Great. He is still pissed about this morning.
I watched it happen in real time. The split second where Etienne's focus drifts, where his positioning loosens by a fraction, where his reflexes lag just enough for the rookie to find a gap.
The puck sails past his glove and hits the back of the net with a sound that might as well be a funeral bell.
Our half of the scrimmage groans in unison, sticks hitting the ice in frustration. The rookies erupt into cheers, bumpinghelmets and slapping each other's backs like they just won the damn championship instead of a practice drill.
Coach Mercer blows his whistle, the sharp blast cutting through the noise like a knife.
"Time out! Everybody in!"
The team gathers at center ice, breathing hard and dripping with sweat despite the rink's frigid temperature. Helmets get pushed back, mouth guards get pulled out, and water bottles appear from the bench. Laurent stays in his goal, leaning against the post with his arms crossed and his expression radiating the kind of simmering resentment that makes me want to skate over and check him into the boards.
But I do not.
Because the last time I pushed one of my packmates, Cal put his fist in my gut and I spent twenty minutes trying to breathe again.
Coach Mercer plants himself in the middle of our huddle, his graying hair stuffed under a backwards cap, his face carrying the permanent scowl of a man who expected professional-level performance and got a circus instead.
"Alright. Somebody want to tell me who the fuck pissed off Laurent today?"
A few chuckles ripple through the group.
"Has to be Rafe," one of the guys says, grinning behind his mouth guard. "He is a douche to everyone, so it is usually a safe bet."
"Fuck off, Dillon."
Cal nods, helpful as ever.
"Yeah, Rafe pissed him off earlier this morning. Had it coming, honestly."
Coach Mercer gives me a look. The look. The one that says I am seconds away from running laps until I vomit.
"Come on!" I throw my arms up. "I cannot be punished because he is being a moody douche!"
I say it loud enough to carry across the rink. Intentionally. Because if Laurent wants to sulk, he can sulk with the full knowledge that I do not care.
Etienne responds without turning around.
His gloved hand rises from his side, middle finger extended with impressive precision considering the bulk of a goalie glove. He does not even look in my direction. Just holds it there for a solid five seconds, his gaze fixed on some point past the boards, before lowering it with the casual deliberation of someone who has rehearsed the motion specifically for this moment.
The team snickers.
I clench my jaw.
Dramatic little shit.
My attention drifts, pulled by the subtle shift in energy around me. Several of my teammates are looking toward the side entrance of the rink, their conversations trailing off mid-sentence as they track movement near the bleachers.
I follow their gaze.
And there she is.
Mabeline walks through the entrance in baggy pants that are at least three sizes too large for her frame and an oversized t-shirt that hangs past her hips like a dress. I have to squint because I can tell immediately those clothes are not hers. They are enormous on her, swallowing her skinny frame whole, but the effect is casual in a way that feels intentional. Like she chose to drown herself in fabric because she did not want anyone looking too closely at what is underneath.
Whose clothes is she wearing? Those pants alone could fit two of her.
She is talking to Sage, the tomboy Omega who burst into our classroom like a small hurricane yesterday. The two of themare wearing skates, though neither has stepped onto the ice yet. Mabeline is pointing toward the rink, gesturing with animated hands while she explains a concept that is making Sage groan and look thoroughly unamused.
