The arena erupts, a tidal wave of cheers rolling over me.
“One point and you can call it,” Coach says.
I nod, tightening my pink laces, checking my wheels, and pulling up my black-and-pink striped socks. I secure my gear, pop in my top mouthguard, and roll back toward the track.
The excitement in the air is a live wire. It runs through my veins like a drug. This is what I live for.
Finn moves to the edge of the crowd, camera up, lens locked on me. His lips, the only part of his face I can see, curve up, pleasure evident in the slight smirk.
A jolt of awareness streaks down my spine, settling low and unwelcome. Oh, no, that got us in trouble last time.
His bow-shaped mouth parts. His tongue darts over his lower lip. Click. Another shot captured.
He rarely speaks. I have no clue what he does with the photos.
It doesn’t matter.
He only knows Jinx.
Not Willow Delong—the spoiled millionaire’s daughter who has never wanted for anything. The girl who had every indulgence handed to her, including the luxury of avoiding a pack, of rejecting tradition, of refusing to make babies. Thegirl who dyes her hair on a whim, books flights to anywhere, and found a home in roller derby with a team full of betas. And had her heart torn to shreds by her scent match. Yeah, that girl doesn’t exist out here on the rink.
I snap out of my thoughts as Finn lowers the camera.
Then he does something different.
He reaches for me.
His fingers barely brush mine before Cheese cuts between us, her presence solid and unyielding. She doesn’t say a word, just nudges me away, the way an older sister would shoo a reckless kid from a bad idea.
But the damage is done.
My fingers tingle where his skin met mine, a ghost of a touch that lingers through the final jam, through the heat of the game, through the final whistle.
We win.
States.
It’s real. The dream is within reach.
But as I get swept up in the celebration, I can still feel it.
Finn’s touch, light as air.
And I have no idea why it’s still there.
“Seriously,Jinx, I can drop you on my way back to my apartment.” Daisy slings an arm over my shoulders, her body warm against mine. “No need to call that fancy driver to pick you up.”
Our hips bump as we make our way back to the bar for another round. Poor Choices is our spot—mostly betas, low risk of running into any alphas.
Drinks flow, spirits are high, and the air hums with victory. But no amount of liquor will make me reckless enough to let my teammates drive themselves home.
“Oh no,” I say, holding out my palm. “My fancy driver will be picking up all of us, or you’re ordering an Uber. Hand over your keys.”
Daisy pouts, exaggerated and playful. “I’m tipsy, not drunk.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah, and I’m a beta.”
Her eyes widen in mock shock. “And here I thought we had a unicorn on our team. Jinx, I feel betrayed.”
