Chapter 32
Pucking Valentine
~MABELINE~
"LET ME BITE HIM!"
I am airborne. Practically. My legs are kicking.
My arms are flailing with the unhinged energy of a woman who has been drilled for seven and a half consecutive hours by a man whose definition of training would make a military sergeant file a complaint.
I am launching myself in the direction of Raphael Calder, who is standing ten feet away laughing his entire head off at my suffering, his shoulders shaking, his gray eyes streaming with a mirth that I intend to extinguish with physical violence the moment I break free of the four-person barrier currently preventing me from committing a felony.
Etienne has my waist. Cal has my shoulders.
Jace, who was not even supposed to be involved in this restraint operation, has somehow ended up gripping my left arm while Etienne locks down the right, and the collective effort of three Alphas and one very alarmed Beta is barely sufficient to keep my feet off the ground.
"LET. ME. GO." I thrash between them, my sneakers scuffing against the rubber flooring of the athletics facility. "I am going to bite him on the arm. One bite. That is all I am asking for. A single, well-placed chomp to communicate my displeasure with his coaching methodology."
"Mae, you cannot bite the coach," Cal grunts, adjusting his grip on my shoulders as I attempt a particularly ambitious lunge. "That is assault. Dental assault. I do not think that is a real legal category but I am sure they will invent it for this occasion."
"I will accept the charges!"
Raphael tilts his head, the smirk on his face so unbearably smug that it should qualify as a separate act of provocation.
His dark auburn hair is pushed back from his forehead, his hockey jacket abandoned hours ago, his fitted black shirt clinging to a frame that shows zero signs of fatigue despite the fact that he has just subjected an entire team to what I can only describe as a symphony of physical torment orchestrated by a conductor who enjoys watching musicians weep.
"She has spirit," he observes to no one in particular. "I appreciate the commitment to vengeance. Very on brand."
"I WILL END YOU, CALDER."
Sage groans from her position on the floor, where she has been lying flat on her back for the last four minutes, staring at the ceiling with the vacant expression of a woman whose soul has temporarily departed her body.
"Why the fuck did we agree to join this madness?" she asks the fluorescent lights above her. "I am dying. I am actively, presently, in the process of dying. My legs are not connected to my body anymore. They have filed for divorce. They are seeking independent representation."
Archie sighs from the bench beside her, his head tipped back, his chest heaving with breaths that sound like they are being dragged through gravel.
"Fuck. Is this how they train hockey players in other countries? This is not a practice. This is a Russian boot camp. We did not sign up for the Siberian experience. I was promised drills and water breaks, not a seven-hour descent into cardio purgatory."
Raphael's smirk widens.
"I actually did train a Russian team once," he says, his French accent wrapping around the statement with a casualness that makes me want to scream.
"In Saint Petersburg. Took them all the way to the national championships.
Excellent discipline. Wonderful work ethic.
Minimal complaining, though that might have been a cultural trait rather than a coaching achievement. "
Etienne, still holding my waist, huffs against the back of my neck, his cedar and pine scent thick with exhaustion.
"Did they win?"
Raphael's smirk transitions into a full grin.
"The winning bonus paid off all three of my properties. Fun times."
A collective groan ripples through the athletes scattered across the training facility.
Bodies are draped over every available surface.
Henderson, the senior defenseman, is sitting against the wall with his legs extended in front of him, his expression carrying the thousand-yard stare of a man who has been to war and returned changed.
The freshman rookie who Rafe screamed at two nights ago is lying face down on a mat, motionless, and I am approximately sixty percent certain he is still alive.
Seven and a half hours.
Seven. And a half. Hours of drills, formations, conditioning, strategic walkthroughs, breakout patterns, neutral zone transitions, power play configurations, penalty kill adjustments, and a stamina circuit that Raphael introduced with the phrase this next one is fun, which I have learned is Raphael code for this will make you question your will to live.
Every muscle in my body has filed a formal grievance.
My quads are in open revolt. My shoulders feel like they have been replaced with bags of wet cement.
My lungs are performing at approximately forty percent capacity and are threatening to reduce that number if I do not sit down in the next ninety seconds.
But I am here.
Every single player who showed up this morning is here.
Not Monday's roster. Today's. The ones who chose to arrive bright and early, who walked through those doors before sunrise with their gear bags over their shoulders and the tentative, uncertain faces of people taking a chance on a new captain and a new direction.
More than three-quarters of the team. A turnout that made Raphael nod once, a small, satisfied gesture that carried more approval than any speech he could have delivered.
They showed up. And they survived.
Coach Mercer claps his hands from the sideline, his salt-and-pepper hair ruffled from seven hours of co-coaching alongside a Frenchman whose intensity level he clearly underestimated.
"Alright, alright," he calls, his voice carrying the merciful tone of a man issuing a ceasefire. "We will end things here. Figure skaters need the ice and field for their evening session. Everyone did well today. Better than I expected, if I am being candid, and I am always candid."
The relief that sweeps through the room is audible.
A communal exhale that carries the combined gratitude of two dozen athletes who have just been told they are allowed to stop suffering.
A few of the rookies actually cheer. One of them collapses onto his back and makes a snow angel on the rubber flooring, which would be endearing if it were not also deeply concerning.
Raphael claps twice, the sound sharp and commanding even in the midst of collective prostration.
"Alright. Shower your stinking selves and meet at the diner. Dinner is on me tonight."
The cheer that erupts is louder than any noise this team has produced in two days, including the goal celebration during the game they lost. The promise of free food operates as a universal restorative, capable of reviving athletes from the brink of physical death with the efficiency of a defibrillator powered by the prospect of not paying for their own meal.
"FREE FOOD!" Archie shouts from the bench, suddenly alive again, his earlier claims of dying apparently resolved by the introduction of financial incentive.
"The man said dinner is on him!" Henderson confirms, hauling himself to his feet with a renewed energy that was conspicuously absent thirty seconds ago. "Move, people! Showers! Now! Before he changes his mind!"
The training facility erupts into organized chaos as players drag themselves toward the locker rooms with the motivated urgency of people who have discovered that paradise awaits on the other side of a shower and a short walk to the campus diner.
Cal sets me down.
My feet hit the ground and my legs immediately inform me that they are participating in standing on a probationary basis.
He keeps one hand on my shoulder, his ocean salt scent warm and grounding, his amber eyes scanning my face with the focused attention of a man performing a post-practice wellness check.
"You actually okay?" he asks. "And I mean the real answer, not the tough answer you give when you are pretending your body is not screaming at you."
"I am okay," I say, and it is the real answer, delivered with a breathlessness that undermines its credibility but is honest nonetheless. "I will probably feel it tomorrow. And the day after. And possibly for the rest of the calendar year. But I survived."
He chuckles, the sound tired but warm.
"You survived Raphael's first practice. That is a badge of honor. Frame it. Put it on your wall." He nudges my shoulder with his fist. "But we have baking on Sunday, so you better be in working condition. I refuse to frost cookies alone. My artistic skills require supervision."
I laugh, the sound looser than my body has any right to produce given its current state of deterioration.
"I will not miss baking. You could not keep me away. I have been thinking about cookie frosting designs since Wednesday, and I have opinions that I intend to express with a piping bag."
He grins and jerks his head toward the locker rooms.
"Go shower and change. Do not take forever. I know how long you spend arguing with your hair, and tonight is not the night for a forty-minute conditioning routine. We have free dinner waiting and I will leave without you."
"You would not."
"Try me, MaeBell."
I wave him off with a smile, watching him jog toward the men's locker room where Etienne is already waiting by the door, his dark curls damp with sweat, his expression carrying the quiet satisfaction of an Alpha who endured seven and a half hours of his new captain's coaching and emerged with his dignity intact.
The training facility empties around me.