Every cell of my designation-conditioned brain produces the reflexive skepticism that the system installed during childhood: Omegas don't play hockey. The biology is wrong. The physicality is mismatched. The designation hierarchy does not accommodate this configuration.
But Archie nodded.
And Archie does not nod to confirm things that are not true. His nod is a currency he spends with the fiscal conservatismof a man who considers unnecessary affirmation a form of inflation. If he confirmed her claim, the claim is legitimate.
When our expressions clearly do not convey sufficient belief, Archie elaborates with the clinical efficiency of a man providing a performance report.
"Sage is actually really fucking good." The words arrive without embellishment, carrying the flat, declarative authority that Archie reserves for statements he considers factual rather than complimentary. "I played with her yesterday in a scrimmage that produced a seven-to-zero result against the rookie squad. Her defensive instincts are elite. Her skating is rough but effective. Her competitive intensity does not deteriorate under pressure. And her hockey IQ operates at a level that allowed her to synchronize with my distribution in real time without verbal communication."
He pauses. The silence functioning as a paragraph break between the evaluation and its qualification.
"But they won't let her in unless she finds a temporary pack."
The words land in the room like a formation collapsing on ice.
"What the fuck is up with that?" I lean forward, the frustration genuine, my jaw tightening with the specific anger of a man who has watched institutional gatekeeping prevent talented people from competing for reasons that have nothing to do with talent and everything to do with the bureaucratic architecture of a system designed by people who never had to navigate its restrictions.
Archie's expression does not change. The calm, analytical mask holding steady as he delivers the broader context.
"Same way they're going to implement regulations against Alphas who don't have a pack affiliation. The legislation is coming. They're going to require pack structures for competitive participation across both designations, which means the issueSage is facing as an Omega is going to become the issue every unaffiliated Alpha faces within the next enrollment cycle."
Ronan absorbs this with the quiet, processing focus that distinguishes his conversational style from mine. Where I react, he calculates. Where I lean forward, he leans back. The complementary dynamics that make us effective on ice applied to the off-ice problem that has just been placed on the carpet between us.
"Well," he says. "What can we do to help? Or prevent that?"
I look at Sage.
Directly. With the specific, unfiltered attention that I apply to potential teammates during scouting evaluations, the assessment that measures not just ability but willingness, not just talent but the hunger that converts talent into achievement under conditions that actively resist the conversion.
"Are you actually interested in joining?"
She does not answer immediately.
The pause carries weight. Not hesitation. Processing. The visible, real-time evaluation of a woman who has been asked to verbalize a commitment that her history has taught her to protect by not speaking it aloud, because speaking desires into existence in a world that specializes in denying them feels like handing ammunition to the enemy.
"Yes." The word arrives with a firmness that the pause makes more powerful, not less. "I'm actually hoping to join. I've been rejected by more teams than I can count, and I'm tired of it. I know if I don't take this chance, I'm just at this university wasting time." Her jaw tightens. "Also worth mentioning that my mother is actively trying to arrange a pack marriage for me, so the clock is not theoretical."
"No the fuck she ain't."
Ronan and I produce the statement simultaneously. The synchronized outrage arriving with matching volume andidentical intonation, the twin-frequency response that surfaces when an injustice triggers the specific, shared nerve that our upbringing hardwired into both of us.
Sage blinks. The reaction genuine, her green eyes widening at the vehemence of a response she did not expect from two men she met over Caribbean food forty minutes ago.
Archie elaborates without being asked, the explanation emerging with the practiced cadence of a man who has already identified the connection between Sage's situation and ours.
"The twins have twin sisters. A year younger. They're dealing with similar pressures from their family regarding arranged pack commitments. So the topic hits close."
He is right. Our sisters, Maren and Keira, are seventeen and navigating the same designation-based marketplace that treats Omega women as assets to be allocated rather than people to be respected. Our parents are not as aggressive as Sage's mother appears to be, but the cultural current pushing our sisters toward early bonding arrangements is the same water, flowing in the same direction, eroding the same autonomy.
Sage nods. "That sucks. And it's unfair."
"Agreed." Ronan's voice carries the quiet conviction of a man whose protectiveness extends beyond the person in front of him to every person facing the same structural violence. "So. Do you have other options? For the pack situation?"
She shakes her head.
The gesture is small. Tired. Carrying the specific resignation of a woman who has exhausted her inventory of solutions and is now operating in the territory where stubbornness replaces strategy because strategy requires options and options require a system that is willing to provide them.
Ronan and I look at Archie.
