Page 13 of Full Body Hit, Part 1

Mark hummed in agreement. “You need to get laid, bro.”

A slap sounded over the phone. “Not just that. I mean, like…Aus, we all know that you’re an absolute softy underneath all that grr. You need someone to pamper. It’ll do you good—trust your fellow Alpha.”

“And where exactly am I supposed to find that?” Auston complained. Was he supposed to go to a bar and pick up and, what? Fall in love?

“Uhm, online? Like every other person on Earth?”

Auston blinked. He honestly hadn’t even considered that, but…it wasn’t that bad of an idea. It seemed low-energy—he didn’t have to meet up if he didn’t want to. Could sext a little, get off, and get out.

Mark and Chin-Sun obviously read his silence correctly because Mark murmured, “He’s thinking about it.”

Auston rolled his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yay,” Chin-Sun cheered as Mark said, “Let’s meet up this weekend. No more hiding.”

“Fine,” Auston capitulated. There was a smile on his face, bones feeling lighter for the first time in weeks.

Maybe this whole ‘having friends to talk to’ thing wasn’t so bad.

***

Training camp mercifully ended, bringing on the beginning of preseason. Apparently, the kid had done pretty well and was put on the first line to start off with.

Not that Chase would stay there—the point of the preseason was to test all the potential rookies out and see who got to stay in the show.

Chase seemed happy, though. Didn’t smell like anything in particular, which meant he was either masking his happiness—and who the fuck did that?—or he wasn’t actually grateful for the opportunity. He was making a show of it, though, bouncing around the room, red lips pulled into a wide smile, light-brown hair flopping.

But Auston wasn’t so far gone into his issues that he would rain on Chase’s parade.

Honestly, he had bigger problems to deal with, like the fact that for the first time since he was a rookie, he was fucking nervous for the preseason. The games didn’t bring any points that would get them into the playoffs—there was no real reason to feel like his skin was gonna crawl right off—but ever since his operation, he had this persistent fear that his body would give in on him. That he’d skate out under the lights and collapse, showing the world he just wasn’t good enough anymore.

Obviously, that didn’t happen. His legs worked, his heart pumped sure and steady.

That didn’t mean the game went well.

They were down by two at the end of the first, and Auston had done fuck all to help with that. The coach switched up the lines at the start of the second, putting the kid as his centre—which was fucking insulting—Auston was a goddamn centre—but whatever.

They managed to get some time in the offensive zone, corralling the Quebec Foreurs around their net. Cold air filled Auston’s lungs, a chant swelling in the crowd, a distant noise. The puck hit his stick with a satisfying thwack from the blue line, and he rimmed it around the boards. One of the Foreurs chased after it, but Chase got to it first, blocking the opposing player out with his body, a sweet back-and-forth move teasing the puck away from the opposition.

The kid slid it to Andreev, their own defenceman, who was waiting on the left side of the offensive zone. The Foreurs swayed closer, and Auston saw the play—

The kid had moved just west of the goal. Andreev would poke it to him, and all Chase had to do was slide it to Auston, who had settled on the other side of the blue paint—the goalie was pressed against the left pole, so if they were quick enough, Auston could get the shot off before he slid over.

Andreev skated a few steps back with the puck, drawing the Foreurs nearer. He waited for the lane to open, sliding it to Chase, and there, he just had to—

Instead of finding Auston, the idiot tried to put it in himself. The goalie was ready, obviously, the play had been taking place on that side, so the puck just bounced off his chest and he pounced on it, killing the play.

The whistle sounded.

Auston huffed, making his way to the bench for a line change, sidling up to Chase as he went.

Yep, no change in scent. The kid was so focused keeping a tap on it, he wasn’t even concentrating. That, or Chase didn’t even care about the bad play.

“What the fuck was that? Don’t you know how to pass the puck?” he grumbled.

“I-I thought I could make it,” the kid defended, but his scent remained flat and unaffected.

Auston’s blood heated up, jaw tensing. These fucking young players—why even get into the game if they didn’t care?