The Hockey Alpha’s Indebted Mate (Pact Mate #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Miranda

“Why of course, Mr. Brinsley, why wouldn’t I want to smell like vomit?

” I mutter, yanking my soiled scrubs over my head, my words echoing in the empty breakroom.

The fabric is stiff with God knows what other bodily fluids, and the scent clings to every thread like a toxic perfume.

My spare uniform, folded in the back, replaces the one going into my locker.

The old man who just threw up on me ten minutes ago is probably arguing with another nurse now. Sometimes the sanity of this career choice feels questionable at best.

“Seriously, Miranda,” I mutter, pulling on the clean top. “What possessed you to become an ER nurse?”

The question hangs in the air, unanswered. My shoulders ache. My feet throb. Even my hair hurts, pulled too tight in this bun for the last twelve hours. I reach up, and the elastic comes free with a satisfying pull, letting the black strands fall loose around my shoulders. Small mercy.

Sitting down on the bench, I let out a gust of air, rubbing my scalp with my fingers.

I’m so tired.

At times like these, I really want to just quit my job.

I could be a travel blogger. I could be a street artist; I’m good with paints.

I could set up my own food truck where no one pees or vomits on me or tries to bite me.

It’s an entirely different matter that I can’t cook to save my life, but I’m sure I can master a recipe or two.

But none of those options will help me get rid of the sea of debt I am drowning under.

The thought hits me with all the warmth of an ice bath.

Mom’s medical bills didn’t magically disappear when she died.

If anything, they multiplied like rabbits, breeding late fees and interest charges until the numbers stopped making sense.

It’s been a year since she passed, and I’m nowhere close to paying off what I owe.

The grief from the loss washes over me, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe through it. I try not to think about her actively. The sound of her voice still echoes in my ears, and I fear the day I’ll forget what she sounded like.

My eyes burn with tears, and I wipe them away before they can fall.

Leaning down, I rub my calves, just as the door swings open and a familiar voice calls my name.

I see Brooke Tanner, another ER nurse and one of my closest friends, poking her head in, her blond ponytail swinging.

She’s wearing a grimace that makes me stand up. “What’s wrong?”

“You look like hell.”

“I feel worse.” I give her a wan smile. “So what happened?”

“We have an incoming collision,” she says. “All hands on deck. Tie your hair up.”

The door clicks shut behind her before I can respond.

I wait exactly three seconds after she leaves. Then I stomp my foot and scream wordlessly at the ceiling, letting all my frustration pour out in one long, primal sound that does absolutely nothing to make me feel better.

“Of course,” I complain to the empty room, throwing my hands up. “Of course there would be some major accident just an hour before my shift ends. Of course!”

Tying up my hair, I rush out into the hallway, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

The fluorescent lights of Silverpeak General Hospital buzz overhead as I move through the corridors toward the ER entrance.

I can already hear the ambulances in the distance, their sirens wailing like banshees.

The automatic doors slide open as I reach the bay.

Warm night air rushes in, carrying the scent of pine from the mountains.

Several nurses are already gathered, preparing for the onslaught.

I expect to see the familiar flash of red and white lights, the paramedics wheeling in gurneys with practiced efficiency.

Instead, a bus pulls up.

Not just any bus. A sleek charter bus with “Silverpeak Hockey” emblazoned on the side in silver lettering.

The doors hiss open, and large, hulking men in dark blue hockey uniforms come pouring out.

They’re not walking. They’re running, and several of them are carrying people in their arms like the victims weigh nothing at all.

One player has an elderly woman cradled against his chest. Another has a teenager slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

The nurses around me freeze, bewildered. This isn’t protocol. This isn’t how things are done.

A man in an expensive charcoal suit steps through the chaos, moving with the kind of authority that parts crowds. He’s older, maybe late fifties, with salt and pepper hair and dark eyes that assess everything in a single sweep.

“Who’s in charge here?” His voice cuts through the commotion.

I’m a senior nurse. The attending physician is handling the ambulances. That leaves me.

“Me,” I say, stepping forward. “Miranda Carver. What’s going on?”

The man extends his hand. “Leon Ramirez. Coach of the Silverpeak Hockey team. We were returning from an away game when there was a chain collision on Route 7. It’s bad.

Multiple vehicles involved. There are a lot of people injured, and the ambulances couldn’t handle everyone.

” He gestures to the players still emerging from the bus.

“The ones who could be safely moved we brought ourselves.”

I understand immediately. In a mass casualty event, sometimes you do what you have to do. Protocol is secondary to saving lives.

“Okay,” I say, shifting into crisis mode. The exhaustion evaporates, replaced by sharp focus. “Triage. Everyone who can walk on their own, send them to the waiting room. Serious injuries, bring them straight back. We’ll sort them by severity.”

Coach Ramirez nods and starts barking orders at his team. The hockey players move with surprising coordination, following my directions without question. They’re used to taking orders, I realize. It shows in every movement.

I’m directing a player carrying a woman with a head wound toward Exam Room 3 when I notice one of the hockey players limping badly.

He’s tall, probably six feet or more, with dark brown hair that falls across his forehead in messy waves.

His head is covered with a baseball hat.

Even exhausted and injured, he moves with a kind of fluid grace that catches my attention.

“You,” I call out, pointing at him. “I need to look at that leg.”

He turns, and I get my first clear look at him.

Lean muscle wrapped in that dark blue uniform, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. His face is all sharp angles and strong lines, a jaw that could cut glass.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. Amber.

The color of honey held up to sunlight, bright and intense even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

For just a second, something flickers in those eyes. Something that makes my breath catch.

Then he frowns. “I don’t need your help,” he says, his voice unbothered. “There are people who actually need treatment.”

Coach Ramirez appears beside him so fast it startles me. He grabs the player by the back of his shirt, leaning in to whisper something I’m not meant to hear.

But I do hear it. Just barely.

“No pack healers available at this time.”

Pack healers? What the hell does that mean? Is that what they call their team doctor? Does their team even have a doctor?

The player stiffens. “Coach, I’m fine. I can wait until we get back.”

“Now, Wolfe.” There’s steel in Ramirez’s voice. Not a suggestion but a command.

The player’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. He glares at me, and I scoff. As if treating him is supposed to be the highlight of my day.

But he gives in, following me to an empty exam room with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to the gallows.

I point to the exam table. “Sit.”

He does, moving stiffly. Now that I’m closer, I can see the blood seeping through his uniform pants, the fabric torn and darkened around his left thigh.

I grab gloves and supplies, my hands moving on autopilot through familiar motions. “I need you to take off your pants.”

“Buy me dinner first,” he drawls.

I don’t even look up. “Funny. Pants. Off. Now.”

He mutters something under his breath but complies, standing to peel the uniform pants down his legs. His thighs are muscular, dusted with dark hair, and there’s a vicious gash running along his left quadricep. Blood wells from the wound, fresh and bright.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “You’ve been walking on this?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s deep. You probably need stitches.” I clean the wound, working quickly. He doesn’t even flinch, which is strange because this should hurt like hell. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty.”

The bleeding should have slowed more by now. I press gauze against the gash, applying pressure. He watches me work with those unsettling amber eyes, his expression unreadable.

“You must be falling over yourself,” he says suddenly, a sneer curling his lips. “Being in the presence of Grayson Wolfe.”

I glance up at him with a blank look. “Who?”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know me.”

I give him my flattest stare, the one I reserve for drunk patients who hit on me and idiots who waste my time. “I don’t.”

“I’m Grayson Wolfe.” He says it like it should mean something, like I should be impressed.

I’m not.

And because he’s really getting under my skin, and I’ve been awake for fourteen hours and smell like vomit and pee, I let a sly smile curve my lips.

“If I don’t know you,” I say sweetly, “guess you must not be that relevant.”

His face goes red. It would be funny if it weren’t so satisfying.

“I’m the star hockey player,” he says through gritted teeth. “For the Silverpeak team. We won the championship last year.”

“Do you need applause?” I thread the needle, preparing for sutures. “I don’t care if you’re a flying monkey. I have other patients to look at, and you’re taking up my time.”

“You’re a terrible nurse.”