“Grace,” Connor says. My name on his lips hits like a punch.
I swallow. “Connor.” I keep my voice flat. He doesn’t get to have an outwardly emotional effect on me. Not anymore.
Zev nods at Charlotte, who lifts her chin but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge him. Fowler is the first to actually smile, though it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to check your phone for weird texts after.
“We just wanted to wish you luck,” Connor says. “Tomorrow night. Big deal, right? Our opening night.”
His eyes flicker to mine. The mask slips, and I see the old Connor—the one who’d offer to tape my ankles. Who’d once caught me mid-spiral and whispered, “I’ve got you, princess.”
I want to spit on that memory.
“Thanks,” I say. “But you didn’t need to crash the party to do it.”
Connor opens his mouth, hesitates, then snaps it shut like a steel trap. Connor is the other lead in the show. He was invited. But the other two… No.
Zev’s gaze is gentle, almost apologetic, which somehow makes it worse.
“Good luck to all of you,” Zev says. “We’ll be at the show.”
“Super,” I mutter. “I’ll tell security to roll out the red carpet.”
Zev’s lips twitch. “Don’t worry. We’ll stay out of your way.”
For a moment, none of us say anything. I can smell them, and it’s infuriating. My omega side perks up and stretches toward them, inviting and trusting. Things I amnot. The cocktail of their alpha pheromones—peppermint, chocolate, and bonfire—sneaks around my suppressants like a ghost.
My body wants, even as my brain screams at it to shut the hell up.
Fowler cracks his knuckles. “Place looks better than the locker rooms at our own arena.”
Charlotte snorts. “The smell is about the same.”
The reprieve is brief. Connor’s gaze won’t leave mine. His nostrils flare, and I know he’s catching the hints of my own scent, roses behind a locked gate. We’re both pretending it isn’t there, but it is, loud and humiliating. Zev and Fowler do a far better job of hiding it, but I know they’re no better off. This is the closest we’ve all been for the longest amount of time since they rejected me.
Charlotte tugs my elbow. “Come on, Grace. I need air.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but she’s already dragging me through the mob of dancers, past a guy doing keg stands, and out onto a sad little patio that overlooks the parking lot.
The air outside is wet and tinged with pot smoke from a couple of the background figure-skaters sharing a joint under a nearby fire escape. Charlotte pulls me into the darkest corner and just stands there, arms crossed, her breathing as shallow as mine.
“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t even say anything.”
But I can’tnot. It’s all welling up, ugly and familiar and sharp.
“Why do I care?” I blurt. “Why do I still care? I spent the whole spring convincing myself I didn’t give a shit, and then one whiff of them and I’m—” I gesture at my chest, as if that’s where the ache is. “—I’m an idiot.”
“You’renotan idiot,” Charlotte says. “You’re an omega. Biology sucks.”
“That’s a cop-out,” I mutter, but the tears are already threatening. “I wanted—I wanted the fairytale, you know? Three alphas, one omega. Like my own damn storybook. And they just—” I choke, “—they rejected me. Scent-matches are supposed to be fate. It’s supposed to be perfect. Why isn’t it perfect?”
Charlotte pulls me into a hug. I cry into her shoulder, quietly, because the last thing I want is to become a spectacle for anyone loitering outside.
She rubs my back. “Fate is bullshit. You know that, right? Fate is just statistical probability, plus the right amount of pheromones, plus the universe having a sick sense of humor.”
I snort into her jacket. “You sound like a motivational podcast.”
“I know,” she says. “But you’re not alone. And you’re not broken, either.”
I let her words settle. I wish I could believe them. I want to skate the perfect show tomorrow and really make a splash with the first big show of my career. But right now all I can think about is how Connor’s gaze following me, and how Zev’s voice got soft when he looked at me. How even reckless Fowler seemed to regret something.
