"Professional my ass if you lot do not know how to grow and learn from coaches' children. Rose and Holloway-Rosedale grew up watching elite athletes make and correct these exact mistakes. They have been analyzing technique since before most of you learned to tie your own skates. If you are too proud to listen, you are too stupid to win."
The laughter sputters out, replaced by a murmur of reluctant acknowledgment.
"But Coach..." Dillon starts.
"Did I stutter, Dillon?"
"No, sir."
"Then shut up and watch."
Coach Mercer blows his whistle, the sound sharp and final, and the rookie team settles into their formation on the far side of the ice.
My gaze tracks Mabeline as she reaches the edge of the rink.
Etienne is already there, his goalie helmet in his hands. And before she can step onto the ice, he reaches over and places it on her head.
It is comically oversized. The helmet swallows her skull, the cage dropping down past her chin, the back resting on her shoulders like a turtle shell. She looks like a child playing dress-up in her father's gear.
She pouts, those hazel eyes barely visible through the cage, and waves her hands at Etienne in a gesture that clearly communicates take this ridiculous thing off my head.
But he shakes his head, that gentle stubbornness I have come to recognize as uniquely Laurent.
"Wear it. I will be fine. Just do not try to hit my head, thanks."
She laughs, the sound muffled by the helmet but still carrying across the ice.
He gave her his helmet. He took his protective equipment off his own head and put it on hers without a second thought. Like her safety matters more than his own.
When the fuck did Etienne Laurent grow a spine?
Mae looks at Archie, who looks back at her. He shrugs. She shrugs. Some unspoken agreement passes between them, the kind of communication that only exists between people who speak the same language of strategy and competition.
The two of them skate toward center ice, and I notice it immediately.
The wobble.
Mae's ankles look uncertain, her balance shifting with each glide like she has not been on ice in years. Which, based on what I overheard, she has not. She grips her borrowed stick with an awkwardness that suggests she does not fully know what to do with it. And Archie, for all his apparent hockey knowledge, moves with the careful precision of someone who understands the theory but lacks the muscle memory.
"Let me join!" Sage calls out from the side, her voice carrying with the volume of someone who has never known an indoor voice. "You need three people!"
She pushes off from the boards and skates onto the ice, reaching them in no time. Her skating is rough but confident, the kind of raw athleticism that comes from natural ability rather than formal training.
I hear Vanessa's laughter from across the arena, sharp and mocking.
"This is going to be embarrassing as fuck," she announces to her group, loud enough for half the rink to hear. "An Omega who can barely skate, a nerd, and a tomboy against our rookies? This is a joke."
I frown.
Why the hell does that bother me?
It should not bother me. Vanessa is right. This is probably going to be a disaster. Mae has not skated in years. Archie is a textbook analyst, not a player. And Sage is a wild card at best.
But watching Vanessa mock her hits different than when I do it. And I do not want to think about why that is.
I cross my arms, leaning against the boards with the practiced indifference of someone who does not care about the outcome of this little experiment.
Except my eyes will not leave her. Will not leave the oversized helmet bobbing on her head. Will not leave the way she grips the stick with fingers that do not know its weight yet but hold it with a determination that feels familiar. Like the way she held her crumbling bag together with safety pins. Like the way she held herself together this morning after I ripped her living situation apart with five careless sentences.
