The locker room door slams shut behind us, and our captain, Julius Keene, appears. Dark hair, a few days of stubble, blue eyes sharp. He’s got that same bad attitude he always does—half leader, half problem waiting to happen.
“Let’s move! Warm-up starts now!” he barks, voice rough from years of shouting. “If you’re not on the ice in two minutes, don’t bother coming out at all.”
A few guys groan, but everyone moves. That’s the thing about Julius—he talks like he hates us, but somehow we still follow him.
I stand, grabbing my helmet and stick, and that’s when I see him—Lennox, the right-wing for the Krakens—- bent down in the hall, tying his skate like he’s got all the time in the damn world.
Number twenty-three. The guy who’s been in my nightmares and my penalty box for years.
Same arrogant grin. Same lazy glide that somehow makes every reporter drool over him. I swear he smirks before he even sees me, like he canfeelme watching.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
He ruined everything once—one omega, one mistake, one ugly piece of history that never stopped bleeding. And now, here we are again.
We file out, shoulders brushing, helmets clutched in hand. Milton walks beside me, eyes flicking toward the Krakens. “He’s looking at you.”
“He always is.”
“You gonna play smart tonight?”
I snort. “Define smart.”
He laughs under his breath, low and rough. “Try not to get ejected in the first ten minutes. That kind of smart.”
“Can’t promise anything.”
When we get to the team bench and take our seats, Coach Miles stomps along the boards, barking like a drill sergeant. “Keep your heads! Discipline! No stupid penalties tonight!”
Discipline. He loves that word. Says it like it’s holy.
One of the rookies cracks a joke. “Maybe Allen’s matchmaker can fix ourdiscipline issues.”
A few guys snicker.
Coach whips around. “You think it’s funny?” His face goes red again. “You think being the league’s problem children is a joke?”
No one answers.
“Unbonded alpha chaos,” he says, spitting the words like poison. “That’s what they call you. Someone’s gotta fix that mess.”
I can’t help it—a growl rolls out of my chest before I can swallow it down. Milton elbows me lightly, a warning.
I breathe through it, jaw locking until the sound dies. Coach gives me a look but doesn’t say a damn thing. Probably knows better.
Crew Banks, our co-captain and defenseman, steps up from the end of the bench, tugging his gloves tight. Shaggy blond hair sticks out from under his cap, green-hazel eyes bright and watchful under that easy grin. He claps his hands once, voice steady but loud enough to cut through the noise.
“All right, fellas, let’s move. No funny business tonight—just skate, focus, and get your heads right to win.”
The gate clangs open, and I step out of the team box. The second my blades hit ice again, the noise of the crowd swells. Spotlights sweep the rink. Cameras flash. Fans pound the glass like they’re trying to break through.
This—this part always gets me. That one second before the game starts when everything’s balanced between chaos and glory.
I push off, gliding into a slow lap beside Milton. The rink hums under us, fans shouting our names, their breath fogging the boards. Milton bumps my shoulder with his own, a wordless check-in that sayswe’ve got this.
Across the rink, Lennox leans on his stick, grinning like a bastard. I don’t even try to hide my glare.
“Keep smiling, asshole,” I mutter. “See how long it lasts.”
