"I'm down for anything, Cap."
He groans.
The sound vibrating through his chest with the pained exasperation of a man who has just been addressed by a title he abandoned two years ago and did not authorize for redeployment.
"Don't you dare say that around people."
"No promises." I withdraw my hand, tucking both into my jacket pockets with the casual posture of a man who has delivered a message and is content to let its recipient process the delivery at his own pace. "But if you're ready to lock in and show people that hidden talent of yours, it won't take long before everyone votes you captain."
"Yeah, fucking right." The dismissal carries the reflexive velocity of a man whose self-assessment and his external evaluation exist in different zip codes. "Not happening a second time."
"Suit yourself."
I let the words settle. Count three heartbeats of November silence. Then deploy the detonation device I have been constructing since I saw the way he looked at the Omega on his couch.
"But if I win this bet, you have to go on a date with Sage."
His head turns. The rotation sharp enough to qualify as a reactive movement rather than a voluntary one, his green eyes finding mine with the specific, alarmed focus of a man who has been presented with stakes he did not negotiate and does not approve of.
"Don't try to set me up for failure."
I laugh. The sound filling the space between us with the warm, unbothered resonance of a twin who has been reading hisbest friend's denials for six years and has learned to translate them into the admissions they conceal.
"Sorry, buddy. But you've already failed." I let the assessment arrive with the gentle, teasing authority of a man who is not guessing but reporting. "Because you clearly love her, or whatever is happening in that overanalytical skull of yours that makes you want to return to the sport you swore you would never do again." I tick off the evidence on my fingers. "She is living in your dorm. Sleeping in your bed. Wearing your shirt. Eating your cooking. And you, Archie Hale Rosedale, the man who has spoken fewer than ten words per day to anyone outside of me and my brother for two years, are sitting next to her on a couch with your shoulders touching and your mask off and your guard so far down it could not trip an ankle."
I hold up the final finger.
"So if an Omega can get you doing that, I think she's the one our pack is marrying. Period."
He glares at me.
Full force. The green eyes behind the wire-rimmed frames delivering the specific, concentrated hostility of a man whose emotional position has been accurately identified and publicly narrated by someone he cannot intimidate into retracting the assessment because six years of friendship have made me immune to his glare in the same way six years of gaming together made me immune to his trash talk during Call of Duty sessions where he would insult my aim while carrying the entire team on his back.
I laugh again, unbothered, and stretch my arms overhead, the muscles protesting the cold that has been settling into my joints while we stood against this brick wall conducting emotional negotiations.
I turn my gaze away from him, looking across the campus grounds where the November maples stand skeletal againsta sky that is brightening toward midday. The path between the dorm buildings is empty at this hour, the students who populated it this morning now absorbed into lecture halls and study spaces and the institutional rhythms that structure academic life into blocks of time that have nothing to do with the conversations happening against this wall.
"If she wants to do the hockey thing, let's support her." My voice settles into the genuine register that I reserve for statements I am not performing but meaning. The teasing dissolves. The banter recedes. What remains is the specific, unadorned conviction of a man who has watched a woman eat half his food with the enthusiasm of someone who has been hungry for longer than one meal and who has been fighting for ice time longer than one season. "I hate how she's been rejected when she clearly has talent."
"You don't know that." Archie's voice carries the reflexive skepticism of a man who applies rigorous evidentiary standards to claims made without direct observation. "You haven't seen her play."
"I don't need to see her play." I look at him. Directly. With the specific, clear-eyed focus that communicates the weight of what I am about to say. "The fact that you approve of her ability and stood up for her in that living room tells me everything I need to know. You do not compliment people casually. You do not advocate for players whose talent you have not verified through personal observation and analysis. And you absolutely, categorically, do not introduce an Omega to your best friends and endorse her athletic capabilities unless those capabilities are legitimate enough to stake your reputation on."
I hold his gaze for one additional beat.
"Your approval is the highest bar I have ever seen applied to a hockey player. If she cleared it, she is better than most of thepeople who rejected her, and I would bet my entire equipment bag on that without needing to watch a single shift."
He says nothing.
But the tension in his jaw eases by a fraction that I have been watching for since I found him leaning against this wall. The specific, incremental relaxation that signals his analytical brain has received input it cannot refute and has adjusted its calculations accordingly.
I begin walking.
Back toward the dorm entrance, my hands in my pockets, my stride unhurried, the pace of a man who has delivered everything he came to deliver and is now leaving space for the person behind him to decide whether to follow.
"So it's a bet," I announce over my shoulder, my voice carrying the casual, non-negotiable finality that I learned from six years of gaming wagers where Archie's competitive instinct overrode his rational objections every single time. "You go on a date with Sage if the team votes you captain."
I smirk when I hear it.
