Ronan slides in behind me, pulling my back against his chest while Rowan kneels between my spread thighs.
“You’re not ruined,” Ronan murmurs, lips brushing my temple. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Bold, mouthy, and ours.” His fingers trace lazy circles over my hip, then dip lower, slipping inside me with the same deliberate precision he uses when he sets up a perfect stretch pass. I gasp, hips jerking, and he chuckles softly.
“See? Still responsive. Still our favorite power-play weapon.”
I tilt my head back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering as his fingers curl just right.
“Power play on ice or power play in the bath? Because if this is how we train for playoffs, I’m never leaving this tub.” The words come out breathy, teasing, but underneath them the old fears flicker—the ones that whisper I’m too much, too Omega, too distracting for a sport built on Alpha tradition.
I shove them down hard, focusing instead on the way Rowan’s mouth closes around my nipple, sucking gently while Ronan’s thumb circles my clit. The water laps at my skin, warm and soothing against the lingering bruise from the staged tackle.
That hit had been real enough to rattle my spine, but the blood bag and the brace had turned it into theater. Still, the memory of the impact lingers in my muscles, a phantom ache that reminds me how close I came to everything slipping away again.
Rowan lifts his head, water droplets clinging to his lashes.
“You’re spiraling, sweetheart. I can smell it under all that cherry blossom. Talk or come? Your choice.”
I choose both.
“I was thinking about the game,” I admit, voice hitching as Ronan adds a second finger. “That breakaway. The way the defense collapsed when I hit that edge. I kept waiting for someone to yank the puck from me, to scream that an Omega didn’t belong in the neutral zone. But you two were right there on my wings, and Archie was trailing like he knew I’d set it up perfectly. It felt… right. Like the ice finally agreed with me after fifteen years of telling me no.”
Rowan’s grin flashes, wicked.
“You mean the part where you outskated three Alphas who outweighed you by eighty pounds combined? Or the wrist shot that would’ve been top-shelf if Maxwell hadn’t turned it into a highlight reel for the wrong reasons?” He leans in, kissing me slow and deep while his fingers join Ronan’s, stretching me open in the water. The dual sensation has me moaning into his mouth, the sound echoing off the tiled walls.
Ronan nips my earlobe.
“You were magnificent. And terrified. We smelled the fear rolling off you the second you collected that turnover. But you pushed through it anyway. That’s our Omega. The one who body-checked doubt into the boards and kept skating.”
The praise sinks into me, warm as the water, chasing away the shadows of every locker-room whisper, every clipboard that stayed blank while I outskated the rest of the roster. I rock between them, chasing the building pressure, and when I come it’s with a sharp cry that splashes water over the tub’s edge. Ronan’s cock is already hard again, sliding into my mouth as I gasp for air, and I suck him down greedily, tasting myself on him mixed with the faint salt of our earlier rounds.
Breathless minutes later, I’m limp between them, the bath water cooling around us. Rowan’s fingers are still buried inside me, lazy and possessive, drawing out aftershocks that make my toes curl.
“You’re going to kill me with kindness and orgasms,” I mutter, voice hoarse. “And I’m strangely okay with that.”
A sigh hits the doorway.
I crack one eye open and there’s Archie, arms crossed, leaning against the frame with that signature pout that makes his freckles stand out under the overhead light. His ginger hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it in frustration, and his cedarwood scent cuts through the steam sharp and needy.
“I’m going to be a generous champ and let the twins have some quality time with our Omega,” he mimics in a deadpan voice that’s pure Archie when he’s pretending to be above it all. “One hundred percent regret that decision immediately.”
I giggle, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and light and utterly content.
“Now do you see why I said you’d need therapy and protective equipment to handle me? Come here, nerd. You look like someone stole your playbook.”
He huffs but crosses the room anyway, dropping to his knees beside the tub with the same fluid grace he uses when he diagrams plays on the whiteboard.
His hand slides into my damp hair, tilting my head back so he can kiss me long and hard, tongue sweeping in like he’s claiming territory he’s been patient about sharing. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, green eyes soft in a way the old Archie never let anyone see.
“You need to eat some proper food, though,” he whispers against my lips. “Break time. Thai dish on the menu—sweet and savory, balanced, because apparently two certain individuals think ice cream constitutes survival fuel.”
The twins chuckle from the water, Rowan splashing Archie’s sleeve on purpose.
“He’s talkative now,” Ronan teases, voice warm. “Must be corporal punishment for all those quiet-captain years.”
“Agreed,” Rowan adds, already climbing out and grabbing towels. “We’ll be back later. Try not to wear him out too much, Wildcard. We’ve got training next week, and you’re still our defensive anchor.”
They leave us alone, the door clicking shut with a finality that feels like a gift. Archie pulls back just enough to admire my face, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. His scent is everywhere now, grounding and warm, the graphite-and-amber notes threading through the steam like ink on fresh paper.
