1
REINA
PRESENT DAY
The airport smelled like burnt coffee and recycled air and I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of nostalgia at being back in Winter Crest, Massachusetts.
Home.
I kept my head down as I dragged my suitcase through the terminal, my camera bag bumping against my hip with every step. My free hand went to the suppressant patch automatically, pressing against the adhesive through my shirt. It was still there and still working.
Probably,I thought as I bit at my lip
The flight had been fine until the descent. That's when the first spike hit, a sharp twist low in my belly that made me grip the armrest hard enough to leave marks. The Beta flight attendant had asked if I was okay and I'd smiled, nodded, lied through my teeth.
"Just nervous about landing."
She'd believed me because people always did. I'd gotten very good at pretending I was fine even though I’d looked around the plane wondering if any nearby alphas would stir.
None had, and I tried to relax afterwards.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I cleared security. A text from the NIHL's director of media operations. My eyes scanned the text,Welcome! Looking forward to having you on the team. Report Monday, 9 AM sharp. League HQ, bring your gear.
Monday was three days away.
Three days to get my suppressants adjusted, find a new doctor, and convince myself that taking a photography position with the National Ice Hockey League wasn't the worst decision I'd ever made.
Even if it meant being in the same city as them.
It was at the baggage claim, when a second spike hit me.
This one was worse,sharp enough that I had to stop walking, one hand braced against a pillar while my vision swam. Heat crawled up my spine and my skin felt too tight, like my body was trying to claw its way out from the inside.
Not here. Please not here.
I fumbled for my purse, fingers shaking as I dug past lens caps and memory cards to find the emergency suppressants at the bottom. The pills were supposed to be a last resort. Take too many and they'd stop working altogether. But I was already pushing the limits of what my patches could handle.
The bottle was empty.
"Fuck," I whispered, staring at it. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I'd refilled it two weeks ago. Had I really gone through thirty pills in fourteen days?
My reflection caught in the chrome of a nearby trash can. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that hadn't seen a proper brush in days. The strap of my camera bag had left a red mark across my shoulder. I looked exactly like what I was trying so hard not to be.
Unstable.
The word tasted like acid in my mouth. That's what the doctors had called me when I was fifteen. What the league officials had written in their reports after The Incident. What my mom had whispered when she thought I couldn't hear, her voice broken and desperate.
"She's unstable. We have to do something before someone gets hurt."
Someone had gotten hurt.
Just not the someone she'd been worried about.
I made it to the rental car counter on autopilot, smiling at the attendant while my insides felt like they were liquefying. He upgraded me to an SUV without asking, probably because I looked like I was about to pass out. I didn't correct him.
The drive into the city should have been familiar. I'd grown up here, learned to skate at the public rink on Fifth Street, spent every winter weekend watching hockey games before everything went to hell.
