“Cut him off!” Jax’s voice, our captain, commanding from somewhere behind me.
I don’t need the instruction. I’m already moving to intercept, positioning myself between the Raptors’ forward and our rookie goalie. The kid’s talented but green as summer grass.
The Raptors forward feints left. I don’t bite. He shifts right, and I’m already there, seven years of training giving my body the freedom to move without thinking. He tries to thread the needle between my legs and?—
CRACK
My shoulder connects with his chest, the impact jarring through my bones. The puck skitters away as the forward goes sprawling, and the crowd erupts. I hear the telltale banging on the glass, fans hammering their approval as I straighten up, satisfaction warming my chest despite the sweat freezing against my back.
“That’s how it’s done,” I mutter, knowing Zayn can hear me as he skates past.
His near-black eyes narrow behind his visor. “Could’ve played the puck instead of the man, Malloy.”
“Could’ve passed when you had the chance, Copeland,” I shoot back, skating toward the bench for a line change. Coach Mitchell gives me an approving nod as I swing over the boards, dropping onto the bench beside Dmitri.
The “Wolf” grunts what passes for acknowledgment from him, his massive shoulders taking up space meant for two men. White platinum hair and eyes the color of an angry glacier, he barely speaks during games, saving his energy for the momentswhen we need his particular brand of enforcement. And yet, he manages to be more intimidating with a single look than most players are with a body check.
I yank my water bottle from the holder, squirting a stream through my mask’s cage. Sweat stings my eyes as I scan the ice, watching our second line take the faceoff.
“Good hit,” Jax says, sliding onto the bench beside me. Our captain always makes time for the little gestures, the acknowledgments that keep a team together. It’s why nobody questioned when management gave him the C three years ago. At six-six and built like a solid wall of muscle nearly as imposing as Dmitri, he certainly looks the part. But there’s a surprising gentleness in his gray eyes that tempers his more aggressive instincts and makes him solid, both as a team captain and our pack leader.
“Thanks.” I keep my response short, eyes tracking the puck. “Zayn needs to pull his head out of his ass. He had three passing lanes.”
Jax gives me a sidelong look. “He’ll adjust. First game back from injury.”
“Injury, my ass. That ‘pulled groin’ was so he could spend a week with whatever model he’s banging this month.” I know I sound bitter. Don’t care.
The truth is, Zayn Copeland irritates the shit out of me in ways I can’t even fully explain. Maybe it’s his perfectly styled black undercut that somehow looks good even after he removes his helmet. Maybe it’s how he moves on the ice like he’s dancing instead of battling. Or maybe it’s just that everything comes so damn easy to an alpha like him, while I’ve had to claw and scrape for every minute of ice time in my career.
Coach barks out the next line change. I stand, rolling my shoulders, feeling the coil in my muscles. As I step over the boards, my eyes catch on a sign in the crowd held by a littlekid, maybe eight years old, with a carefully drawn picture of me. My number 47 is prominent, and the kid’s captured my broad shoulders and the way I hunch slightly forward when I skate. Pretty sure those blue dots and brown scribbles behind my cage are supposed to be my eyes and hair. There’s even a crude rendering of my mythology-themed arm tattoos peeking out from the jersey sleeves, even if it looks more like spaghetti than the kraken on my right bicep.
Not bad, kid. Pretty close, actually.
I make a point to wave in his direction as I glide onto the ice. The image sticks with me as I position myself for the faceoff. That’s how they see me, solid, immovable.
The Brick.
Six-foot-four, two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle built through relentless training. Tattoos that started as one modest band around my bicep at eighteen and now cover both arms in a roadmap of my career, a new addition after every significant milestone.
I’ve earned my place here, beta or not.
The referee drops the puck, and everything else falls away.
Hockey is beautiful in its simplicity. Control the puck, put it in their net, keep it out of yours. The complexity comes in the execution, in the split-second decisions, in knowing your teammates well enough to anticipate their movements.
Which is why it’s so fucking annoying when Zayn cuts across my path again, disrupting the play I’d set up with Jax.
“Stay in your lane, Copeland!” I bark as we reset.
He smirks, skating backward with that effortless grace that makes me want to check him into next week. “Maybe you should keep up, old man.”
The “old man” comment hits a nerve. At twenty-seven, I’m only a year older than him and he knows it, but my body feels ancient some mornings. The toll of being a defensive workhorse,of absorbing hits meant for our scorers, accumulates in ways the fans never see. The ice baths. The cortisone shots. The mornings I have to roll out of bed because my back won’t let me sit up straight.
Then there’s the fact that I don’t have those alpha benefits. Faster muscle regeneration, lightning reflexes. Life on easy mode, at least when it comes to pro athletics.
I push the thought aside as the puck comes my way. A clean pass from Jax, threaded through traffic with the accuracy that’s made him an All-Star. I control it, looking for options, spotting our new left defenseman at the far post signaling for the drop pass.
“Jones, cut right!” I call, feinting toward the boards to draw the defender next to me. Jones doesn’t belong to the pack, but he’s damn good at his job and unlike Zayn, he doesn’t let his alpha ego take point.
