At the same moment, the three of them launch off their back skate, their bodies propelling them down the ice.
Not for a second do I take my eye off Lennon. I’m glad I don’t. Because the look on her face is enough to bring me to my knees. It's the same look that I know is plastered all over Sasha and Holden’s faces. The one that sings to a freedom that you can only feel on the ice.
She is beautiful. In a soft way. A dangerous way.
I had thought the little thing would lag behind the two pros. But she doesn’t.
No, Lennon keeps pace with Holden and Sasha, even as they slide to a stop at the end of the ice, forcing them to manipulate not only their body positioning but also the stick and puck before taking off down the ice.
My back straightens as the three players zip past us, before each of their skates slides, coming to a stop at the invisible finish line.
The bench is completely silent. None of us knowing what to do or say. Tyson eventually rights himself, his hands coming together as he begins to clap.
“Fuck yes!” He yells, jumping over the boards. The rest of the team follows, their hoots and hollers reverberating around us, giving the space a toned down version of game night.
But I don’t move. I don’t think I can. Because Lennon Gilmore just shut down every single preconceived notion I had of her.
She isn’t fragile. She isn’t someone who’s going to break easily for us.
Holden and Sasha don’t join the huddle that the rest of the team has made around Lennon. Instead, they skate over to me, wearing similar disgruntled yet surprised expressions.
I glance over at Sasha, keeping my face blank and devoid of emotion. Can’t be too careful with him sometimes. You never know which way he’ll go regarding Lennon. “You didn’t let her win, did you?”
His brow furrows, the spot between his eyes deepening. “I’m offended that you’d think I would back off just because the bitch is an Omega.”
A single eyebrow raises at the catty tone in his voice. He rolls his eyes, knowing I am not happy with a smartass answer like that. Something stirs inside me at his insult. I’m not sure where it comes from, but it’s not going to do me any favors, so I decide to let it pass. I’m sure he can tell I’m less than pleased by the look I no doubt have on my face.
“No, I didn’t fucking let her win. In fact, I put more into that than I normally would.”
Holden comes to stand beside me, leaning against the boards.
“Same here,” he says, taking a gulp of water out of one of the bottles someone left behind.C’mon, Holden. Fuckin’ gross.“I know you’re going to hate me for saying this, Sasha, but the coach is actually fucking impressive.”
Sasha tips his head slightly, his best version of a nod, I’m guessing.
It’s an undeniable fact.
That kind of talent isn’t something you simply fluke or pull out of your ass on a random Thursday training session. That kind of talent is honed from years of pushing limits. Encouraged by a talented father, crafted by time and bruises. God knows how many times the guys have fucked themselves up on the ice. That’s not even counting the damage actual games have on their bodies. But for Lennon to be as skilled as she seems to be, you need to be dedicated, and dare I admit it, I’ve developed somewhat of a respect for her now. She wasn’t joking when she told us she eats hockey for breakfast.
Lennon is not what I expected her to be, not in the slightest. She has a background in law, which is a far cry from the NHL. There’s something about seeing her on the rink that makes me believe that her dad made the right choice. Watching her come alive for a few fleeting moments reminded me of someone. Orsomeone's. The only other two players I’ve witnessed lose themselves fully the minute they set foot on the ice. My guys. And I already know there’s a fucking storm brewing in my defenceman’s head, because I just know he didn’t expect to learn that while our girl may not have followed her daddy’s footsteps on paper, she sure as all fuck knows what the hell she’s doing. Hell, probably more so than I do.
I stack the players’ boots away, their blades from today's practice stored in the bin, ready for me to sharpen. After the little interlude at practice, I was unable to stick around any longer when the team finally returned to their regular schedule. Seeing the newfound respect that her little performance earned her from the team was almost too much to handle. The way their eyes glinted over her body had me feeling murderous. Had me wanting to make a show of exactly who owns her, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I already know that the guys are thinking the same thing by the way their jaws are wired in a permanent, rigid clench. Which means Sasha will waste no more time before taking what he wants from her. Making her his, ours, in every way possible, before leaving her in the only way he’s imagined since she got here. Dead.
Me, on the other hand, I can’t think of anything but the way her perfect fucking lips would feel wrapped around my cock. How she’d sound choking on my cum as I fill her so fucking full, she won’t ever starve for another man again.
She needs to know. It’s fucking time.
She needs to know who she should be thinking of when she touches herself at night. Who will be the ones to ruin her, before putting her back together, just to dismantle her piece by fucking piece all over again. She should know who owns that tight little body of hers. Because right now, she doesn’t, and that’s just not good enough.
Lennon might think she’s untouchable, but she’s far from it.
Her scent hits me before the knock at the door sounds, interrupting my thoughts of her. I give myself a second, allowing my raging fucking hard-on to cooperate, then slowly start to turn to face her, standing awkwardly in the doorway, looking like she doesn’t know whether to run into my arms, or far enough away she forgets her own name. She can try to run, but I’ll only find her. There is no corner of this earth I wouldn’t search for her. No secret little hiding place she can retreat to that I wouldn’t find. That’s the joy of being my scent match. It comes with perks. My eyes fall onto the skates in her hand, one of the laces twisting between her fingers. It isn’t an impatient move. It's more of a nervous one.
God, I like that. I like that she is nervous. Second guessing things.
Instead of giving her the grumpy, brooding side of me, the one that I know that she is expecting, I grace her with a smile. Leading her into a false sense of security, because why wouldn’t I? Who knows how long we have with her before Sasha does what he’s set out to do? Slowly, I walk toward the door, reaching out a hand before gently taking the skates from her.
