Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “Fuck off,” I say, but there’s no bite to it.
“That’s fair.” He shifts his weight, looking almost nervous. Pierce never looks nervous.
I straighten, skating a lazy circle as I catch my breath. “You didn’t come home last night.”
“Wasn’t sure I’d be welcome.” His voice is flat.
I don’t know how to answer that so I don’t. I was out the second I fell into bed last night. Hockey players can fall asleep anywhere. But I did pace the kitchen for two hours before getting tired waiting for either one of them to come home.
I keep skating, gentle curves that bring me closer to the box, then farther away. It’s easier to move than to stand still for this conversation. And a part of me doesn’t want to make it easy on Pierce.
Like he knows, he hesitates, then hops the rails and puts his feet on the ice. He’s in his street shoes, designer sneakers that have seen better days. And immediately, he starts to slip, arms windmilling as he fights for balance.
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“Fuck me,” Pierce goes down on one knee and does that baby deer thing trying to get upright. “No, no, I’m fine. Don’t come help,” he bitches.
More slipping, more curses. I plant my stick on the ice andlean on it to watch the Pierce Show.
“Seemed symbolic or some shit. Meeting you halfway.” He’s breathing hard now too.
“You look ridiculous.” But I don’t move to help him.
He takes another precarious step, feet sliding further apart. “Yeah, well. I feel ridiculous, so at least I’m consistent.”
Another step and he goes down again, one knee hitting the ice with a solid thunk that makes me wince. Both palms slap down to catch himself.
“Graceful,” I say, not hiding my smile at all.
Pierce only manages to make it to his knees. He throws his hands up like he’s just done with it all. I’ve never seen him give up before.
“Alright. Fine. Proper grovel position. You brought me to my knees, begging.” He puts his palms on his thighs and gets serious. “I’m sorry.”
“For which part?” I push off with my toe and skate backward a few feet.
Pierce runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in messy spikes. “I didn’t know. I swear. About the scent match thing until last night. My nose was still fucked up,” he says, pointing to his face. “Swollen. I couldn’t smell for shit. I didn’t realize…” He stops, shakes his head. “I didn’t know about Ash. Not until Alexei said something about scent matches, and then it was like—fuck, Beckett, it was like getting hit by a truck.”
I keep skating, steady circles around where he kneels. “And that makes it okay to start a brawl in Alexei’s box and do the caveman alpha thing? To scare her half to death?”
“No,” he says immediately. “No, it doesn’t. I fucked up, yes. But that’s not how it went down. Not really. I think she was flipping out because there were too many alphas, and I needed to make it better, and…” He throws his head back and stares up at the lights and rigging in the ceiling.
“You always lose it,” I say, the words coming out harder than I intend. “That’s your whole thing, Pierce. You burn hot, you blow up.”
“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll work on that.” He almost sounds defeated, but I believe him. “I was out of line and I’m sorry.”
I skate another circle, slower this time. “I overreacted too,” I admit. “In the security office. I shouldn’t have swung first.”
“I deserved it.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Still shouldn’t have done it.”
Pierce shifts on the ice, wincing as his knees probably start to go numb from the cold. He doesn’t complain, though.
“So that’s it?” I ask, coming to a stop directly in front of him. “You fucked up your nose, didn’t realize she might be your scent match, lost your shit. That’s the whole story?”
He’s quiet for so long I’m sure when he lifts his head, he’ll blow everything else off.
“Someone’s blackmailing us,” he says. “Me and Liam.”
