My apartment smells like instant coffee thanks to my coffee pot still being broken. I keep forgetting to replace it. Outside, Boston is glazed with that washed-out morning light that’s never sure if it wants to be summer or if it’ll lapse right back into March. New England weather is fun like that, although by June itshouldbe settled.
I run my palm over the stubble on my jaw. I should clean up a bit before coaching starts for the day but I honestly can’t be bothered after yesterday.
Grace.
I’m so fucking doomed. We all are. She’s just as beautiful as the day she first walked into our lives, and we’re still just as stupid.
Does she know why we rejected her? Why we tried to get her far away from Reverie? Not that we had good reasons. But they were reasons nonetheless.
We told her that her scent was wrong—a lie. One so thin everyone around us saw through it.
We told her that scent-matches had no place in Reverie Ice Show—and yet two of the three of us alphas left.
We told her we didn’t want someone who couldn’t even make the main cast during Reverie.
She’s now the princess. And what are we?
Fools. Fools too scared of something good so we not only chased her away, we humiliated her first.
I slap together a breakfast so bleak that even my phone camera sighs at it. A bowl of bran with a side of protein shake and a banana. Then I brush my teeth and take my vitamins like a good boy.
Like a guy who might’ve thrown away his one shot at a real happily-ever-after with a scent-matched omega.
Our ownreverie.
I’m parked outside the high school’s hockey rink at exactly 7:04AM. It’s a relic from the ‘90s with a lobby full of vending machines.
I unlock the coach’s office with the key the district had to dig out of a janitor’s closet to give to me, and flick on the lights, which hum like a squadron of bees and take their sweet time to warm up. The smell in here is always equal parts mildew, sweat, and whatever fresh chemical weapon they used on the locker room floors last night.
I set out the cones and check the sticks because the kids will definitely not. This results in me fixing the tape on half. I roll a puck between my hands until it’s warm. I wonder if the kids will finally listen to the new drills I spent half of last night sketching on printer paper.
I swallow hard. This time last year, I was lacing up for another endless away-game and watching the world slip by from a window seat. Now my world is this: forty kids, two hours, and one omega-shaped mistake constantly replaying in my head.
The rink door slams open. Brayden barrels in first, a storm of limbs and bluster. Behind him is Clara, her ponytail already wet with nervous sweat, followed by the rest of the summer crew in an order that rarely changes. They’re all in various states of awake and collectively so very loud.
I raise my voice. “Good morning!”
They hush quickly before I make them do exercises for not listening.
I scan their young faces. “Lineup, blue line.” They clatter into formation.
The first hour is drills: footwork, passing, shooting, looped circuits. Clara’s the most promising. She already moves like a college prospect. Brayden’s got the personality of three team captains, but he can’t finish to save his life.
I skate beside them and the others, shouting encouragements and corrections, always careful not to break anyone’s pride. You can tell, even with teenagers, who’s here because they want to be and who’s here because some parent said so.
They rotate in and out, and stumble through the new drills. I want to believe I’m helping. I tell myself I’m helping. But every time I see one of them catch a pass on their backhand or make a killer drop-shot, I think:What’s the point if I’m just spinning them up for the same heartbreak as mine?
And Imade itto the NHL.
I’m about to blow the whistle for a break when Brayden wipes out and skids spectacularly into the boards, taking two teammates with him. The entire line crumples into a pile. Nobody gets hurt, just bruised egos and a lot of cursing. Theystagger upright, and I laugh, because how can you not? Even the perfect ones eat shit sometimes. I skate over and make sure none are crying behind their visors.
“Wipeout of the century,” I tell Brayden.
“Coach,” he grins, “the ice is extra crap today.”
“Maybe your balance is,” I counter, but my voice is gentle. These kids have heard worse from TikTok.
I watch from the bench during the water break. They huddle around their phones, comparing playlists and laughing too loud.
