Next thing I know, my boots are moving—down the stairs, through the press of bodies. Heat crawls up my neck, heartbeat thick in my ears.
I tell myself it’s because I owe her an apology. Because it’s the right thing to do. But the truth hums lower, heavy, undeniable.
She shouldn’t be here alone.
Every instinct in me says to stay close—to find a seat near hers, keep an eye on her and that beta of hers, make sure they get through the game without anyone causing trouble. It’s not about claiming, not even attraction, or at least that’s what I tell myself. It’s just… instinct. Protection. The kind that hits bone-deep before reason can catch up.
5
Korbin
The locker room’sloud as hell. Guys yelling over each other, laughing, throwing rolls of tape across the benches. Someone’s got music blaring loud enough to rattle the walls. It smells of sweat, liniment, and cheap soap—every scent fighting for dominance.
I sit with my stick braced between my knees, tape stretched tight between my fingers. The white noise of the locker room blurs into the background as I fall into the rhythm—pull, press, tear. White tape, clean lines, just the way I like it. Every wrap takes the edge off, slows my pulse, keeps me from overthinking.
Milton drops down beside me, goalie pads creaking, helmet dangling from his fingers.
“Can you believe that crap from Allen and Marilyn?” he asks, voice low.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “It’s fucking bullshit. We need a better coach, not a fucking omega.”
He huffs a laugh that’s got no humor in it. “Well, we do need an omega. But we don’t need some stranger telling us how to find one."
“Agreed. We’re a pack already,” I say. “We’ll find her when it happens. Don’t need Allen or his PR stunt picking one out of a catalog.”
Milton rips a strip of tape with his teeth. “Probably think it’ll make us look ‘stable.’”
I snort. “Maybe they should start with a coach who doesn’t think screaming is leadership.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
Coach Miles storms in before we can say more, whistle hanging off his neck, face already red. “Listen up! This is it! You lose to the Krakens tonight, you’re all a goddamn embarrassment!”
The noise dies instantly.
Same speech, different game.
He paces in front of us, barking about heart and hustle, and how onlypussieslose to their biggest rival. His voice grinds on my nerves like sandpaper. I keep my head down, rolling my shoulders, jaw tight. Every word hits the air like dissipating smoke.
He wants blood, not teamwork. Always does.
Milton mutters, “Guy’s gonna stroke out one of these days.”
“Yeah,” I say, finishing the last wrap of tape. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to the team.”
A few guys snort under their breath. Coach doesn’t notice. He’s too busy wearing holes in the floor from his excessively anxious pacing.
When he finally storms out, the room exhales all at once. I flex my grip on the stick, feeling the sting in my palms. The smell of sweat and adrenaline hangs thick, heavy enough to taste.
Someone chucks a towel across the room. Another yells that it’s time to get their heads in the game. The noise climbs again—back to the chaos I can handle.
I push up from the bench, grab my gloves, and roll my neck until it pops. Milton stands too, stretching his arms. “Think we’ll make it past period two without a fight?”
“Doubt it.”
We both grin. Fighting’s not supposed to be a strategy, but with the Krakens, it always is.
We head down the tunnel, skates clacking on the floor, the roar of the crowd growing louder with every step. The noise hits first—a wall of sound. Then the lights. Then the ice. Cold air rushes up to meet me, cutting against my skin.
