2. Wally
The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floorboards of the arena lounge and travels up my boots. The room is packed wall to wall with people celebrating the win. The air is warm and thick with the smell of expensive perfume, stale beer, and the leftover adrenaline of the game.
I lean my shoulder against the edge of the bar and take a sip of my club soda.
My muscles ache with a dull, satisfying throb.
It's the soreness that only comes after grinding out a win against a team fighting for every inch of ice.
We played a brutal game tonight. The opposing defense tried to trap us in the neutral zone, but we broke through right when it mattered.
I replay the final goal in my head. Henry set me up with a blind drop pass right in the slot.
It was a risky move, but he put the puck right on the tape of my stick.
I just leaned into the slapshot and fired it home.
Hearing the goal horn blast through the arena never gets old.
It feels like validation for the endless hours of practice and the grueling conditioning drills.
We have a solid run going this season. We're sitting in first place in the standings with a comfortable point cushion.
For the first time in my career, the Alpha Cup feels like a realistic goal instead of a distant dream.
The entire locker room feels it. The energy is different this year.
We're clicking on the ice, anticipating passes before they happen, and trusting the systems our coach put in place.
Despite the win, I can't seem to settle down.
I roll the cold plastic cup between my palms and scan the VIP lounge, trying to shake a weird, restless itch under my skin.
Fans and corporate sponsors crowd around the high-top tables, shouting over the thumping music to be heard.
I spot Kel by the entrance. He wears a dark t-shirt showing off the ink trailing up his neck, arms crossed over his chest. A couple of Omega puck bunnies try to catch his eye.
He scowls at the wall, ignoring them. Kel is our enforcer on the ice and off it. Small talk gets on his nerves.
Simon is on the other side of the room, working the crowd.
A bright smile takes over his face as he charms a group of guys wearing suits.
Simon is the speedster on our line. He handles the PR stuff better than Kel and I combined.
Usually, having my pack nearby keeps me grounded in a crowded room.
Tonight feels like something is missing.
"Hey, Cap!" Henry shouts my name from somewhere in the thick of the crowd.
He waves his arms over his head to get my attention. He points to his empty hands, holds up two fingers, and mouths the words for two beers and a water.
I nod and turn to the bartender. The lounge is loud. I hold up two fingers, point to the taps, and then point to the water pitcher. A minute later, the bartender slides three plastic arena cups across the counter. Two are filled with beer and the other with ice water.
I group the cups together. Balancing two beers, a water, and my club soda in two hands is a precarious setup.
I'm dead tired. My legs ache like lead blocks.
My usual move involves flagging down a rookie to run these over.
Standing here against the bar only makes me more antsy.
My boots feel too tight. My skin runs too hot.
My instincts hum with a wired energy I can't pinpoint.
I need to walk it off. Plus, I want to give Henry a proper pat on the back for that perfect assist.
I push off the bar and grab the drinks. The second I take a step toward him, the vague restlessness in my system spikes. A sudden pressure tightens in the center of my chest.
It hooks behind my ribs, a magnetic pull dragging my attention through the packed room. My boots shift on the floorboards. I pick up the pace before my brain registers the urgency.
Resting my knees gets pushed to the back of my mind.
I navigate through the crowd, keeping a tight grip on the plastic cups to avoid spilling them.
I dodge people waving their hands and sloshing their own drinks as they talk.
The thumping bass of the music fades into the background noise.
My focus zeros in on the path ahead. The tug in my chest gets stronger with every step I take away from the bar.
I weave past a group of guys debating a penalty call from the second period. My skates left blisters on my heels. I ignore the sting. I push through the crowd to see what is pulling me across the room.
I make it halfway across the lounge before the scent hits me.
It cuts through the suffocating cloud of cheap cologne, spilled beer, and fried bar food like a blade. Lavender and honeysuckle. The smell has an acidic edge, like flowers rotting in a vase, but it still calls to me. It wraps around my senses and steals the air right out of my lungs.
I stop walking. The crowd shifts around me. People bump my shoulders as they pass. I ignore the contact.
My Alpha instincts wake up with a violent jolt. Heat flares under my collar as my body reacts to the sudden spike in adrenaline. My heart hammers against my ribs, pumping energy through my tired muscles. Everything inside my head narrows down to one absolute certainty.
She's an Omega, and she's a scent match.
It's not common. Plenty of Alphas go their entire lives without finding a true scent match.
They settle for compatible scents or arranged bonds instead.
Finding an Omega with an aligned scent is the kind of stuff they write cheesy movies about.
But the scent filling my nose right now isn't fiction.
It's real, and it's standing somewhere in this room.
I tighten my grip on the drinks in my hands. The plastic crinkles under the pressure. I track the scent. It's coming from the middle of the room, from where Henry is standing.
I push through the last cluster of people blocking my path. My focus locks on the space next to my teammate.
Henry grins as I walk up. His warm brown skin is still flushed from the game, and his dark, tight curls are a little messy from wearing his helmet for three periods. He slaps a hand on my shoulder, oblivious to my boiling blood and the instincts clawing at the inside of my skin.
"Thanks, Cap. You didn't have to bring them over." Henry takes the drinks from my hands. He gestures to the two women standing next to him. "I wanted to introduce you. This is my sister, Kirsty."
I force myself to look at her. She is a Beta. She wears a red Reapers jersey and has her dark hair pulled back in braids. She smiles and gives me a polite nod.
Henry gestures to the woman standing next to Kirsty. "And this is her friend, Vayda."
I turn my head and look at Vayda. That sour scent of lavender and honeysuckle rolls off her in waves. It's dizzying. My instincts surge in approval. She is the source. She is our match.
She pulls a thick knit scarf tighter around her neck, burying her chin in the fabric.
The sleeves of her oversized sweater fall past her fingertips, swallowing her frame as she crosses her arms. Strands of messy red hair slip around her face, showing off silver-gray roots under the bright lounge lights.
Dark shadows bruise the skin beneath her wide blue eyes.
Every line of her face pulls down with an exhaustion making her look like she hasn't slept in a month.
I lock eyes with her. I anticipate the recognition to hit her. I watch for her instincts to wake up and answer mine.
Her face goes green. The blood drains from her cheeks, leaving her skin looking like chalk. She stares at me with a mix of raw terror and disbelief. She shrinks back, pulling her arms tight across her chest to make herself smaller.
My brow furrows. I take a half-step forward. This is all wrong. A scent match is supposed to bring an immediate sense of safety and calm to an Omega. Instead, she looks like she just watched me murder someone on the ice. The panic rolling off her sours the honeysuckle in the air even more.
I open my mouth to speak, to ask her what is wrong. A shift in the air behind me stops the words in my throat. I know exactly who is coming up behind me.
Kel and Simon step up to flank my sides, a solid wall of muscle backing me up. They cut through the crowd with an intimidating focus, making the fans lingering nearby take a quick step back. The relaxed energy of the post-game party vanishes.
Kel stares straight ahead, his jaw locked tight and his gray eyes intense. Simon drops his smile. The charming PR guy is gone, replaced by a tense, focused Alpha. They skip over Henry and Kirsty.
They focus on Vayda. I know they can smell it too. The match isn't just for me. It's for our entire pack.
I turn my attention back to her. The panic in her blue eyes escalates into full-blown terror. I lean in a little closer, keeping my hands at my sides to avoid startling her further.
"Do you smell that?" The words scrape out of my throat, rough and demanding. "Tell me you feel this, too."
She shakes her head. Her movements are jerky and frantic. She steps back, retreating further into the crowd.
Kirsty looks between me and Vayda. She lacks the scent receptors to smell the match, but she has a smart head on her shoulders. She hears my question and sees the way the three of us are zeroed in on her friend. Her eyes go wide as the realization hits her. She reaches out and grabs Vayda's arm.
Kirsty leans close to her ear. "Vayda, stop. Listen to him. If this is what I think it is, they could save you."
Vayda rips her arm out of Kirsty's grip. Her chest heaves with shallow, uneven breaths. She reaches up and grabs the collar of her turtleneck sweater. She yanks the fabric down, exposing the pale skin of her neck. Then she shoves the sleeve of her oversized sweater up past her left wrist.
The stadium lighting glares down on her skin. I freeze.
Silver scars mark her neck and her wrist. They are old bite marks. The tissue is raised and thick, a permanent claim stamped into her flesh.
"You're mistaken." Vayda forces the words out. Her voice shakes. The rejection is firm. "I'm already bonded to my matches. I have a pack."
My stomach drops straight to the floorboards. The air leaves my lungs in a harsh rush.
I stare at the silver scars, my brain scrambling to make sense of the conflicting information. She's a bonded Omega. The proof is written right on her skin. She still smells like mine, an undeniable truth roaring in my blood.
It makes zero sense. When an Omega bonds with an Alpha, their scent shifts. The pack claim alters their pheromones. To any outside Alpha, a bonded Omega smells neutral, almost like a Beta. The change stops other Alphas from feeling the pull or issuing a challenge.
Vayda still smells potent. She smells like an open invitation.
She smells like lavender and honeysuckle and everything I have ever wanted in my entire life.
My Alpha instincts flare again, a frustrated, confused response to her claim.
My blood boils with the need to step closer, to wrap her up and figure out why her scent calls to me.
Vayda beats me to the punch. She turns on her heel and bolts.
She shoves past a group of fans and disappears into the crowded lounge. She moves fast, using the chaos of the room to cover her escape.
Kel takes a step forward to go after her. I throw my arm out and hit him in the chest. He snarls, his posture stiffening with aggression, then halts his pursuit. Chasing a panicked Omega only makes things worse.
Kirsty steps up beside me. She tracks the spot where Vayda vanished into the crowd and lets out a long breath.
“It’s complicated, I’ll go talk to her." Kirsty looks up at me, then at Kel and Simon. "I need to go make sure she's okay."
She turns and jogs after Vayda, leaving the three of us standing there in stunned silence.
I watch the empty space they left behind.
The sour scent of her lingers in the air for a few seconds before the smell of stale beer and perfume drowns it out.
A cold, empty ache settles in the center of my chest. It feels like someone just reached right past my ribs and ripped a piece of my heart out.