barely functional wheels, her hand nestled in mine as if it belongs there.
I don't know what this is.
Don't know what I'm doing.
Have no clue where this strange game of pretend will lead or what happens when reality catches up with the fiction we're building.
But right now, in this moment, with her scent wrapping around me and her fingers warm against mine, I don't care.
The quiet kid who got shoved into lockers. The goalie who thought he was broken. The Alpha who never wanted anyone.
Maybe I was just waiting.
And I dangerously envision she was worth waiting for.
I dare dwell on how good it feels to have her hand in mine.