“You’re sure there’s no man in the picture? No baby daddy, we need to deal with?” I ask Vonn for the thousandth time.
“Dude, I love you, but we both know my answer’s not going to change. I have no fucking clue whether Asher has a dad in his life or if his mom has a boyfriend or baby daddy. I don’t even know her name. And it’skillingme.”
Right after we met our mate and her son—soon-to-beourson—the team left on a weeklong grouping of away games. It’s been ten days since we’ve seen them, and we won’t get back to Nashville until late tomorrow.
“Did you at least ask if we can see them when we get home?” But I already know the answer. The omega asked Vonn to keep communication professional, and he has been steadfast in his resolve to do just that. And I’m over it. So fucking over it.
“You know I didn’t. We need to prove that we can respect her boundaries. I made her a promise, and I’m gonna keep it,” he says, shaking his head and sliding his phone onto the shelf of his locker. “I’m gonna run into the bathroom. Warm-up skate’s starting, so get your shit on. Let’s do this thing and get home.”
He turns around and walks away from me, and although I know I absolutely shouldn’t. I quickly grab his phone, type in the code, and search his text messages for her information.
Since Vonn isn’t an overly chatty guy, it’s quick and easy to spot.
‘Asher’s Mom’ glimmers on the screen. Glancing up, I double-check no one is watching, quickly send myself her number, then delete the message. My too-honorable packmate has sent only three texts to our scent-match. One message confirming that I would no longer be Asher’s mentor. Another asking for hername. And a third, letting her know when the next mentor-mentee skate is.
Totally fucking lame.
This shit ends tonight.
But first, I have some Ohio Wraiths to crush.
Tuning out the roar of the arena, I skate toward the center line to await the puck drop. The Ohio crowd absolutely hates us, and the boos are deafening. Genuinely not sure why they care so much. This state is a frozen hellscape, and I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here and back to Tennessee.
I allow their vitriol to fuel my anger, to push my game. The black-and-white striped referee skates up, and I assume the position, crouching and tapping my stick to the ice. The captain of the Wraiths glares at me, and I wait for the smack talk to start.
“Gonna make you cry for your mama,” he hisses with a pathetic attempt to get under my skin.
Amateur.
“Gonna make you shit yourself in front of your home crowd.” His eyes bulge, and he mutters an angry “fuck you” around his mouth guard.
The puck drops, and my stick snaps out, grabbing the puck in the blink of an eye, and sending it back toward Malcolm, my teammate.
First face-off won. That’s why I’m the Captain.
The excitement of being on the ice never grows old. Playing the game I love in an arena filled with a roaring crowd, regardless of their allegiance, always fills me with gratitude. I never thought I’d get to spend my life playing hockey, but here I am. Workingmy skates, I shoot up the ice, tapping my stick on the ground, searching for the puck. The Wraith’s goalie is flat-footed in the crease, a well-known issue for him, and I know I can sink the puck right between his legs.
His five-hole is his weakness—and my strength.
Tap, tap, tap, tap. Axel sends me the puck, putting it right where I need it. It thumps against my stick, and without hesitation, I sling my arm back, letting loose a slap shot that’s quick and sharp. Hell, yeah! The light above the goal swirls, red and enchanting.
There’s a sudden press of bodies around me. Excited smiling and shouting. Axel claps my back.
“Great break, away, Cap.”
“Great assist!” My recognition of his hard work transforms his expression, and I wonder if maybe Vonn’s been right all along. These guys could use more praise from me rather than condemnation. The goal within the first few minutes of the game sets the tone. Excitement swells, building momentum for the team.
Let’s get this done…
Then, little mate, I’m coming for you.
Chapter Fourteen
Nixie
“You’re not close enough,” Alex complains through my computer’s speaker. “I paid for private time, and I can’t even see any details. Like, where’s your clit? Can barely make it out.”
Holding in a frustrated sigh, I attempt to angle the camera closer. But seriously, what the hell is with this man? He’s not my fucking gynecologist. The clock in the corner shows that we only have ten minutes left, and I pray for it to speed up. This session has been awful.
