Hockey’s greatest hero.
The man who effectively destroyed my life.
A fist banging against the shower wall jerks us out of our heads.
“Five minutes, men. Then I need you in the locker room. Dressed.”
I raise my eyebrow, turning towards Holden, who is paying extra attention to washing his junk.
“What do you think that's about?” I question washing the soap off my body. Management doesn’t tolerate latecomers. The last thing I feel like doing right now is to throw my gear back on and suffer through some fuck ass beep test because somebody pissed off the suits.
“Beats me, Sasha,” Holden shrugs. “You know what they are like. Probably planning on reaming us out over last week's game. Or maybe some douche left their dirty drawers in the physios' room again.”
I roll my eyes, “It was one fucking time. That was also your fault, too, by the way.”
Holden raises his hands, “I plead the fifth.”
For once, Holden doesn’t make either of us late for one of these bullshit impromptu meetings. Dominic is already perched on one of the benches, deep in conversation with Blake, one of the assistant coaches, and the physiotherapist, Kelly.
The corner of Dom’s mouth lifts in a half smile as he watches both Holden and me stroll in and take the seats behind him.
Our pack isn’t exactly a secret around the club, but it’s ours. We keep it close. Quiet touches when no one is looking. Stolen kisses behind closed doors. Moments hidden in dark storage rooms where the only sounds are Holden’s soft, needy whimpers between us and the quiet praise Dom murmurs into his skin.
As usual, the room reeks. Pheromones saturate every inch of the place, dozens of scents mingling together until the air feels thick enough to chew. You’d think after years of management throwing scent neutralizing spray cans at them, the boys would get the fucking hint. They never do.
Clive Roberts, the assistant manager, walks through the door, quieting the room almost immediately. His expression is surprisingly cheerful considering the mood around the team this past week.
“Good evening, everyone. Firstly, management and I want to apologize for keeping you all in the dark since Patrick’s passing. We had to finalize a few things after the lawyers discussed the Will with us, and to say it has been a difficult week for all of us would be an understatement,” he says, his face solemn for a moment. I have to force myself not to chuckle. Difficult for whom? I don’t feel any pity for the asshole.
“Patrick was an incredible man, both on and off the ice. He led the Cardinals to five Stanley Cup wins as a player, saw our 2014 and 2015 seasons win back to back cups as a coach, and oversaw much of the success we’ve enjoyed in the years since.”
Cry me a fucking river.
Someone sniffs behind me, and irrational anger burns through my veins. He doesn’t deserve tears. Doesn’t deserve to be mourned. No one shed a single fucking tear for me when I showed up to school with bruises hidden beneath long sleeves.Nobody mourned the boy with split, fractured ribs. Nobody gave a fuck.
“Alas,” Clive continues, “while we still have heavy hearts, management is pleased to announce that Patrick’s shoes have finally been filled.” Finally? The guy only just croaked. The door to the locker room swings open, and I swear to fuck, nothing in this world matters anymore.
Standing at a little over five feet five, barely half the size of the doorway built big enough for men like me, the Omega graces us all with a smile. Her dark chocolate brown hair falls in thick waves down her back, bouncing with each measured step she takes. There’s something effortless about her beauty. No heavy make-up. No flashy jewelry. Nothing forced like the puck bunnies we have sniffing around.
She’s heart-stopping.
The dead kind.
A fitted black dress clings to every dangerous curve, and the heels she wears give her just enough height to square her shoulders. She doesn’t have to say a damn fucking thing to command the room. No. All she has to do is walk into it. And every Alpha here notices. Including me.
Blood rushes south painfully, my cock straining against the sweats I’d thrown on in my rush not to be late. Something I’m already regretting. Fear hangs in the air around her. Not overwhelming. Subtle. Sweet. The little Omega’s scent is cracked around the edges, carrying enough anxiety to have something beneath my skin scratching to life. I can’t name it. I can't understand it. But I can taste it. And it tastes fucking sweet.
Be still, my beating heart.
Licking my lips, I savor the scent, committing it to memory and tucking it into my spank bank for later.
I give the Omega back my full attention, not wanting to miss a single second of anything that comes from her lips.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Her voice. I swear I almost came in my pants then and there. Like some inexperienced Alpha who has just come into their designation.
