"Miss Flip, I'm not in fucking trouble for once."
The woman's eyebrow arches so high it practically disappears into her hairline.
"You will be if you don't correctly say my surname for once in your life." Her voice is clipped, precise, the verbal equivalent of a ruler smacking a desk. "It's Miss Abby Phillip. And I'm a single conversation away from making your life a living hell, so don't go playing games with me, Calder."
He groans again, louder this time, like a petulant child being told to clean his room.
His comrades snicker behind us.
Comrades. Listen to me. Like we're in some kind of war.
Though, honestly?
Living with three Alphas who made my childhood a nightmare feels pretty close to enemy territory.
But standing here, no longer being threatened or provoked or confronted with naked hockey players, I'm finally given the opportunity to actually observe them.
And by observe, I mean stare like a creep while pretending I'm looking at the architecture.
The boys I remember from sixth grade clearly aged like fine wine with a triple shot of testosterone, because, well…
Holy mother of all things Alpha.
Let's start with Rafe Calder, shall we?
He's still shirtless. Still radiating that infuriating 'I know I'm hot and I dare you to deny it' energy. But now that my survival instincts aren't screaming at me to flee, I can actually take in the full picture.
Six foot four, easily.Maybe taller.The kind of height that makes you feel small even when you're trying desperately to stand your ground. His shoulders are impossibly broad, tapering down to a narrow waist that showcases those ridiculous V-lines pointing south like arrows on a treasure map.
A treasure map to places I should not be thinking about.
His face is all sharp angles and dangerous beauty. High cheekbones that catch the light. A jawline that could cut glass, dusted with just enough stubble to make him look rugged instead of polished. That tiny scar through his left eyebrow adds a hint of roughness to what would otherwise be model-perfect features.
And his eyes.
God, those eyes.
Storm gray, like thunderclouds rolling over a winter lake. They're the kind of eyes that make you feel seen in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying. Right now, they're fixed on MissPhillip with barely concealed annoyance, but every few seconds, they flicker to me.
Checking.
Assessing.
Claiming?
His scent wraps around me like smoke, even from this distance. Cedar and woodsmoke and cold winter air, with an undertone of something darker. Possessive. The kind of scent that makes my Omega hindbrain want to roll over and bare her throat.
Down, girl. We hate him. Remember the chants? Remember the tears?
My hindbrain whimpers but reluctantly stands down.
Next up:
Callahan 'Cal' Graham Knox.
Where Rafe is all hard edges and predatory grace, Cal is warmth personified. He's only slightly shorter than Rafe, maybe six foot three, but his build is different. Broader. Thicker. The kind of body you'd expect from a defenseman who's spent years throwing himself between pucks and goalies.
His skin is a rich, warm brown that practically glows under the hallway lights. His curls are cropped close to his head, neat and tidy in a way that suggests he actually owns a comb, unlike certain shirtless captains I could mention.
