The two assistant coaches are not amused.
Coach Whitlock’s mouth has gone pale at the corners. Coach Marek has elevated his coffee back to chest level like a small ceramic shield. Both of them are looking at Coach Declan with the specific, pinched fury of men who have just been outflanked in front of their own roster and would, on a different morning, be having this conversation in private.
Coach Declan does not give them that morning.
“Settle down.”
The whole rink obeys, the noise petering out within a beat, even Matteo wiping the grin into something more presentable.
“This is confirmed,” Coach Declan says, looking square at his two colleagues and through them. “It is not under discussion. The paperwork is filed. I have spoken with the headmaster’s office. I have spoken with my contacts at the Knot-Pucking League Organization — with whom this college, as the entire team is aware, has been in formal collaboration since the spring on the diversity-and-development initiative.”
He lets the acronym sit a beat. The way you let a puck sit in front of an open net.
“For the room.” He widens his eyes a fraction, taking in the whole rink. “The KPLO funds the merit scholarships this program runs on. The KPLO has, for three years, been pushing the league to broaden the talent pool and stop bleeding qualified athletes for the small unprofessional reason that they happen tobe Omegas. They wrote a brief on it last winter. Several of you read it. The rest of you should have.”
Marek’s coffee tilts. He rights it.
“One of the reasons O’Shea was approved through that scholarship pipeline,” Coach Declan continues, eyes finally landing on me across the cold, “is that her file made the case for itself. Perfect academic record. Documented competitive history with awards in three age brackets in her home country. Save percentage in her last two seasons that the analytics department had to double-check, because they thought the file was corrupted.”
Stop it. Do not let his voice do this to your face. Strap. Stick. Mask.
“The only thing that has been standing between O’Shea and a serious professional career,” Coach Declan finishes, level, “is the fact that the league regs have, until this season, been written to prevent Omegas like her from making one. That. Is. It.”
Silence on the ice. The kind of silence that, if you listen carefully, has small private arguments going on inside it.
It does not last.
“Well.” From the sector-one cluster, lazy and loud enough to carry. “Guess it really does suck having a pussy, huh.”
A snicker rolls down the line.
Matteo does not even turn his head to look at the man who said it. He simply lifts his chin in the speaker’s general direction and pitches his voice exactly the right amount.
“Sorry, Voss. Maybe learn how to pound one before you have opinions on the subject.” A beat. “Oh wait. My mistake. You’re the one with the documented preference for Alpha ass. Carry on.”
The rink loses its collective mind.
Hargrove actually doubles over, his stick clattering against his own skate. Petrov sits down on the ice. Linder turns hisback entirely and his shoulders are shaking. From sector one, an offended snarl, a muffled curse, the sound of at least two of Voss’s teammates struggling violently with their own commitment to the bit and losing. A third one I do not recognize is openly weeping with the effort of not laughing, knuckles pressed to his mouth, eyes streaming behind his cage.
Voss is the color of an unsuccessful tomato.
“You,” he splutters, in the direction of Matteo, “are a piece of?—”
“Work?” Matteo, beatific. “Art? A truly gifted teammate? I’ll take any of those.”
Coach Whitlock pinches the bridge of his nose.
Coach Marek has finally, blessedly, put the coffee down on the boards, the better to clap his hand over his own face.
“SANTORI.” Coach Declan. Brisk. Not amused. But, if I am reading the angle of his jaw correctly, not nearly as displeased as he is performing. “That is enough.”
“My apologies, Coach.” Matteo, all wounded sincerity. “I was simply offering Voss a pointer. In the spirit of teamwork.”
“Mm.” Coach Declan does not, you will note, repeat the order.
He turns, slowly, to address the whole rink one more time. The amusement, what little there was, drains clean off his face. What is left is the granite I have known since I was thirteen years old and a man five inches taller than my own dad first told me to stop crouching so low.
“Okay. Final word on this. I am not interested in spending the entirety of my season relitigating O’Shea’s placement on this roster. Her position is finalized. Her continued time in this crease will be determined by exactly one variable, which is her performance, the same as every man currently breathing on this ice.”
