I do not let it go.
I stand up, freshly laced into my competition skates, and walk over to him. Slowly. Deliberately. Until I am close enough that my breath ghosts against the side of his neck.
"Can I borrow your stick, Alpha?"
I whisper it.
Low and sweet and dripping with a tone that I did not even know I was capable of producing until this very second.
Cal's jaw drops.
His entire face ignites. From his neck to his cheekbones to the tips of his ears, a flush so violent it could be mistaken for a sunburn. His amber eyes go wide, his grip on his hockey stick loosens, and for a solid three seconds, Calvin Graham Knoxstands completely frozen on the spot like his brain has blue-screened.
I giggle, plucking the stick from his slack grip before he can recover enough to drop it.
"I take that as a yes," I say brightly, stepping back onto the ice with his jersey drowning my frame and his stick in my hands. "I will try not to break it!"
Behind me, I hear Cal blink back into existence.
"I have been bamboozled!" His voice cracks with indignation. "She just bamboozled me! In front of the whole team! Did you all see that? That was deliberate manipulation! That Omega weaponized her voice against me and I just stood there like a damn fool!"
The guys on the bench are cackling. Full, body-shaking, tears-in-their-eyes laughter that bounces off the arena walls.
"Bro, she took your stick AND your dignity!"
"MaeBell just ended your whole career, Knox!"
Cal groans, ruffling his hair with both hands, cursing under his breath in a stream that I am pretty sure includes at least three languages.
I am still giggling when I reach Sage and Archie at center ice, both of whom are staring at me with identical expressions of suspicious amusement.
Sage's gaze travels from the oversized jersey to the hockey stick to the competition skates now laced snugly on my feet.
"New wardrobe additions?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.
I shrug innocently.
"He does not want me to get him sick."
"Righttttttt," Sage drawls, the word stretching into infinity.
"Bullshit," Archie mutters, but there is a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Coach Mercer skates to the center, his whistle between his teeth.
"You three ready?"
We nod in unison.
I turn to Archie.
"Do you want to lead? You have the hockey IQ. You know the formations better than either of us."
He considers it for a moment, his sports goggles reflecting the overhead lights. Then he reaches up and slides them off his face, perching them on top of his disheveled ginger hair.
"Nah," he says. "You lead."
Sage and I both freeze.
