Coach Rick Holloway. Holloway. Why does that name feel familiar? Is he the same Holloway who used to come to our house for Sunday dinners when I was a kid? The one who called me 'little swan' and snuck me candy when my mother was not looking?
Stop it, Mae. You are reading too much into this. There are probably dozens of figure skating coaches with Omega daughters. This is probably a coincidence.
Except it does not feel like a coincidence.
"Figure skating," the coach continues, passionate now, "is one of the most demanding sports in existence. It dwells on vulnerability and emotion projected through dance while articulating some of the hardest athletic moves on a surface that is inherently risky and unstable. We are talking about ice, Dan. Slippery, unforgiving ice. One wrong landing and your career is over. One miscalculated rotation and you are looking at broken bones."
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.
"Any Omega who can work toward performing in front of a bunch of judgmental spectators, under that kind of pressure, on that kind of surface, can scale to the top just like all the testosterone-fueled, aggression-filled Alphas on the ice that you lot encourage to bash into each other over a puck."
The host laughs.
"Is that not the truth! Well said, Coach. Now let us take a quick commercial break, and when we come back, we will be talking about preseason predictions and which teams to watch..."
The radio transitions into a car insurance advertisement, and the car falls quiet except for the jingle playing in the background.
Etienne reaches over and turns the volume down.
"That was an intriguing segment," he says, glancing at me with those storm-blue eyes. "Coach Holloway seems like a good man. Most coaches I have met do not speak that highly of Omega athletes."
I nod slowly, still processing everything I just heard.
"Yeah," I manage. "He does."
And I think he might know my father. And I think he might have been talking about me. And I think I am going to lose my mind if I keep thinking about it.
I shake it off, forcing myself to focus on the present. On Etienne. On the fact that we are sitting in his car eating breakfast like normal people instead of characters trapped in some complicated omegaverse drama.
Oh wait. We are characters trapped in a complicated omegaverse drama. My mistake.
"Are you worried?" I ask, shifting the topic before my brain can spiral any further. "About the hockey season? Five games in five weeks is a lot."
Etienne considers the question, those storm-blue eyes growing distant and thoughtful.
"No," he admits after a moment. "Not worried exactly. But I have not been around these guys long enough to know if we actually have a chance. Hockey is a team sport. You can have the most talented individual players in the world, but if the chemistry is not there, if the pack dynamics are off, it falls apart."
"And your pack dynamics are off," I observe.
He smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes.
"You could say that."
I tilt my head, considering.
"So there is a senior and a junior division? Like separate leagues?"
He nods, shifting in his seat to face me more fully.
"The senior division is for established teams with fully bonded packs. They have been playing together for years, have Omegas, have complete pack structures. The junior division is for newer teams, developing packs, programs that are still building their roster. That is where we fall."
"And the playoffs?"
"If a junior team performs well enough during the five-week season, they can advance to the junior playoffs. And if they are truly exceptional, they might even qualify for the crossover bracket against senior teams." He shrugs. "But that rarely happens. Senior teams have years of bonding and chemistry behind them. Hard to compete with that when your own pack can barely sit through breakfast without someone getting punched."
Fair point.
"But you are here on scholarship," I say. "So even if the team does not advance, you still get to attend Valenridge, right?"
