I was right; he’s a Scorpions fan. We keep watching, and I even share my popcorn and nacho cheese with him, making sure our hands never touch. James has a point. I fight so hard forthe freedom I do get that I don’t want to do anything that could jeopardize it.
The game continues with us currently in the lead. Benton checks the same player again, harder this time, and the tension finally erupts—gloves come off, fists start flying. The entire stadium goes wild. Lincoln’s on his feet before I can blink, shouting at the ice. I can’t make out the words, just the deep timbre of his voice, vibrating through me even though the crowd’s screaming.
James taps my shoulder, getting my attention as he tells what Lincoln is screaming for me, and my stomach sinks. Lincoln’s yelling about my brother. My jaw tightens. It shouldn’t bother me—the Scorpions and Krakens are rivals—but it does. And not just because he’s cheering against Benton.
The noise reminds me of what I’m losing.
My implant’s been cutting in and out for months, sounds bleeding together until it’s just vibration and tone. The doctors warned me this would happen. By twenty-five, I’ll be fully deaf. No amount of surgery or technology can change it.
When Lincoln finally sits back down, breathless, he catches my expression and mutters an apology. James starts to translate, but I stop him with a shake of my head.
It’s okay.
Lincoln looks at me full of confusion, no doubt noticing the change in demeanor. He opens his mouth as though he wants to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. Instead, I turn my attention back to the ice, to my brother.
The game rages on, the scent of beer and popcorn thick in the air. Benton’s back on the bench, wiping blood from his lip, and I know he’s fine. Beside me, Lincoln settles, watching the rink with a quiet intensity that feels… different now.
I should’ve known this alpha was too good to be true.
7
Milton
Fucking Lennox.
Coming into this game, I knew it was going to be tense. The grudge between him and Korbin runs deep. But even I can see how the prick goads Korbin, wanting to pick a fight with him. He knows Korbin won’t back down from him. The only way he can win is by getting Korbin kicked out of the game.
“Get your head on right, Kor!” I bark, hoping he can hear me over the roar of the crowd. Unlike the owners of our team, the fans love a good brawl on the ice.
I never liked Gina. Sure, she was hot as hell, but she was an utter bitch whenever Korbin wasn’t around. Hell, if I’m being honest, she played Lennox just as badly as she did Korbin. I’m glad she’s gone and that I don’t have to worry about her slithering her way back into his good graces, but the burn she left between him and Lennox hasn’t faded. It just sits there festering, growing each time they see each other. Both of them are too proud to admit she was a fucking whore who played them. That neither of them is the bad person in the scenario. Itried to explain it to Korbin once, but he didn’t want to listen, so I dropped it.
Three years. It’s been three long years. At that time, Korbin just wanted to be solo, him and her, even though Lincoln, Korbin and I had always talked about being a pack since we were teenagers. When she came along, she somehow convinced him that he didn’t need a pack. She only wanted and needed one alpha. It nearly drove a wedge between us, but here we are thicker than ever.
Korbin and I are a pack. Lincoln too. Well, once he gets his head out of his ass. He has this fucked-up notion in his head that Korbin and I are meant for greatness on the ice and he’s just a blue-collar worker. That we need to find another teammate to pack up with us.
That ain’t happening. He’s our pack. The sooner he realizes it, the better. Then we can find our omega.
She’s out there. I know it. But there ain’t no way in hell that a matchmaker for the team is going to be the one to find her for us. Maybe if we had a better damn coach and one less assistant captain, we’d be a better team. Hell, with the players on this team and the scandals they’ve been causing, Korbin and I look like saints. Other than one bar fight we had with Lennox and one of his teammates, we’ve kept our shit together. All it got us was a permanent ban from Slapshots. The other players have records that aren’t so squeaky clean.
It’s at that moment that shit hits the fan and Korbin and Lennox go at it on the ice. I want to rush out of my net and join in the fight, but I hold back. One of us still needs to be in the game.
The referees eventually get everything under control; both Korbin and Lennox get a penalty, and the game resumes.
There’s not a chance in hell I plan to let the fucking Krakens score against me again.
Five minutes. That’s how long it’s going to be before Korbin can get back on the ice. I couldn’t care less about anyone else. Korbin is the real reason this team scores at all. We’re just biding our time until we can both get traded to another team. Preferably the same one. It’s our one stipulation and one of the main reasons we keep our noses clean.
I’m so lost in thought that the puck coming straight at me looks like a blur.
It slices through the air like a bullet, rising just above the stick of a Kraken defenseman, spinning, wobbling but headed straight at me. I track it instinctively, every nerve in my body tuned to the black disc. My knees bend, my gloves go up, my position firm. Steady. This is my time.
Now.
The puck smacks into my chest pad with a heavy thud, rebounding up toward my mask, then dropping onto the ice at my skates. I drop my stick, going to my knees, smothering the puck with my glove. All I can feel is the cold sting of ice under my pads as the whistle blows and the sweet taste of victory.
Goal denied.
The crowd is up on their feet, booing. I exhale hard, sweat runs down my neck, and I toss my hand in the air in triumph.
