"Let me switch out. I will be back."
I skate toward the bench exit, my movements deliberately unhurried. Archie watches me go, calling out to Sage.
"Where is she going?"
"You will see," Sage replies, her grin audible even from across the rink.
The bench is cold under my thighs when I sit down, and I immediately start unlacing the spare skates with fingers that are stiff from the arena's frigid air. My competition skates are in my gym locker, and I had tucked the bag behind the bench earlier, just in case. Just in case the ice called me back. Just in case my body remembered what my brain has been trying to forget.
"You okay?"
Cal's voice catches me off guard.
I look up to find him standing at the far end of the bench, still in full gear minus his helmet, his amber eyes fixed on me with an expression that looks suspiciously like genuine concern. Hisblond hair is damp with sweat, pushed back from his forehead, and his scent is warm caramel and autumn spice, stronger now from exertion.
"Yeah," I say, tugging the lace free. "Why? Scared I am going to take a puck to the face?"
He huffs.
"Not with that helmet on your head, no. That thing could survive a meteor impact." He pauses, his eyes dropping to my outfit. The oversized sweatpants. The thin tank top that was fine when I was moving but is now leaving goosebumps on every inch of exposed skin. "But are you not cold?"
I glance down at myself.
"Not really."
Lie. I am freezing. The sweat from the practice round has cooled against my skin, and the tank top is doing absolutely nothing to insulate me from the rink's below-zero temperature. My arms are covered in goosebumps, and I can feel the chill settling into my joints in a way that will make me stiff if I does not warm up soon.
But admitting that feels like admitting weakness, and I have met my quota for vulnerability this week.
Cal stares at me for three full seconds.
Then he is pulling his jersey over his head.
The motion catches me completely off guard. One second he is standing there, fully dressed in team gear, and the next he is tossing a red and white hockey jersey across the bench toward me. It lands in my lap with the heavy warmth of fabric that has been absorbing body heat for the last hour.
"I cannot be getting any form of sickness from you, MaeBell," he says, his voice gruff and pointed, his gaze fixed on the rink like he did not just strip off his jersey for an Omega he claims to have no feelings for. "So dress appropriately."
He turns his back to me before I can respond.
I stare at the jersey in my lap.
First Etienne gives me his helmet. Now Cal gives me his jersey.
If Rafe tosses me his stick, I am going to start thinking these Alphas actually care.
"Are you doing this because Laurent gave me his helmet?" I ask, pulling the jersey over my head. It is enormous on me, the sleeves falling past my fingertips, the hem reaching mid-thigh. It smells like warm caramel and autumn spice and sweat and the unique musk of an Alpha who has been exerting himself. The scent wraps around me like a blanket.
Cal huffs without turning around.
"No. What, you want my stick too?"
The words leave his mouth before he realizes what he has said.
I see the exact moment the innuendo registers. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his head dips a fraction of an inch.
I should let it go.
I absolutely should let it go.
