Chapter 15
Full Throttle
~CALLAHAN~
Inotice the shift right before the puck drops.
It is subtle. The kind of change that most people would miss entirely because they are too busy watching the play or checking their phones or debating whether the Omega on the ice is going to humiliate herself.
But I have spent my entire life reading people.
Reading rooms. Reading the invisible currents of energy that flow between bodies in a space, and I am telling you, the air in this arena changes the moment Mabeline Mae Rose settles into position.
I would also be lying if I said watching an Omega hold my hockey stick and wear my jersey is not the biggest flex I have ever experienced.
Because holy shit.
She looks ridiculous. The jersey hangs past her thighs, the sleeves swallow her hands, and the hemline sways when she moves like a dress on a girl who has never owned one fancy enough to twirl. But there it is, stitched across her back in bold white letters against the red fabric.
KNOX.
My number.
My name.
On her body.
That is an odd way to claim an Omega you met forty-eight hours ago and surely do not have feelings for, right?
Right?
Absolutely right. I do not have feelings. I gave her my jersey because she was cold. That is it. A practical decision. A health-conscious decision. I am simply protecting my immune system from potential exposure to a sick roommate. Nothing more.
Except I am fighting a hard-on that is becoming increasingly difficult to justify as a health concern.
Every time she shifts on the ice, the jersey ripples across her frame.
Every time she turns, I catch a flash of KNOX between her shoulder blades.
And my body, the traitorous bastard, reacts with an enthusiasm that has no business existing in the middle of a freezing rink surrounded by twenty other Alphas who would absolutely notice if I had to excuse myself.
Get it together, Graham Knox. You are not this guy. You are the fun one. The easy-going one. The one who flirts with everyone and commits to no one. You do not lose your composure over a girl in baggy pants and borrowed equipment.
Mae settles into position at center ice, facing the rookie forward. She holds my stick loosely in her grip, her stance relaxed, her posture carrying a casualness that reads as intentional underestimation.
But that is not what catches my attention.
What catches my attention is the look in her eyes.
People talk about auras. About the way certain individuals can walk into a room and change its atmospheric pressure just by existing.
I have seen it before. Etienne does it on the ice sometimes, stepping into the goal with a focus so absolute that the arena goes quiet despite him just being a goalie.
In logical terms, a goalie is stationary.
Reactive. But when Laurent locks in, there is an energy radiating off him that makes your skin prickle.
That same energy is flickering behind Mae's hazel eyes right now.
And it sends literal goosebumps racing down my arms.
Coach Mercer raises the puck.
I do not blink.
The puck drops.
And Mae becomes a different person.
Her hand tightens on my stick, her posture drops into a crouch I have only seen from seasoned forwards, and she wins the face-off so cleanly that the rookie across from her does not realize the puck is gone until she is already three strides ahead of him.
Three strides.
In the time it takes me to process what I just witnessed, she has gained three full strides of separation from a kid who was smirking about going easy on her two seconds ago.
And then she is flying.
There is no other word for it. She does not skate the way hockey players skate, with brute force and chopping strides and the raw power of bodies built for impact.
She glides. She flows. Her blades barely seem to touch the ice, carrying her across the surface with a speed and fluidity that belongs on a competition rink, not a practice scrimmage.
I regret blinking even once.
Sage is right behind her, the two of them moving in sync with a precision that speaks to hours and hours of unspoken practice.
They weave through the rookies like they have rehearsed this routine a thousand times, their communication nonverbal, instinctive, reading each other's movements with the kind of awareness that most professional duos spend years developing.
Mae passes the puck to Sage, and in the same motion, she skids to a sharp stop that sends ice shavings spraying in an arc. Two defensemen who were converging on her position overshoot, their momentum carrying them past the space she just vacated.
She is already gone.
Cutting across to the opposite side of the ice, blades carving angles so precise they leave clean lines on the fresh surface.
She is not just fast. She is surgical. Every movement calculated, every pivot deliberate, every shift in direction designed to exploit the gaps in the formation that I know she identified within minutes of watching our scrimmage.
Sage sends the puck blazing across the ice with a hit that is all power and no hesitation, the black disc skimming past two outstretched sticks and landing on Archie's blade with a precision that makes me blink.
Archie catches it cleanly, transitioning from observation mode to execution in a heartbeat.
He glides forward, his slim frame deceptively quick, his movements carrying the fluid certainty of someone who has been watching elite players his entire life and has absorbed their techniques through osmosis.
By the time any of us can track Mae's position, she has already looped behind the net.
Archie feeds the puck to empty space.
It does not stay empty.
Mae materializes from behind the goal and redirects the puck with a flick of her wrist that sends it sailing into the upper corner of the net so fast that Etienne does not move.
He does not even flinch.
I watch him blink. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Then he slowly turns around, looking at the puck sitting in the back of the net behind him, processing the reality that an Omega in borrowed gear just scored on him without him so much as twitching a glove.
The silence in the arena is deafening.
Not a cough. Not a whisper. Not a single breath from any of the thirty-plus people watching from the boards and the bleachers. Just the hum of the refrigeration units and the distant buzz of fluorescent lights.
Sage and Archie skate back to their side, both of them looking unfairly calm for two people who just helped execute a goal that left an entire hockey team speechless.
Mae glides to center ice, stopping with a casual spray that she makes look effortless.
She tilts her head.
"Alright, boys. Shocked factor can wait. Now stop playing like wimps and take us seriously here."
The arena erupts.
"WHAT IN THE HOT STUFF WAS THAT?"
"DID SHE JUST SCORE ON LAURENT?"
"brO, SHE BARELY TOUCHED THE PUCK AND IT WENT IN!"
My teammates are losing their minds. Guys are slamming their sticks against the boards, shouting over each other, grabbing each other's shoulders. Dillon has his helmet off and is running his hands through his hair, muttering profanity in a stream of disbelief.
I take a glance at Rafe.
The guy is still speechless. Jaw dropped.
Arms no longer crossed but hanging limp at his sides.
His gray eyes are fixed on Mae with an expression I have never seen on his face before, an expression that looks suspiciously like the moment when certainty fractures and everything you thought you knew collapses.
I cannot help but look at Vanessa next.
She is fuming. Her perfectly manicured hands are balled into fists, her cheeks flushed with a rage that her jasmine perfume cannot mask. The other girls on the figure skating team stand beside her in varying states of shock, their eyes wide, their confident postures deflated.
Except their coach.
The figure skating coach is standing at the edge of the boards with a grin so wide it could split her face in half, her arms crossed over her chest in a posture that radiates pure satisfaction.
Like she has been waiting for this exact moment.
The rookies go full force after that, their playful attitudes replaced by genuine intensity now that they understand this is not the joke they assumed. They press harder, faster, tighter, running their formations with actual effort.
It does not matter.
Mae, Archie, and Sage score again. And again. And again.
Every play is a masterclass in strategic execution.
Mae reads the formations before they fully develop, adjusting her position to exploit weaknesses the rookies do not realize they have.
Archie anchors the middle, his hockey IQ transforming from theoretical to applied with a fluidity that makes Coach Mercer nod in approval with each passing minute.
Sage provides the raw energy, her skating rough but devastatingly effective, her hits carrying a power that belies her compact frame.
And Mae.
Fuck, Mae is dangerously fast on the ice.
She is not just good. She is the kind of good that makes you realize you have been watching amateurs your entire life.
Every turn is razor-sharp. Every acceleration is instant.
Every stop sends ice spraying in patterns so controlled they look choreographed.
She plays hockey the way a figure skater would, with grace layered over ferocity, beauty woven through aggression.
By the time the timer goes off and Coach Mercer blows his whistle to call the drill, the scoreboard in my head reads approximately seven to zero in favor of three people who were not even supposed to be on the ice today.
The final puck soars just past Etienne's ear as the buzzer sounds, making him curse and flinch away from the disc that misses his face by inches.
Mae curses too, her voice carrying across the rink.
"Shit! Sorry!"