Chapter 12 #2
"Archie, right?" I ask, stepping toward his desk.
"You are pretty knowledgeable. You knew a lot about the hockey dynamics they were discussing in class earlier.
The history of pack structures in professional teams, the salary cap implications for bonded versus unbonded players.
Most people glazed over during that section, but you were locked in. "
He fixes his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with one finger.
"Well, obviously. My Dad is a coach. Hockey has been dinner table conversation since before I could hold a fork properly."
My brain makes the connection instantly.
"Your Dad is the coach? The one who was on the radio station this morning? Coach Holloway?"
His eyebrows rise slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise guarded expression.
"Hmm. Someone who actually knows what is going on around here. Observant much?"
I shrug.
"A little bit."
I extend my hand toward him.
"Mabeline, but Mae is all good."
Cal's hand shoots out and pushes mine down before Archie can take it.
"Yeah, she is not flirting with you though," Cal says, positioning himself between me and the desk like a golden retriever who has decided his owner is not allowed to pet other dogs.
Etienne materializes on my other side, his scent intensifying the way it does when his Alpha instincts kick into gear.
"Because there is a line for her," Etienne adds, his voice carrying a sharp edge that sounds so unlike his usual gentle tone that I almost get whiplash, "and I am first. So, respectfully, fuck off."
I gawk at him.
Actually gawk, my mouth falling open in disbelief.
Then I punch his arm.
"Etienne! Be nice! He is just trying to introduce himself. You do not get to tell people to fuck off for attempting basic human interaction."
"I was being respectful about it. I said respectfully."
"Adding respectfully does not cancel out the fuck off!"
"No, actually, I am trying to kick you guys out so I can focus," Archie whines, rubbing his temples like our presence is giving him a migraine. But he extends his arm toward me anyway, his handshake formal and precise. "Archie Hale Rosedale."
I take his hand despite Cal and Etienne hovering on either side of me like a pair of overprotective gargoyles. His grip is firm but not aggressive. An Alpha who knows his strength and does not feel the need to broadcast it through a handshake.
Then he pauses, his eyes narrowing behind those wire-rimmed glasses.
"I have heard of a Rose before, though," he says slowly, studying my face with new interest. "You are not related to Coach Rose, are you? Theodore Rose? He used to coach figure skating at the regional level. My Dad mentions him all the time."
My heart stutters.
He knows my father. His Dad knows my father. The coach on the radio was talking about MY Dad. About ME.
I keep my expression neutral, shaking his hand with steady composure that costs more effort than anyone will ever know.
"Yeah," I say. "That is my Dad. We are on... meh terms right now." I release his hand, shrugging with practiced casualness. "But that is the life of an Omega, for you. Family dynamics get complicated when your existence becomes an inconvenience to their plans."
Archie frowns, the expression settling into the lines of his face like it belongs there. Like frowning is his natural state and everything else is just a temporary deviation.
Then he smirks, the shift so quick it catches me off guard.
"Yeah, well. I am an Alpha and still having a shitty rock of a relationship with my Dad, so maybe it is more common with children raised by coaches and their impossibly high standards.
" He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "They expect excellence from their athletes and then expect the same from their kids, and when you do not perform at that level twenty-four-seven, you are suddenly not good enough. "
I laugh, the sound genuine and surprised.
"Agreed. Coaches' children support group, right here. Membership: two."
He almost smiles. Almost.
Before I can say anything else, a broad chest steps directly into the space between our desks, blocking Archie from my view entirely.
Rafe.
His scent hits me first. Leather and burnt cedar, sharp and dominating, filling the space between us with the kind of pheromone intensity that screams Alpha in capital letters.
He stands with his arms crossed, storm-gray eyes fixed on me with an expression that manages to be simultaneously annoyed and imperious.
"Why the hell are you making friends?"
I blink up at him.
"Uh... are you stupid? Why would I not make friends? I am new to the school. That is literally what people do on their first day. Meet other humans. Exchange words. Participate in the social contract."
"You do not need to be socializing with every Alpha who looks at you."
"I was introducing myself, Rafe. It is not a marriage proposal. Calm down."
He huffs, dismissing my entire argument with a single exhale, and then grabs my bag off the desk.
Just takes it.
Picks it up and starts walking toward the door like he has every right to confiscate my personal belongings without permission.
"We are leaving," he announces over his shoulder.
I gawk at his retreating back.
"Wait! You are kidnapping my essentials!" I scramble after him, weaving through desks. "That is my bag, Rafe! You cannot just take people's possessions and walk away!"
He holds the bag up, examining it with unconcealed disgust as he walks.
"You need a new fucking bag. Why the hell is it held together by pins? There are literally safety pins where the zipper used to be. This is not a bag, it is a cry for help."
"Fuck off. That bag has served me faithfully for three years."
"Three YEARS?"
Sage appears at my side, loyal and defensive.
"It gives CHARACTER," she declares. "That bag has been through the trenches. It has earned its battle scars."
Jace flanks my other side, nodding solemnly.
"And it still works and fits our girl's standards of practicality. Function over form. Very on brand for Mae."
I grin at both of them, grateful for the backup.
Because yes, my bag is falling apart. Yes, it is held together by safety pins and prayers.
Yes, it probably belongs in a dumpster. But it is mine, and having friends who defend its honor instead of mocking its condition makes the humiliation of walking through a hallway full of students carrying designer leather satchels feel a fraction less crushing.
"And remember," Etienne adds, catching up to walk beside me with his hands in his pockets and his tone carrying the casual confidence of someone announcing a fact, "she is waiting for that Dior Blue Dior Oblique Jacquard that just came out. Proper upgrade."
Rafe looks back, confusion replacing the disgust.
"The what what?"
Cal sighs, falling into step beside Etienne.
"You are literally from a rich as fuck family and do not know brands for shit. Dior. It is a designer. One of the biggest in the world. How do you not know this?"
Rafe huffs with the dismissiveness of someone who has never once had to consider the brand of anything he owns.
"I do not give a fuck about brands. Just give me whatever fits and will last three business days."
"Three business days?" I repeat, appalled. "You go through bags every three business days?"
Cal nods with weary confirmation.
"He does. Because he throws his shit everywhere since it is replaceable to him. Bags, jackets, equipment. If it breaks, he just buys another one. I have watched this man go through four backpacks in a single semester."
"Four?" Sage mutters under her breath. "I would kill for that kind of disposable income."
"See?" Rafe holds my bag up again, waving it like a piece of evidence in a courtroom. "I cannot even throw this thing away because it will totally tear by the..."
He does not finish the sentence.
Because the bag finishes it for him.
The remaining safety pins give up their fight simultaneously, surrendering to gravity and time and the relentless abuse of being swung around by a six-foot-two Alpha who treats other people's belongings with the delicacy of a wrecking ball.
The fabric splits with a sound that can only be described as a death rattle.
And my books hit the floor.
All of them.
Textbooks, notebooks, folders, pens, and one very crumpled schedule scatter across the hallway tile like shrapnel from an explosion. My entire academic life, sprawled across the polished floor of Valenridge Academy for every passing student to witness.
The hallway goes quiet.
Not completely quiet, but quiet enough that I can hear Sage inhale sharply, Jace mutter "oh shit" under his breath, and Cal groan with the exhaustion of someone who has witnessed Rafe destroy too many things to be surprised anymore.
"Look what you just did," Cal says flatly, staring at the carnage.
Rafe stands there, holding the remains of my bag in one hand. Just the strap and a sad flap of canvas, both safety pins now on the floor. The rest of it is in pieces around his feet.
"This is not even my fault," he says, but his voice has lost its usual sharp edge. Something flickers across his face that might be guilt, though I would sooner believe in unicorns than admit Rafe Beaumont is capable of feeling remorse.
"It is absolutely your fault!" Sage jabs a finger at him. "You grabbed it! You swung it! You murdered an innocent bag in cold blood!"
"It was already dying!" Rafe shoots back. "That thing was on life support! I just pulled the plug!"
"Euthanasia without consent is still a crime, Beaumont!"
"It is a BAG!"
While Sage and Rafe devolve into a shouting match that is attracting a growing audience of amused students, I crouch down and start gathering my books.
Do not cry. Do not you dare cry. It is just a bag. It is fabric and thread and pins that were never meant to hold this much together for this long. It does not define you. Its destruction does not change who you are or what you are capable of.
But it was yours. One of the few things that was yours. And now it is gone, ripped apart by an Alpha who will never understand what it means to only have one bag.
Etienne drops to his knees beside me, his hands reaching for the scattered books with the gentle efficiency that defines everything he does. He stacks two textbooks, tucks a pen behind his ear, and gathers my folder with care.
"Maybe we should do the shopping a little earlier," he says quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear. "Before the race. Before anything else. Just get you what you need."
I cringe, shaking my head as I shove my crumpled schedule into my blazer pocket.
"Nah. I will beat Rafe in a race first. Earn it properly."
"You do not have to earn it, Mae. I offered it freely."
"I know. But I want to."
My voice is firmer than I expected. More certain.
Because I am done accepting handouts. Done taking pity.
Done being the Omega who survives on scraps and gratitude.
If I am getting a new bag, I am getting it because I won.
Because I proved I am more than what people assume when they look at my ancient phone and my pin-held bag and my communal housing history.
Rafe's voice rises above the hallway noise.
"Beating me in what? What the hell are you talking about?"
I look up from my crouch on the floor, my scattered books in my arms, the remains of my bag in pieces around me.
"A race," I say calmly. "On the ice. I can probably skate faster than you."
He literally laughs.
Not a chuckle or a huff or a sarcastic snort. A full-bodied, head-thrown-back laugh that echoes down the hallway and turns every remaining head in our direction. The sound is surprisingly rich, surprisingly warm, and it catches me so off guard that I almost forget to be offended.
Almost.
"You?" He wipes his eye with the back of his hand, still shaking with laughter. "You are going to outskate me? I am the captain of the fucking hockey team, NerdyMae. I have been on the ice since I was four years old. You are not faster than me. You are not even in the same stratosphere as me."
He crosses his arms, his gray eyes gleaming with condescension.
"Can you even skate?"
I rise to my feet, books clutched against my chest, hair falling across my face from crouching on the floor.
I probably look ridiculous. I probably look like a disaster.
A girl with no bag, no money, no status, standing in a hallway full of designer uniforms and trust fund Alphas, claiming she can beat the hockey captain in a race.
But I look him dead in the eyes.
And I smile.
"A little."
The two words land with more weight than a full speech. I can see the flicker of confusion in Rafe's expression, the momentary crack in his confidence where uncertainty slips through like light through a keyhole.
He recovers quickly, because he always does.
"Whatever." He waves a dismissive hand. "Let the ice get resurfaced and we can see what you are all about. I have got to burn that cocky ego of yours before it becomes a bigger problem than it already is."
"Funny," I say sweetly. "I was going to say the exact same thing about you."
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. Just turns on his heel and walks toward the exit, his broad shoulders rigid with a tension I am starting to understand has nothing to do with me and everything to do with himself.
Cal follows, pausing just long enough to give me a grin and a thumbs-up that he hides behind his back so Rafe cannot see it.
Sage is vibrating with excitement.
"You are going to race him? On the ice? Mae. MAE. Do you understand how iconic that will be?"
"If she wins," Jace adds, though his tone suggests he has already placed a mental bet in my favor.
"When she wins," Sage corrects fiercely.
Etienne helps me pick up the last of my books, placing them in a neat stack that he carries himself since I no longer have a bag to put them in. He straightens, those storm-blue eyes finding mine.
"Think you can prove him wrong?" he asks quietly.
I look down the hallway where Rafe has disappeared. At the remains of my bag, scattered across the tile like the remnants of a life I am slowly leaving behind. At the books in Etienne's arms, my name written in careful handwriting on every cover because I could never afford to lose a single one.
I think about the ice. About the feeling of blades cutting through fresh surface, the wind against my face, the freedom of speed and precision and grace. About the calluses that used to line my palms and the joy that used to fill my chest.
I think about the girl I used to be.
And the woman I am trying to become.
I simply smile and shrug.
"One way to find out, I guess."