"Fuck," he breathes, his head tipping back against the cushion. "Practice was brutal. New drills. Raphaël is trying to kill us. I am eighty percent sure he enjoys watching us suffer and is disguising sadism as coaching methodology."
He turns his head toward me, one amber eye cracking open beneath the dark frame of his glasses.
"You did not answer my question, MaeBell."
"Hm?"
His gaze drops.
Slowly. Deliberately. Traveling from my face to my neck to my collarbones to the oversized jersey hanging off my frame, the fabric pooling around my thighs, the hemline barely reaching mid-thigh where it gives way to bare legs tucked beneath me on the couch cushion.
His jersey.
I follow his gaze downward and realize, with a flush that ignites so fast I am surprised my face does not audibly combust, exactly what I am wearing.
"Oh." I pull at the jersey's hem, a futile attempt to stretch it an additional three inches through sheer willpower. "This. Right. So, you gave it to me on race day, and I fully intended to wash it and return it to you, which I did. The washing part. But then I forgot to give it back, and then it ended up at the bottom of my drawer, and then today all my actual clothes are in the wash because I procrastinated on laundry, so this was technically the only thing I could wear."
The explanation is a rambling, barely coherent mess that sounds exactly as incriminating as it is.
Cal's eyebrow arches higher. The gesture is almost audible.
"Are you trying to tell me, an Alpha, that you are wearing my jersey and nothing else?"
The phrasing. The emphasis. The way he says an Alpha like it is a job title and not a biological designation. The way nothing else leaves his mouth wrapped in a controlled tension that makes his ocean salt scent thicken perceptibly in the air between us.
"No!" My face is volcanic. "Well... okay, maybe. BUT." I raise a finger with the authority of a woman presenting a critical legal defense. "I am wearing underwear! Full coverage underwear! Proper, responsible, appropriate underwear! This is not some sort of seduction scheme! I am simply a victim of poor time management and an insufficient wardrobe!"
He groans, his head falling back against the couch again, his eyes squeezed shut.
"MaeBell, you are going to fucking kill me with that odd innocence of yours."
"I am not innocent!"
He pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, the gesture so exasperated it borders on theatrical.
"You are. Because you either enjoy taunting me for the sheer entertainment of watching me suffer, or you are genuinely unaware of the effect you have, which means you are testing my level of restraint without even realizing you are administering the test." He exhales through his nose. "Both options are equally dangerous."
I laugh.
Full and bright and bouncing off the apartment walls with an ease that surprises me, because laughing around Cal has started to feel natural in a way that should unsettle me given our history but instead feels like finding a comfortable position in a chair I have been sitting in wrong for years.
"I am not attractive to you, obviously," I say, waving my hand dismissively. "So the restraint thing is a non-issue."
The shift is immediate.
Cal's head lifts from the cushion, his amber eyes sharpening behind the dark frames with an intensity that makes my breath hitch. The playful exhaustion drains from his expression, replaced by a focused attentiveness that transforms him from tired hockey player to alert Alpha in the space of a single heartbeat.
"Why would you think that?" he asks. Quiet. Measured. The voice of someone who is choosing his words with care because he senses landmines beneath the surface of the conversation.
I shrug, aiming for casual. Landing somewhere closer to brittle.
"Well, Rafe said plenty of times that I am ugly. You were there. You surely agreed."
The words come out lighter than they feel. I have had years to practice the delivery, years to refine the art of mentioning old wounds with a breeziness that deflects attention from how deepthey actually go. If you say the cruel things about yourself first, if you beat others to the punch, the impact is dulled. Theoretically.
Cal's frown deepens, carving lines between his brows.
"I have never verbally agreed to any of that," he says.
