Failure to attend will result in disciplinary review and possible benching.
Benching. The one word that hits harder than it should. If Korbin gets benched, there goes his trade chance at the end of the season. The guy’s been busting his ass to get traded out of the Scorpions, and now Allen’s dangling his future like a carrot.
My fingers curl tight around the phone until my knuckles ache. I breathe through my nose, hard, then shove it back into my pocket before I do something stupid, like hurl it.
The smell of butter and grease cuts through the tension in my chest as popcorn bursts behind the counter. The sound of someone laughing too loud a few feet up the line assaults my ears. The normal chaos of a crowd that doesn’t have a clue what’s actually at stake down on that ice.
I step up and order before I can overthink it: extra-large popcorn, two sodas, and a cup of nacho cheese. That choice leaves me with questions. Feels like penance. Maybe she’s stillhere. Maybe she’s not. Either way, I won’t look like a total bastard if I see her again.
While the kid behind the counter scoops popcorn, I let my eyes wander. Bright jerseys. Painted cheeks. The low hum of voices vibrating through concrete and metal seats. I don’t even know what I’m searching for—just movement that reminds me of her.
It’s her hands that stick in my mind—the way they shapedsorry,fingers trembling like she couldn’t decide whether to bolt or stay. And the beta who stepped in front of her—steady, practiced, like he’s been doing it her whole life.
Something about that still burns in my chest.
The worker slides a tray toward me, snapping me out of it. I set my beer and nachos beside the popcorn, the cup of cheese, and the sodas—perfectly balanced, like I know what I’m doing.
“Thanks,” I say, shifting my grip. “It’s like you read my mind.”
The kid grins, eyes lighting up. “Go Scorpions.”
My brow arches before I can stop it. He shrugs, grin widening like he knows he’s testing the waters in Kraken country. I huff a quiet laugh through my nose, more impressed than I’ll admit.
“Go Scorpions,” I echo with a quick wink before turning away, the tray steady in my hands as the crowd noise swells back around me.
The hallway leading back toward the stands feels colder, the air crisp with the chill of ice and sweat. Every step vibrates faintly underfoot—the rumble of blades hitting ice somewhere below, a reminder that Korbin’s out there right now. My brother’s probably pacing his own storm behind the bench, jaw set, doing everything he can not to punch someone in a Kraken jersey.
I picture him on the ice, teeth gritted, eyes locked, carrying the weight of a whole franchise that keeps trying to break him.The thought knots something low in my gut. I hate I can’t fix it for him. Hate that all I can do is watch from the stands and send the right emails to the wrong people.
Somewhere in the noise, a horn blares and the place erupts. The increase in volume is something I’m quite familiar with, and a sign that someone on the ice is showing off. The sound shakes through my chest like a heartbeat.
And underneath it all, that soft, unfamiliar pull.
Her.
It doesn’t make sense. I barely spoke to her, and what I did say was the worst version of me. But there’s something about her that cuts straight through the noise—the quiet, the way she moved, like every gesture meant something. Maybe it’s because she reminded me of what silence actually feels like. The kind that isn’t peace, just distance.
She’s not my scent match—I know that much. I’ve been around enough omegas to recognize when the bond isn’t there. But still, there’s this tug low in my chest, electric and insistent, like instinct doesn’t give a damn about logic.
I shift the tray in my hands and start up the stairs toward the section where it happened.
The crowd thickens as I get closer. Scents blur together: beer, perfume, sweet popcorn, the musk of too many bodies in one place. I scan every row, every head of hair even close to her shade, every flicker of movement that might be her hands.
And then I see her.
Front row of the lower bowl. Copper hair blazing under the stadium lights, loose waves spilling over a Kraken jersey that hangs off one shoulder. Same quiet posture. The beta’s beside her—the interpreter, probably—hands moving fast as she watches. Eyes bright. When she laughs, her head tips just enough to expose the curve of her neck.
My nostrils flare before I can stop them. No alpha scent clings to her. No mark. Just her—green tea and mint, clean and unclaimed.
A rough sound slips from my throat, more instinct than thought. A guy walking past shoots me a quick look; I lock my jaw until it stops.
What the hell is she doing here without an alpha? Where the hell is her pack? Who’s watching her back?
The tray flexes under my grip. Butter slicks my fingers. I shift it before I snap the damn thing in half.
The crowd around her stirs, a few men leaning too close as they pass. My shoulders go tight, weight sliding forward before I can think.
Not my business. That’s what I should believe. But the pulse behind my sternum doesn’t listen.
