Her scent reaches me again, carried across the cold air, and my nose wrinkles involuntarily. Not with disgust. Never with disgust. With the effort of trying to resist breathing it in deeper.
Vanilla sugar. Frosted roses. That maddening sweetness that has invaded my car's memory, my dorm's atmosphere, and apparently my ability to think clearly.
I watch Etienne watching her from the bench, his storm-blue eyes tracking her movements with the protective intensity of an Alpha who has already decided she belongs to him.
And it pisses me off.
Every cell in my body clenches with an emotion I refuse to name, refuse to examine, refuse to acknowledge as anything other than territorial irritation at a packmate overstepping his bounds.
She is just a temporary roommate. She will be gone by Valentine's Day. Whatever Etienne thinks he is building withher is pointless because she has a deadline and a Harvard scholarship and a life that does not include any of us.
So it does not matter.
None of this matters.
I huff, settling deeper against the boards.
"She is just going to mock herself, so whatever."
CHAPTER 14
Switch
~MABELINE~
What did I get myself into?
I am standing on freshly resurfaced ice in borrowed skates that do not fit properly, wearing a goalie helmet that weighs approximately the same as my entire body, holding a stick I barely know how to use, about to demonstrate professional-level hockey flaws to a team of Alphas who think I can barely stand upright.
This is fine. Everything is fine. I have made excellent life choices.
The rink stretches out around me, vast and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The ice is beautiful. Freshly Zambonied, smooth as glass, reflecting the overhead lights in pale streaks that remind me of the practice rinks I grew up on. The cold air bites at my exposed arms and cheeks, and the smell of the arena is achingly familiar. Industrial refrigeration, rubber mats, the metallic tang of freshly cut ice.
It smells like childhood.
It smells like the version of me that used to fly.
The rookie team is resetting their formation on the far side, their jerseys a chaotic mix of practice colors. Rafe's senior team is clustered along the boards, some leaning on their sticks,others perched on the bench, all wearing expressions that range from amused disbelief to open mockery.
I can feel their eyes on me. Feel the weight of their judgment pressing against my skin like a physical force.
They think this is a joke. They think Coach Mercer lost his mind by putting an Omega and a nerd on the ice. And maybe they are right. Maybe this is going to be a disaster. Maybe I am going to fall on my face in front of the entire hockey program and confirm every assumption they have made about me since I walked through the door.
But I did not survive four years in communal housing, three years without a real meal, and twenty-three years of being told I was not enough just to let a little fear stop me from doing the one thing I have always been good at.
Reading the ice.
I could see the flaws in Rafe's team almost immediately. Not because I am some hockey genius, but because I spent my entire childhood watching my father coach. Thousands of hours sitting in cold bleachers, studying the way bodies move across frozen surfaces, learning to identify the microsecond hesitations and positioning errors that separate good skaters from great ones.
The senior team's problem is not speed or skill. It is communication. They are moving as individuals, not as a unit. Rafe barks orders but does not adjust his own positioning to support them. Cal commits to shots without checking if his angle is actually open. And Etienne, when he is not busy being pissed off at Rafe, telegraphs his movements in the goal so clearly that any attentive forward can read him like a billboard.
These are fixable issues. Fundamental ones that any coach's kid would spot after ten minutes of observation.
Whether they will listen to me is another matter entirely.
"Coach!" I call across the ice, my voice echoing in the arena's acoustics. "Can we do a practice round first? Beforethe demonstration? Just to warm up and get the feel of the formations."
Coach Mercer nods from behind the boards, waving his approval.
