Ethan, I like; that was an easier adjustment than I had imagined. But Ethan is also a Beta, an attractive one who I wouldn’t mind also being involved with. But an Alpha? I’d long ago given up the idea of ever being involved with an Alpha.
Fuck, that’s a selfish thought, isn’t it? I only care if it’s someone I could see myself with.
“Is there someone else?” I ask as calmly as possible.
“No,” she whispers, and I feel like it’s a lie.
I hadn’t thought Sloane had lied to me ever since we’ve been together, so why is she starting now?
“If there’s another Alpha, I suppose we would do what you did with Ethan. Getting to know each other and going from there. I won’t lie and say it will be easy for me.”
“You get along with Ethan. I mean, more than get along with Ethan after tonight,” she says softly.
“If you could find an Alpha like him, it would be appreciated,” I joke with a smile.
She doesn’t return the smile and just nods her head.
“It’s too cold, so I’m dropping you off in front of your house.”
“Okay.”
I want to push more and figure out exactly what’s bothering her.
“We have a string of away games coming up soon. You’ll call me right away if you think you’re going into heat? I’ll drop everything,” I promise her as I park in front of her house.
She turns her head on the headrest to stare at me. She looks tired and sad, and I hate it.
What am I doing wrong?
“You’re a good man, Bram,” she says, and I lean over to kiss her.
She accepts my kiss, and it’s tender and sweet, nothing like the frantic encounter in the bathroom.
“Let me know when you get inside,” I tell her.
“I will.”
She kisses me one more time before getting out of the car and walking to her apartment. A few moments later, she texts me.
Sloane
I’m home. Good night, Bram.
Good night
I drive home with a sinking feeling in my stomach, and I’m not sure how to make it right.
Ball Arena is a shitty name and an even shittier stadium. The ice is slushy, and I feel like the whole place might collapse if someone blinks the wrong way.
We’re playing like shit, it’s the second away game in a row, and everyone is exhausted, and it shows.
It’s not even midway in the season. We can’t be falling apart now.
I have the left forward against the boards as I shove my shoulder against his back, using my stick to try and control the puck. His helmet keeps banging against the glass, and I smile to myself.
It’s like a rhythmic clinking of his head and the crowded banging against the glass.
There’s a simmering anger resting under the surface for me lately. I don’t know if it’s because things with Sloane feel like the other shoe is going to drop or if it’s something deeper.
