Yes. Yes, I did.
“She’s good,” I say, attempting casual and failing spectacularly.
“Andan omega,” Dylan adds, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “She smells like a lemon cake I want to make terrible decisions near.”
“My blockers didn’t even touch her scent,” I mutter.
Marco snorts. “That's 'cause blockers don’t work on alphas with no impulse control.”
I smack his helmet with the end of my stick.
“My impulse control is—”
“—nonexistent,” Dylan finishes. “We know.”
The sharp sound of Coach’s whistle cuts through before I can respond, and every head snaps in his direction.
“Alright, boys!” he barks, voice echoing off metal beams and Plexiglas. “Let’s move like we have a pulse!”
Dylan huffs. “Why does he talk like we’re storming Normandy?”
“I heard that, Hayes,” Coach points without even turning around. “And if you skate like you did on Friday, I’ll reenact Normandy on your conditioning test.”
We scatter.
I skate into formation just as Theo glides up beside me and gives me a long, unimpressed look.
“How’s the rib?” he asks.
“Fine,” I lie.
“Yeah? That explains why you’re breathing like a wounded horse.”
“It’s called being an athlete,” I argue.
Theo snorts. “It’s called beingstupid.”
“I prefer ‘charmingly resilient’.”
“You’re going to end up back on the PT’s table within the hour,” he says. “Try not to look excited about it.”
“I’m not excited,” I insist.
Theo hums.
Translation: he thinks I’m full of shit.
We settle into our pace, edges cutting into the ice and breath syncing with motion as the team forming its natural hierarchy. That’s the thing about the Moose: we’re chaotic, but we’re also pack-structured in our own way.
As captain, Beau is our emotional anchor, while Theo is tactical and balances Beau’s temper with calm logic. Marco & Dylan are the chaotic, loud middle-rankers bonded through stupidity and shared protein powder choices, while I’m the fast winger who Coach alternates between loving and strangling.
“WOOOOOOO!” Gordo screams as he zooms past us backwards, his arms spread wide, and Theo lets out a long sigh.
“Why is he like that?”
“Creatine,” I comment dryly.
“Gordo,” Coach growls. “Drop the figure skating routine, or I’m benching you until your next contract negotiation.”
