I think about what happened with Grace. It’s impossible not to. Her scent is all over me now just from being within feet of her. The scent match between us and Grace was so strong, it nearly knocked me out that first day at prep camp.
We didn’t have to reject her. But Connor panicked, Fowler doubled down, and I—fuck, I just stood there. I didn’t even speak, just let her take the hit. Let her look small and embarrassed in front of the whole cast. Later, after hours, I heard her crying in the bathroom stall, and I left. I couldn’t face it. Even now, the memory tastes like blood in my mouth.
If I could go back, I’d do anything to fix it. I’d take all that weird, terrified energy and say the right thing—just one right thing—to her. But you don’t get do-overs when you’re an alpha, you just get regret and maybe a hockey whistle if you’re lucky.
I tap the whistle against my palm. The kids see me, groan, and line up for another hour of practice.
My old NHLjersey is pinned to the wall behind the cash register at Empire Sports. Tonight I’m here for discount shin guards.
Promise me life gets better.
I park in the back lot of Empire Sports, wedged between a minivan with soccer decals and a Civic with its bumper zipped up with twist ties. The sun’s just sliding down, gold against the buildings and thick as honey. It should be too nice a night to be inside, but here I am: cardboard box under one arm and a shopping list printed from a district email.
I push through the door and inhale the scent of rubber. The hockey section is in the back, tucked beyond the more popular soccer and football aisles, as if they’re embarrassed to stock anything for a dying sport. I’m loading up on mouthguards and tape when it hits me—the crisp, punch-you-in-the-face sweetness of roses. Not real roses, nothing so tame. Something engineered, amplified.
Omega roses.
I know before I look that it’s Grace.
She’s by the figure-skating display, comparing two different blade guards. She’s got her hair twisted up, and she’s wearing jeans, sneakers, an Old Harbor University sweatshirt. It’s nothing like the glittering Reverie show costumes, but she draws the eye anyway. Not just mine. The kid at the skate-sharpening counter does a double take so hard, he nearly drops a pair of blades.
I freeze, three packs of shin guards dangling stupidly from my fingers. My pulse is a sudden mess. I could leave, just back away and pretend I never saw her, but that’s not what an alpha is supposed to do, and definitely not what a reformed asshole should do, either.
I walk up, steadying my hands by fidgeting with the boxes, and try to keep my voice from breaking. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Grace.”
She looks over. It’s a controlled look, calculated for minimum contact, but there’s a flicker of surprise. “Zev.” Her gaze dartsfrom my face to the pile of child-size shin guards in my arms. “Stocking up for the apocalypse?”
I almost laugh. “Just trying to keep the next generation from shattering every bone in their legs.”
She picks up a pack of sparkly blade covers. “Hockey or figure?”
“Hockey. High schoolers. I coach them now.” I say it too fast.
Grace blinks. “Really? Didn’t know you were into… teaching.”
I shrug and try not to look at her full, soft lips. “It’s a living. And it keeps me off the streets.”
She sets the blade guards down. Her face softens just a little. “So that’s what you’re doing now after the league?”
I want to explain everything, the mess with the NHL, with Reverie, the way everything spun out after Connor and Fowler and I couldn’t keep it together. But it’s not something you dump on someone in a sports aisle, next to a shelf of unicorn-patterned water bottles.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “Coaching is different. But I like it. The kids are good, most days. Sometimes I think they might end up better than me.”
She smiles, and the knot in my chest tightens. “That’s good,” she says. “Sounds like it suits you.”
We stand in a silence that is not quite comfortable, but not painful either. Her roses scent feels defensive. Measured.
I deserve that.
She gathers her things, two blade guards and a tiny tin of something that smells like vanilla. “Well, good luck with the team. And the shin guards.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Break a leg with Reverie. Not literally.”
She almost smiles again. “Not planning on it.”
She turns to leave. She moves in an easy way, as if the world has never weighed her down, even though I know it’s done worse. Thatwedid the worse.
I want to call out, say sorry, saysomething, but the words feel wrong in the fluorescent aisle. She’s already halfway to the checkout before she pauses and looks back.
