4. Pesto Pasta for One
Chapter four
Pesto Pasta for One
My stick slams into the puck, smashing a direct hit to the back of the net as the pixelated goalie flings himself in the opposite direction and the clock runs down to zero for the third period.
My team—resplendent in Titans charcoal and navy blue—floods the rink, hollering and yelling until I hoist the Everly Cup over my head and the crowd erupts in a frenzied celebration.
Sighing, I toss the controller back onto the coffee table and lean back against the couch, resting my neck against the cool leather. “Good game.”
It’s really not. Not when you’re playing by yourself.
Checking my phone again, my heartbeat spikes when I see Carter’s name pop up.
Sorry. Tied up here. Can’t get away. See you after the game? x
That’s… fine. It takes a few minutes to clear away the plates and pack up the food. Staring at it, I message our pack chat: Did you eat? I can bring food.
Tapping my phone against my knee, I wait for a response before parceling pasta into Tupperware and stacking them on the side, adding a few extra portions for whoever on the team wants some and a gluten-free tub for Jonas.
We ate.
Abrupt, even for Liam. Well, fine. I help myself to the biggest portion as I head to the bedroom, forking my best pesto pasta mutinously into my mouth as I go and enjoying every bite.
He hates food anywhere but the kitchen.
Our apartment is never bigger than when nobody else is here. The quiet feels suffocating.
I’m too used to yelling, to talking, to laughter and ribbing and everything else that comes with building a home centered around a team that’s always in and out, whether they’re my alphas or not.
Pursing my lips, I look at the clock. My heartbeat still thuds, and I press my hand against my chest as if I can reset it.
“Will you get a hold of yourself?” I snap to the empty room. “It’s opening night. Not about you.”
This is their day. Their season, and I volunteered for this ride.
I love this ride. Normally.
Music, I decide. Loud music. Music to shake the walls and hopefully shake off whatever funk has settled on my shoulders. A karaoke session for one, since nobody’s here to tell me to turn it down or ask since when do we own a screaming cat?
It took personalized cupcakes, a giant pepperoni pizza and three visits to a local karaoke bar for me to forgive Jonas.
Sonny is waiting at the guard booth when I drive around the back of the Furnace. Spotlights already blaze out of the darkness, Titan and Ace colors competing for space in the sky in flashes of blue and red.
Winding down my window, I ceremoniously present him with the paper bag. “Six jelly doughnuts, one flask. Decaf.”
Although six jelly doughnuts probably aren’t great for his cholesterol. I demolished two myself in the parking lot of the grocery store on my way here. Nothing says omega anxiety like a sugar binge.
God, I hope nobody saw. There are plenty of unflattering photos of me on the internet as it is. People are highly invested in Carter as captain, in Liam and Jonas, and by extension, me.
TITANS OMEGA HIDES HER EATING IN CAR PARK: SHOULD WE BE WORRIED?
Only if they saw how much pasta I ate before I left.
Spotting a telltale sugar sprinkle on my sleeve, I discreetly wipe it away as Sonny inspects the contents with a hoot of delight. “I ever tell you you’re my favorite, Ro?”
“Never hurts to hear it again,” I tease. “You all set up?”
He nods his salt and pepper hair toward the small tablet nestled in the corner of his booth. “All ready to go. How’s Cap’s shoulder fixin’ up?”
“He’s in good shape.” I think. “It’ll be a great season.”
“Never a doubt.” A car pulls up behind me, and Sonny lifts the barrier so I don’t have to find my access badge. “Have a great game, Rosie. See you later.”
“You too.”
It takes forever to find my badge at the player’s entrance. Cursing, I burrow down into the ninth circle of hell that makes up my bag, grimacing at the weird shit that I’ve apparently tossed in and completely forgotten about.
After pushing aside at least four body sprays that all belong to Jonas, Carter’s extra set of house keys, a spare heat pad for his shoulder and Liam’s pedometer—that I’ve never used, despite him asking every damned week—I yank the lanyard free and swipe my way inside.
The player’s corridor is ridiculously full.
Of tension.
The air is so thick with it that my feet slow before I force them into movement.
Various people wearing navy blue face off with others in scarlet Ace jerseys, and I keep my head down as I shift through the swelling crowd.
“Rosie!”
My head shoots up. Katie jabs a scarlet alpha out of her way with a pointed elbow as she finds her way to my side and blows hair out of her face, blond strands sticking to it. As cold as it is outside, it’s roasting in here. “This is wild. We have to share this place all season?”
“Yeah.” I grip her tightly before letting go. “You seen Ethan?”
“Dropped him off earlier.” She hooks her arm through mine and tows us toward the stairs, her height giving her the advantage of actually being able to see where she’s going.
I’m a few inches off having my own faceoff with ass, and nobody wants that in a confined space.
I keep my chin lifted to make sure I’m out of the danger zone.
“He said everyone is buzzed. Where did your guys go today?”
She hauls me onto the steps with impressive strength, and I follow behind her. “What do you mean?”
“They missed morning skate.” Katie glances over her shoulder, frowning. “You didn’t know?”
That stone is back again. Nobody misses morning skate. I force myself to shrug. “Carter probably had a reason.”
Sourness prickles beneath my skin. Katie and I keep our heads down as we head through the main areas toward our assigned entrance. I murmur to everyone who greets me, taking and giving hugs on autopilot until we both drop down into our seats with matching sighs of relief.
“Great seats,” Katie says with relish. “Ethan still thinks my favorite spot is behind the bench so I can watch him adoringly for the whole game. He’d never forgive me if I told him it’s anywhere I can watch Benji’s hips. That man can move.”
“Yeah,” I say absently. Leaning forward, I scan the rink. It’s full of players warming up.
My pack would never miss morning skate.
Like they’d never miss the pre-game video game, and they’d never miss pack dinner on a game day.
This is shaping up to be a day of firsts, and I don’t like any of them.
I look for the 19 jersey, but I can’t see it. My jelly doughnuts threaten to make a reappearance over Ryker’s mom and stepdad in front of me, and I press myself back into my seat. My hands grip the blue plastic tightly.
No 17, for Jonas. No 4 either, for Liam.
My pack isn’t on the ice.
And puck drop is any minute.
Katie nudges me, and my head shoots up as she points. My wild hope ebbs away at the sight of the scarlet jersey.
For fucks’ sake.
Boone shoves his visor up with one gloved hand, then wiggles his fingers at me.
I flip him off.
His teeth gleam in a flash of laughter before he takes off to finish his lap.
“Was that Boone Mercer?” Katie’s mouth hangs open. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” I mutter. “He’s an asshole.”
“A hot asshole, though.” She shrugs at my horrified expression. “What? I’m mated, not dead. Girl’s got a pack to build. Oh, there’s yours.”
I bolt upright, craning my neck. My frame doesn’t soften as Carter, Liam and Jonas skate out in a smooth line, splitting off. Liam and Jonas join the team at the end of the ice while Carter skates into the center.
I wait for his gaze to sweep across my seat. Carter yanks his visor up when our eyes meet.
And finally, finally, the stone that’s been weighing me down…dissolves. Not completely, but I feel like I can take a full breath for the first time all day. I melt back into my seat.
You good? He mouths.
When I nod, he taps his hand on his heart three times. He waits for me to do the same before he slams the visor down and joins the team. Jonas and Liam lean toward him, twisting until they’re facing me and lifting their hands in a wave.
The release of heaviness feels blissful. I settle back in my seat and run my hands over my face as the players finish their warmups and exit the rink.
Now I can relax.
Or not.
There’s the little matter of opening freaking night, and I start to feel nauseous all over again.
When the house lights cut out, the entire arena drops into stunned darkness. Katie grabs my hand. Her yell echoes over the stand. “This is it, Titans! Playoffs are coming, baby!”
Laughter and cheers follow, but I can’t speak.
Here we go.
Blue strobes slash across the ice in sharp, violent bursts before scarlet answers from the opposite side, both colors colliding over the rink. Music slams through the speakers hard enough to shake the seats beneath us, bass pounding through my ribs.
The jumbotron flickers to life in a montage of footage.
Hits. Goals. Fights and save reels.
I silently bless Ness’s team for cutting together last season’s highlights in brutal, glorious flashes until one image dominates the screen—Carter, jaw set and shoulders broad beneath the captain’s C, lifting his stick toward the crowd.
The roar of approval nearly blows the roof off. Beside me, Katie is screaming. Half the arena is on its feet, our shoes stamping in a drumroll.
Adrenaline surges. Nothing else matters right now.
Nothing but this feeling, and these players, and the hope of something bigger than any one of us.
God, I love this.
“Friends, family, enemies and rivals…”
Mike Donnelly, our PA announcer, echoes over the crowd, low and theatrical. “The Furnace warmly welcomes you to opening night!”
The crowd detonates.
“Tonight, our infamous Blackwater rivalry enters a new era.”
Boos and cheers mix instantly.
“Our season begins with both home teams facing off—it’s the Blackwater Titans versus the Blackwater Aces!”