"Wait, Cal." One of them whistles. "You catching feels for the new girl?"
Cal rolls his eyes with theatrical exhaustion.
"No. I am telling you not to be disrespectful because it makes you look like a clown. There is a difference."
Harvard. Figure skating prodigy. Coach's daughter.
Who the fuck is this girl?
Movement near the entrance catches my eye. The nerd from the classroom, Archie Holloway or Rosedale or whatever the hell his name is, walks toward the ice with the tentative steps of someone who does not quite belong but refuses to be turned away. His wire-rimmed glasses are replaced with sports goggles, and he is wearing skates that look far too professional for someone who claims to be nothing more than a bookworm.
He reaches Mabeline and Etienne at the boards, the three of them forming a small huddle that looks more like a strategy session than casual conversation.
"What is the nerd doing here?" one of the rookies asks, echoing my thoughts exactly.
Coach Mercer speaks up from the bench, his gruff voice carrying clear authority.
"Archie Holloway-Rosedale should have fucking applied to this team, that is what. The kid has more hockey IQ in his pinky finger than half you lot have in your entire bodies."
Laughter erupts through the group.
"Coach, either you are high or drunk," Dillon says, wiping his face with a towel, "because why would that nerdy kid be on the team? He is skinny as fuck with no muscle. A strong wind would knock him off his skates."
Cal tilts his head, considering.
"He could be hiding his build, actually. How would we know? I have never seen the guy in the change room. He could be jacked under those blazers for all we can tell. Cannot really judge a book by its cover."
"Since when are you the philosophical one?" I mutter.
"Since you decided to be the asshole one full time."
I clench my jaw but say nothing, watching as Coach Mercer skates over to the small group by the boards. He exchanges words with Mabeline and Archie, gesturing toward the ice, toward the rookie team now resetting their positions. Mae and Archie share a glance. She shrugs. He fixes his sports goggles and says what I can only assume is some variation of sure.
Coach Mercer skids back to us, a grin splitting his weathered face in a way that immediately puts me on edge.
"Listen up!" He claps his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man about to enjoy watching his players get humiliated. "Rookies, back into position. Same formation. Same play."
The rookie team shuffles into their spots, confused but obedient.
"Mae Rose and Holloway-Rosedale are going to show you exactly what you lot are doing wrong."
Silence.
Complete, incredulous, brain-short-circuiting silence.
Then the laughter begins.
Nearly every player on our side bursts into the kind of unrestrained cackling that echoes through the arena like a comedy show's laugh track. Guys are doubling over on the bench, slapping their knee pads, wiping tears from the corners of their eyes.
Everyone is laughing.
Except Cal.
Cal is arching one eyebrow, his amber eyes fixed on the ice with an expression that sits somewhere between curiosity and anticipation. Like he knows a secret the rest of us do not.
"Wait, hold on." He pushes off the boards, looking directly at Coach Mercer. "You are letting the Omega who can barely stand on the ice and the nerd who cannot see shit without his goggles teach us, a supposedly professional team, how to get a goal in?"
Coach Mercer crosses his arms, utterly unbothered by the skepticism.
