The brothers stare at each other across the threshold.
Bastien, with his years of cruelty and confidence and casual violence.
Etienne, with his quiet strength and newfound resolve and something that looks a lot like devotion burning in those storm-blue eyes.
For a moment, I genuinely think they are going to start throwing punches right here in the doorway.
But then Etienne does something even more satisfying than violence.
He steps backward into the dorm.
Grabs the door handle.
And slams it in his brother's face.
CHAPTER 6
The Captain's Problem
~RAFE~
Iam trying very hard not to punch a wall.
The operative word being trying, because my fist is already clenched and the drywall is looking increasingly punchable and the only thing stopping me is the knowledge that Miss Abby Phillip would probably make me pay for the repairs out of my athletic scholarship.
Deep breaths. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Channel the aggression into something productive.
Coach Jenkins would be proud. He has been trying to get me to meditate for three years now, claiming it would improve my focus on the ice. I have always told him meditation is for people who do not have real problems to solve.
Right now, I am starting to think he might have had a point.
Because I do not get into fights with my packmates. Not like this. Not physical, fist-throwing, blood-drawing fights that leave bruises and split lips and the kind of tension that takes weeks to fully dissolve.
Sure, Cal and I bash heads all the time. We are both stubborn assholes with strong opinions and a tendency to dig in when we think we are right. We argue about plays, about training schedules, about whose turn it is to do the dishes. We haveshouted at each other across locker rooms and hockey rinks and the living room of every apartment we have ever shared.
But fist fights?
Those are left on the ice. Where they belong. Where there are rules and referees and the mutual understanding that we are teammates first and everything else second.
Never in our own fucking dorm.
Never over a goddamn Omega.
Nerdy fucking MaeBell.
The name echoes in my head like a curse. Like a ghost I thought I had buried years ago clawing its way out of the grave to haunt me.
I remember her.
Not the woman who stood in my locker room earlier, all grown up with curves in places I should not be noticing and eyes that held fire instead of fear. Not the Omega whose scent is currently making my entire body feel like it has been plugged into an electrical socket.
I remember the girl.
Frizzy hair and oversized glasses and braces that glinted under fluorescent lights. The way she used to hunch her shoulders when she walked, trying to make herself small. The way her voice would shake when she answered questions in class, like she expected to be mocked for daring to be smart.
The way she cried in the bathroom every day for a year because of me.
Because of us.
