Chapter 11 #2
She turns to look at me, and a mischievous glint enters those hazel eyes.
"But if I really need help..." She winks. "I know who to call."
I huff out a breath that is half laugh and half cardiac arrest, heat rushing to places that are deeply inappropriate for a pre-class conversation.
"You are a cocky one, you know that?"
She grins, wide and unapologetic, showing teeth.
"Nah. Only on the ice. That is when you will see I am a bit of a competitive bitch. I am pretty fast too." Her grin dims slightly into a more honest expression. "Probably rusty as hell, though. It has been years since I have done anything serious on the ice."
I laugh, the sound genuine and easy in a way my laughter rarely is around anyone.
"If you can beat Rafe in a race on the ice," I say, a plan forming in my head that makes me grin, "I will treat you to a full shopping spree."
Her eyes light up like I have just offered her the keys to a kingdom.
"A shopping spree?"
"A real one. Whatever you want. However much you want."
I lean in closer, dropping my voice to a whisper that brushes against the shell of her ear.
"Including that Rimowa."
Her breath catches. I can hear it, that tiny hitch, and I can see the blush spreading across her cheekbones like a sunrise painting the horizon.
She recovers quickly, because she always does. Leans in to match my proximity, close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her hazel irises, and whispers back.
"Pink, Monsieur."
The French catches me completely off guard.
Heat floods my face so fast I am certain I have turned the exact shade of the suitcase she just requested. My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds, every thought scattered by the sound of that word in her voice, in that language, directed at me with that devastating smirk.
Monsieur.
She called me Monsieur.
I need to leave this car immediately or I am going to do things that will get us both expelled on the first day.
"You..." I clear my throat, trying to recover from the cardiac event she just induced. "You speak French."
She grins, leaning back in her seat like a cat who just knocked a glass off the counter and feels absolutely no remorse.
"A little bit."
I narrow my eyes, deciding to test her. I slip into rapid French without warning.
"Alors, si tu parles vraiment francais, dis-moi quelque chose d'impressionnant."
She pouts immediately, her lower lip jutting out in a protest that makes me want to do incredibly inappropriate things in this parking lot.
"Well, that is not nice. I said a little. You just lobbed an entire paragraph at me. Do not be rude."
I huff, amused.
"But you understood enough to know it was not nice, so you clearly speak more than a little."
She shrugs, that mischievous energy radiating from her in waves.
"You have to when you are trying to be an international sensation. French, Japanese, and a smidge of Italian. The judges respond better when you can charm them in their native tongue during press events. Trust me."
International sensation. She was training at that level. Multilingual competency for foreign competitions and press circuits.
And she had to surrender all of it.
"Why did you stop?" I ask, quieter now. "If you loved it so much. If you were training to compete internationally. What happened?"
She sits with the question for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the windshield. The morning sun has crept higher, casting golden light across the parking lot that makes her dark hair shimmer.
"I honestly do not know," she admits, her voice stripped of its usual bravado. "That is the truth. I wish I had a clear answer like money or injury or timing. But it was more like the joy just drained out of it. Slowly. Drop by drop. Until one morning I looked at my skates and felt nothing."
She swallows.
"Maybe it was the weight of everything else. The rejection. Surviving on leftovers and pity. Trying to keep myself alive took every ounce of energy I had, and there was nothing left for the thing I loved most. Skating requires your whole heart, and mine was too busy just trying to keep beating."
She looks down at her hands, turning them over like she is examining them for evidence of the girl she used to be.
"I used to have calluses on my palms from gripping the boards during stretches," she murmurs. "They are gone now. Smoothed over. Like that version of me got erased and replaced with someone who just knows how to survive."
She blinks, then shakes her head like she is dispersing a cloud of memories.
"But I would like to find out. What really happened. Why I stopped. Maybe do some soul searching and figure out if the passion is still buried in there somewhere, underneath all the survival mode and the fear."
I nod, understanding in a way that resonates deep in my own chest.
"Maybe that is what made this school so enticing," I say. "For both of us. A new beginning while trying to find ourselves. Who we actually are, underneath the labels and expectations everyone else stacked on top of us."
She looks at me, and the smile that crosses her face is different from the others. Not teasing. Not guarded. Just warm and genuine and real.
"Yeah," she agrees softly. "A new beginning."
We sit in the quiet for a moment longer, letting the weight of everything we have shared settle into comfortable silence. Her scent fills the car, my scent fills the car, and the combination of evergreens and vanilla sugar creates an atmosphere that makes me want to stay right here forever.
But we have class.
I check the time on the dashboard and wince.
"We should get going," I say reluctantly. "Is our schedule similar? Please tell me we are not wandering this campus in opposite directions all day."
She fishes her crumpled schedule from her bag, and I pull mine from the side pocket of my backpack. We hold them side by side, comparing periods.
"First period, you are with me. Literature." I scan further. "Second period, same. Intro to Creative Expression."
"Nice," she murmurs, looking pleased.
"Fourth period, we also have together. History of Pack Dynamics." I check the remaining slots. "Second and third, you have Cal. Looks like Biology and Mathematics."
She nods, absorbing this.
"Two classes with Cal is not terrible," she muses. "He at least has a sense of humor and does not look at me like I am a stain on his existence."
"Cal is good company," I agree. "He will probably spend half of Biology making jokes and the other half trying to get you to share your notes."
"Bold of him to assume I take notes."
"And Rafe?"
I hesitate.
"Rafe has every single class of yours."
She groans with more despair than when she discovered the missing coffee machine this morning.
"Every class?" She drops her head back against the headrest. "Every single one? You are not serious."
"Unfortunately."
"The irony," she whines, pressing her palms against her eyes. "The absolute cruel irony. The one Alpha in this entire pack who actively despises my existence is the one I am chained to for every period of every day for six straight weeks. What did I do in a past life to deserve this?"
I laugh, unable to contain my amusement at her theatrical suffering.
"If it helps, we all have gym together. And gym days alternate between the fitness center and the rink. So on ice days, you will get to skate."
Her eyes snap open, despair vanishing in an instant.
"Wait. We get ice time during gym?"
"Twice a week, usually. The rink is shared between the hockey program and the figure skating club, so during gym blocks, everyone has access."
I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. The longing battling against the caution.
"You will want to pretend you have no clue what you are doing out there," I add casually. "At least at first. No need to reveal your secret weapon on day one."
She laughs, bright and conspiratorial.
"Deal. I will fall on my ass a few times for authenticity."
"Very convincing."
"I am an excellent actress. Years of pretending to be fine have given me award-worthy abilities." She pauses, then grins. "But that shopping spree would be incredible. I have not bought anything that was not a winter coat or a necessity in three years."
The admission hits harder than she intends. Three years of survival purchases. Three years of nothing for the joy of it.
"Then you better start those sprints on the ice," I say, keeping my voice light despite the tightness in my chest. "Rafe is fast, but he is a hockey player. Brute speed in a straight line. Figure skaters have agility, precision, and finesse."
"And we look better doing it," she adds with a grin.
"Significantly."
We share another laugh, and I realize this is the most I have laughed in months. She pulls it out of me like music from an instrument that forgot it could play.
"Alright." I grab my bag from the back seat. "Let us get to class before we are late on the first day."
She nods, gathering her things. But as she reaches for the door handle, she pauses.
"Wait. You never told me."
"Told you what?"
"Why Cal was actually mad this morning. You said he punched Rafe, but you never explained the whole story."
Right. That.
I glance around the parking lot, scanning for anyone within earshot. Cal is intensely private about his history, and spreading his personal details without consent is not a line I am willing to cross carelessly.
The lot is mostly empty. The few students heading toward the buildings are well out of hearing range.
"Cal does not like this being discussed," I say carefully. "So I need you to keep this between us. At least until he decides to share it himself."
She nods immediately, her expression shifting into genuine seriousness.
"Cal used to be homeless," I say. "His family, I mean. When he was younger. They went from comfortable to having nothing practically overnight. Bad investments, a betrayal by someone they trusted, and suddenly everything was gone. They lived in their car for months."
Mae's mouth falls open.
"No way."
"It is the truth. And it is a big part of why he reacted the way he did this morning. When Rafe made those comments about homelessness and dignity and handouts, it hit a nerve that goes to the bone. Rafe knows about Cal's past, but sometimes he does not think before he speaks."
She is quiet for a moment, processing.
"It is a longer story," I continue. "And honestly, it is his to tell in full if you two become close. But the short version is that he went from rich to poor overnight, and he has never forgotten what that felt like. It is actually why he tutors here."
"Tutors?"
"The university offers a program for students from disadvantaged backgrounds.
People who cannot really afford to attend but have gifts or potential that deserve a shot.
Cal tutors for a small fraction of what he would normally charge, and the university covers the rest so it is completely free for the students he helps. "
I pause, watching the information reshape her perception of Cal in real time.
"He takes it very seriously. Sees it as a way to give back. To make sure other people do not fall through the cracks the way his family almost did."
"That is so admirable," Mae says softly, her voice tinged with genuine respect. "I would never have guessed. He acts so carefree and easygoing. Like the world is just one big joke he is in on."
"That is the mask," I say. "Same as yours. Same as mine. We are all wearing them."
She smiles, but it is bittersweet.
"What about Rafe?" she asks. "Do you actually like him as a friend?"
The question catches me off guard in its directness, but I find I do not want to deflect. Not with her. She has a way of making honesty feel safe.
"I do not know," I admit. "Which probably sounds terrible.
He is my packmate. I should feel bonded to him, connected, loyal without question.
But whenever I think of Rafe, I just assume I am my brother's replacement.
That is all he sees when he looks at me.
Not Etienne. Not the person I actually am.
Just the body that filled the spot Bastien left behind. "
The honesty costs more than I expected.
"Maybe one day I will feel like I actually belong in this pack," I add quietly. "But as of now, we are just there. Three Alphas sharing a label without the substance to back it up."
Mabeline considers this for a long moment, those hazel eyes thoughtful and piercing in that way I am learning is uniquely hers.
"Maybe you just need an Omega," she says. "One who is going to stick you guys back together. Glue the cracks and force you to confront all the baggage you have been avoiding."
I look at her.
Really look.
At the conviction in her eyes. The strength that lives behind the vulnerability. The woman who has been broken by the world a hundred times and still gets up every single morning ready to fight.
I extend my hand toward her, palm up.
She looks at it. Looks up at me. Back down at my open hand, those hazel eyes flickering between curiosity and caution.
"Maybe," I say, holding her gaze. "But that requires getting them jealous first. So they realize what they are missing."
She laughs, the sound filling my car like a melody I want to hear on repeat for the rest of my life.
"Remind me never to get you mad," she says, still grinning as she places her hand in mine. Her fingers thread through my own like they were designed for exactly this purpose. Warm. Certain. A connection that feels less like a beginning and more like a homecoming. "You probably hold grudges."
I squeeze her hand, smiling in a way I have not smiled in longer than I can remember.
"To the grave and beyond."