Ican’t believe I’m here at a fucking ice rink at 7 a.m. on a goddamn Sunday. Our game ended last night at 10 p.m., yet somehow here I am. I can’t believe I got roped into this bullshit.
Fucking Vonn.
And of course, to add insult to injury, we got our asses handed to us by the King Knotheads. They crushed us 0-3. We were so pathetic that they ground up our bones and made us cry like little fucking pussies. All that, and I didn’t even get to toss one down with the team last night; I had to go home and nurse a bottle on my own. Nope, Marilyn said we need to be good role models and make amends for my inappropriate behavior.
So here I am, getting ready to teach toddlers how to goddamn skate. The whole idea is ridiculous. But if I don’t do this, I’m gonna be riding a bench with Vonn. As the backup goaltender, that’s his expected position, but I’m the team captain. My whole life is on the ice.
My packmate smirks at me, whistling happily as we warm up on the frosty rink, the sound shooting through my brain like an ice pick.
“What the hell has you so damn happy?” I growl, but Vonn ignores my wrath, continuing to whistle and then proceeding to skate circles around me. The sudden urge to trip him with my stick takes over, but before I can make good on it, he speaks.
“Well, I didn’t find solace in a bottle of Jack last night. And, to be honest, with the time I’ve spent on the bench, it feels good to skate. Plus, working with kids sounds like fun. On the team, I’m a nobody, but here maybe I can be somebody. They’re gonna be eager; it’ll be kind of like being a rockstar.” He grins, jumping from skate to skate.
My brother is an idiot with stars in his eyes, but I know better. This is a training camp for the rich and powerful. The kids are going to be whiny baby brats who only care about having their egos stroked. And then there are the parents. A shudder rolls through me at the thought. Money-grubbing assholes who want to say their child has been trained by a professional. Honestly, they might actually complain about us, considering our team has been doing so shit lately.
“You’ll see.” I poke him with my stick. “This is gonna be a headache and a half. Kids are the absolute worst. I never want to have any fucking kids.” Vonn rolls his eyes and skates away. He picks up speed as he gets farther away, zeroing in on something. Some woman in the stands.Horny fucker. Maybe he’ll finally stop wasting money on that omega porn site.He thinks I don’t know what he gets up to, but when it comes to Vonn, I know everything.
With a deep sigh, I turn toward the entrance, where a bunch of snot-nosed, whiny, crybaby children are entering the arena. They follow each other in pairs, skating quickly onto the ice and lining up on the blue line. My eyes dart over them, trying to figure out which one looks like he’ll be less of a piece of shit than the others.
Entitled children wearing their expensive pads, shiny skates, custom helmets, and different jerseys that announce their pack names. Frustration builds within me, their privilege rubbing against my childhood scars. The memories of competing with kids who had it all.
These carbon-copy boys stare at their feet, shuffling on their skates. Nervous about meeting their heroes. All but one. Who stares right at me. He’s got freckles scattered all over his nose and cheeks, a redhead if I’ve ever seen one, though I can’t tell for sure under his secondhand helmet. His respect is as palpable as his excitement. A tendril of recognition reaches out and squeezes my heart.
This boy is different, not like the others. He stands in shabby pads that are buckled and sagging with age. His jersey doesn’t have any name on it. Just a random scrap of material that’s sewn together and patched all over. It’s clean, but that’s all I can say. But what really has my anger rising is the secondhand helmet he’s wearing. The piece of junk is loose and clearly made for someone else. What if he were to fall? That useless bucket would pop right off.
Frustrated, my hands clench, the desire to skate over and pluck it from his head, and that when I look down at his fucking feet. His skates are trash. Scuffed and dulled with age, the blades barely slice the ice, and the laces are too loose, letting his ankles wobble dangerously.
An overwhelming need to protect this boy tugs at my inner Alpha, and I can barely suppress the growl threatening to rip from my throat. This shit’s fucking serious, and I’ll be damned if he wears crap like that on my watch.
Pack.The thought bubbles into my head, confusing the hell out of me.
Coach Ray blows a whistle, and the Scented Scorpions in attendance line up across from the kids. I’m not sure exactly how this is going to work, but that kid had better be mine.
What the actual fuck?
“All right, everyone, as you know, this group of hand-selected Junior Scorpions has an exhibition coming up. This exhibition was invite-only, meaning you all show great promise. This year, the professional team has sent us a group of mentors to help you prepare. Your job is to listen and gain knowledge from them. Soak in every drop of information these guys give you. They’re damn good at what they do, and I expect you to give them your all.” The coach might be stretching the truth, but I’m thankful he doesn’t openly criticize our awful performances this season.
We stand quietly awaiting his next instructions. “You’re going to be grouped into skill levels, then it’s time for drills. Puck handling, speed drills, shooting drills, and then we will come together as a team for a quick game at the end.”
I cross my arms over my chest and shuffle my feet so they don’t get cold. At my age, muscles tighten quickly, and I know better than to let that happen. The freckle-faced boy is paired with another, and I skate forward.
“I’ll take them,” I grunt, giving the coach no choice. This kid needs me. No one else is going to understand him like I do. His parents are clearly garbage, and I relate to that completely. We break off into pairs, and my two little ducklings follow me down the ice.
“Names.”
“Tristan O’Neil.” The shorter boy smiles at me, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m going to be a forward, too. But for a better team than the Scorpions. Probably in New York or somewhere decent.”
Little shit.
Backhanded digs are nothing new to me, but coming from an 11-year-old they make me even more irritated. I fucking hate kids.
“Asher,” my little protégé says, adding nothing, just watching me with serious eyes. He waits politely for instructions, and I can’t help but be impressed. Usually, kids fill every second with mindless chatter, but this one knows what’s up.
“Fine, let’s see what you’ve got.” After tossing two pucks on the ice, I instruct the boys on how I want them to skate and then release them with a quick whistle. They take off.
Asher quickly takes the lead, speeding away, even though he wobbles in his ill-fitting skates. Irritation prickles under my skin, knowing that he could be much faster, much better, and most of all,muchsaferwith properly fitting equipment. One wrong fall could end this kid’s career before it even begins. A complete waste of his talent. And by the looks of it, he’s got that in spades.
What pieces-of-shit parents does he have?
