For a cold, emotionally constipated bastard with an ego the size of the Western Hemisphere, the man wasdevastatinglygood.
But that was then. We’d “broken up”—or whatever version of that story he told potential hookups to keep his options open—and in the aftermath, Kael had apparently decided that the appropriate post-breakup protocol was to declare me permanently off-limits to every Alpha in a five-hundred-mile radius. Not through conversation. Not through any reasonable, adult exchange of boundaries. No. Through the time-honored Alpha tradition of low growls, direct eye contact, and the occasional heavily implied threatof physical violence directed at anyone whose gaze lingered on me for more than three consecutive seconds.
Bastard.
Five years. I hadn’t seen Kael Sørensen in five years, and his shadow still clung to me like a cologne I couldn’t scrub off.
I’d moved on. At least, I’d tried. And one memorably disastrous date with a figure skating choreographer who’d spent the entire dinner asking if Kael and I werereallydone or if this was just “a break.”
The common thread? Alpha hockey players—and Alphas in general—had an abysmal track record when it came to committing to anything that existed off the ice. They’d die for their team. They’d bleed for a puck. They’d sacrifice their bodies in ways that made orthopedic surgeons weep. But ask them to show up on time for dinner, or text back within a reasonable window, or acknowledge that their partner’s career had value equal to their own?
Crickets.
Did I understand it? Fuck yeah. The competitive drive, the tunnel vision, the way the ice became a world that made everything else feel muted and secondary—Ilivedthat. But understanding something didn’t mean accepting it. And it certainly didn’t mean tolerating a man who’d heightened every expectation my body had about what sex could be and then vanished like he’d never existed.
Don’t waste my time if you’re not ready to commit. Simple rule. Revolutionary concept.
Angelo must have read the murder forming behind my eyes, because he shifted his weight backward—a subtle, instinctive retreat that Alphas only performed when they recognized a threat they couldn’t outmuscle.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and for once, the apology didn’t sound rehearsed. “Look—I’ll get on my knees right here and beg if that’s what it takes.”
I glanced at the frozen asphalt beneath his bare feet, then back at his face. “The cement would be good for those knees, since you clearly do more bending and begging to lick coochie than getting your legs on the ice to practice with me.”
His mouth twitched. The faintest ghost of a smirk that he immediately smothered when he caught my expression.
“I’ll take it seriously,” he said. “I promise you. For real this time.”
I studied him. Searched those amber eyes for the lie I’d grown accustomed to finding there—the charming deflection, the easy grin that saidtrust mewhile meaningforgive me. But what I found instead was something rawer. Strained. The expression of someone who knew he was one excuse away from losing the only partner willing to drag his ass to the Olympics.
I exhaled. Long, slow, visible in the cold air like a white flag neither of us acknowledged.
“One more shot,” I said. My voice was steady. Non-negotiable. “Youshow up, Angelo. We need to run through the program start to finish—just once, clean, no missed elements—to have a shot at nailing the qualifying evaluation. That means the side-by-side triple Lutzes land clean. That means the death spiral entry is smooth and your grip doesn’t slip on the exit. That means the throw triple Salchow hits full rotation and I don’t end up compensating for your launch angle because you skipped leg day for a week and a half.”
His jaw tightened at the last part, but he nodded. Hard. Definitive.
“I’ll be there,” he said. “One hundred percent. Seven a.m. Rink Three. I’ll even bring coffee.”
“I don’t want your coffee. I want your commitment.”
“You’ll have both.”
I held his gaze for three more seconds—long enough to make the promise feel carved in stone rather than scribbled on a napkin—and then stepped around him. My shoulder didn’t brush his. I made sure of it.
“Now go continue your stupid horny shenanigans,” I said over my shoulder, already pulling my car keys from the side pocket of my bag, “and make sure you practice in your apparent recovery time.”
A laugh—genuine, startled, bright with the relief of someone who’d just barely survived a natural disaster. “Fuck yeah. I’ll practice whenever I’m not thrusting.”
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t dignify that with a response. Didn’t let myself think about my skating partner’s recovery-time cardio or the diving team girl who was probably still spread-eagled in his dorm room wondering whereher orgasm went.
Not my problem. Not my business. Not my circus.
I slid into the driver’s seat, tossed my bag onto the passenger side, and pulled my phone from my jacket pocket. The screen lit up with a notifications panel I didn’t bother reading—three texts from my mother, one from my physiotherapist, a calendar reminder about a conditioning session I’d already completed that morning—and I swiped past all of it to check the training schedule.
Rink One: occupied. Hockey.Of course. The hockey players had claimed Rink One as their personal kingdom since the facility opened, and disputing their territory was roughly as productive as arguing with a glacier. Rink Two: resurfacing until four p.m. Rink Three: blocked for a private coaching session until?—
Rink Four.
Open. Available. Empty.
