The endless chants ofNerdy MaeBell, go to hellechoing in my skull like a song I'd never asked to learn.
Not again.
Not again.
Not again.
"Hey." A soft voice cut through the chaos, accented and gentle. "That's not cool. Back off."
I blinked through sticky lashes to find a goalie—still in partial gear, black curls damp with sweat, pale skin dusted with freckles like someone had scattered stars across his cheeks—shouldering between me and the mean-girl brigade.
His scent hit me like a blanket fresh from the dryer: snow-dusted evergreens, old books, and something warm underneath.
Instantly calming.
Dangerously lovely.
And I dare actually know who this man is as he approaches.
Étienne Laurent.
I'd seen his name on the roster earlier, memorized it the way I memorized everything—a coping mechanism from the days when knowing things was the only power I had. The shy French-Canadian goalie with eyes the color of a winter storm.
"What is wrong with you?" He addressed Vanessa, his accent making the words soft but no less sharp. "She has done nothing to you."
"Mind your business, Laurent." Vanessa's voice could've frozen the slushie she'd already weaponized. "This doesn't concern the backup goalie."
Something flickered across Étienne's face; hurt, maybe, quickly buried.
But he didn't move.
Instead, he shrugged off his spare jersey—number 31, LAURENT stitched across the back in crisp white letters—and draped it over my shoulders without a word.
The fabric was warm from his body, swimming on my frame, and it smelled likesafety.
My Omega hindbrain—my arch-nemesis whenever an Alpha’s scent catches midst—practically purred. She clearly adores the attention.
"You okay?" His accent thickened on the words, making them soft as fresh snow. "You need a ride somewhere? Somewhere... away from here?"
I should've told him I don’t need assistance. Or should've explained that the housing office had assigned me to a four-bedroom 'pack integration' house with some random Alphas, which I may interact with, wishing one of them was him so I’d maybe have someone by my side.
I should've said anything coherent…
But Nerdy MaeBell has never been good at standing up for herself unless she’s on the ice…
Instead, I managed:
"Thanks. I—thanks."
And bolted like the disaster I apparently am.
Which brings us back to the locker room.
See, my keycard—the one that would let me into my new living situation—was in my purse. My purse was in a locker near the equipment room. The equipment room was accessible through the men's locker room. Andapparently, nobody bothered to mention that the hockey team would be using it after their game.
So here I am.
Covered in slushie.
