Chapter 1
“You’re imperfect, and you’re wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.” — Brene Brown
The van rattles as it takes a hard turn, and the coffee in my cup sloshes too close to the rim. I reach over to still it while my eyes are locked on the list of players I was sent, so I can figure out who would be good to feature.
This newest documentary project will be one of the longer ones I’ve worked on. My boss wants a film about the HeathsteadBears: once legends in the National Hockey Alpha League. For six years, they never missed the playoffs and won the Alpha Cup twice. Now it’s been four since they’ve come close, and they’re always out of the running early in the season.
It’s the worst slump the League has seen in decades.So he thinks it could be a compelling piece for die-hard hockey fans. It will either be a redemption arc or the final blow to the legacy of a once-great team, showcasing their downfall.
Doug, my cameraman, spits a sunflower shell out the window and grunts, “We’re ten minutes out.”
He’s broad-shouldered with a buzzed head and the kind of face that always looks like he’s squinting into the sun, even indoors; like the Clint Eastwood GIF I used far too often in my teens.
I nod to acknowledge him, but don’t look up.
My head pounds as a tight pressure blooms behind my eyes and down into my neck. It’s been this way for over a month now, but I can’t go to the doctor’s. One blood test, and they’ll know the truth. My designation would be changed. Alerting my job, Beta-Only apartment complex, and the government to the fact I’m an Omega and need to be treated like one.
We’re going to be around a lot of Alphas today, and I need to make sure they don’t tempt my inner omega into waking up. I doubt I would be choosy if my hormones get their way. I need to top off, make sure my suppressants are in full effect.
My hand shifts to my coat pocket and curls around the familiar container; the lifeline holding every lie I’ve told together with Scotch tape.
Part of me wants to pop it open and take a pill out now, but I can’t, not with Doug so close. I can’t have him asking questions or wanting to know what I’m taking all the time.
The less he knows, the better.
I read through the names of the players again, and four stand out: Ford Markov, Wesley Carter, Jace Lopez, and Logan Hales.I tap each one as I go. They’re first line and have been with the team for five years. It makes sense to focus interviews on them. I want to know what happened and why they’re playing so badly. Are they just not good, or is it something else?
It shouldn’t matter if their names are familiar. I’ve probably heard about them in passing while doing my job. I’ve done dozens of stories, covered worse teams, interviewed athletes I wanted to punch in the face.
This is my first hockey documentary, but I work for a sports news company. We cover everyone and everything, so it’s not far-fetched to think I’ve heard of them.
Right?
My fingers raise to run over the pendant hidden under my turtleneck. That doesn’t stop thewhat iffrom looping in the back of my mind. For eleven years, they’ve never left my thoughts. But the fear of my true designation being discovered keeps me from looking for them.
It wouldn’t take them long to figure out what happened our last day together. My secret would be out and then everything I’ve built would crumble.
I stare at the list harder.
It has to be a coincidence. I never knew their last names. Back then, we were kids at summer camp, wrapped up in daily drills and flashlight tag, not worried about formalities.
Besides, I was the girl who vanished. They probably found someone new the second I left. That thought burns in my chest. At another girl getting to be with them, but what can I expect after a decade? I don’t own them.
Doug pulls into the lot behind the rink, breaking my spiral. “Let’s get set up fast.” He catches the tail end of my expression. “You good, Fran?”
I force a smile and hit the button to darken the screen of my tablet as I shove it in my bag at my feet. “Just hungry. I didn’t eat breakfast.”
It’s not a lie, but it’s not the truth, either.
He hops out of the van and goes to the back to grab the equipment. I wait until he can’t see me anduncap the ornate pill case my paternal grandmother gave me all those years ago. I take out one green tablet and dry-swallow the suppressant.
It hits my tongue, tasting like crushed pennies and bile. I gag but keep it down, willing my hands to stop shaking. This is the third pill in twelve hours, and my body knows it. The nausea is worse today, and the dizziness comes on quicker than it did when I was younger. One dose used to last a full day. Now I’m topping up just to stay covered through a morning.
I need it to work, especially being around dozens of Alphas for the foreseeable future, until we get enough content to fill a 90-minute documentary and wait for them to win or lose for the season.
I reach into my bag for the sleek black bottle labeled as perfume. A quick spray to my neck’s scent glands, another at my wrists. The synthetic neutralizer covers my natural scent, blocking all pheromones from being detected, just in case. I double-spray, just to be sure.
Outside the van, the wind howls. I step out, sling my bag over my shoulder, pull my coat tighter around my body, and make sure my ID badge is visible. My name:Francesca Darian, is printed at the top. Below it, my designation:Beta. It looks so official…
