Jones follows my lead perfectly, finding open ice just as I slide the puck his way. His shot is quick, but gets denied by the Raptors’ goalie with a glove save that sends the crowd into groans.
“Nice try!” I pat Jones’ helmet as we reset.
The game intensifies as the clock ticks down. Five minutes left, still tied. Every shift matters, every decision crucial. I can feel the familiar burn building in my legs, the sweet agony of pushing past exhaustion. This is when betas like me prove our worth, when the flashy alpha plays lose their luster, and grinding determination becomes the difference.
I’ve spent my career living in that difference.
Three minutes left. The Raptors gain the zone, cycling the puck like hungry jackals. I position myself in the shooting lane, dropping to one knee as their defender winds up from the point. The puck hits me square in the shin pad, a burst of pain that Iwelcome. Better me than Aidan having to make a save through traffic.
“Good block, Brick!” Coach yells from the bench.
I push to my feet, clearing the rebound toward the neutral zone where Dmitri picks it up. The Wolf accelerates, powerful strides eating up ice as he leads a counter-attack. I follow, jumping into the rush despite my legs screaming in protest.
This is our chance. Raptors caught in a change, scrambling to recover.
Dmitri crosses the blue line, drawing both defenders before sliding a perfect pass to Zayn on the wing. Even I have to admire the beauty of what happens next. Zayn’s hands are liquid magic as he dekes the goalie, pulling the puck to his backhand and lifting it into the top corner.
3-2 Grizzlies.
The arena explodes, and I find myself embracing Zayn in the celebration pile, our rivalry temporarily forgotten in the rush of taking the lead. His face is flushed with triumph, those perfect teeth flashing in a grin thatalmostmakes me forget what an annoying shit he can be.
“Nice finish,” I admit, helmet knocking against his.
“Nice start,” he counters, nodding to Dmitri who made the play happen.
The Wolf acknowledges us with his typical stoicism, pale blue eyes giving nothing away beneath his visor. He might be the most alpha of all of us, not in the peacocking way like Zayn, but in the quiet certainty of his dominance. Nobody fucks with Dmitri, on our team or any other. His presence on the ice changes the entire dynamic of a game.
“Lock it down now,” Jax calls as we skate back for the faceoff. “Two minutes to go.”
The energy shifts immediately. Defense mode activated. I can feel my focus narrowing, blocking out the crowd noise, thescoreboard, everything but the task at hand. This is where I thrive, in the desperate minutes when the other team throws everything they have at us.
My next shift is a blur of blocked shots and cleared rebounds. Every muscle strains as we weather the storm of the Raptors’ six-man attack, their goalie pulled for an extra attacker. Sweat stings my eyes again, but I don’t dare wipe my visor. Can’t take my hand off my stick for even a second.
Fifty seconds left. The puck ricochets off the boards behind our net. I battle for position with the other team’s hulking forward, making use of my lower center of gravity to hold my ground. We’re at war, stick against stick, when I feel it… the slight give in his stance. He’s trying to spin off me, to create space for a centering pass.
Not happening.
I lean into him harder, pinning him against the boards, using every ounce of strength I’ve built through countless hours in the weight room. This is what separates me from the alphas. The willingness to do the unglamorous work, to sacrifice my body on the altar of winning.
“Get off me, beta bitch,” he grunts, loud enough for only me to hear.
The slur ignites something primitive in my chest. I drive my shoulder higher, compressing him against the glass. “Make me, dickwad.”
The whistle blows, faceoff coming. We disengage, but not before he “accidentally” clips me with his elbow. Officials miss it. Typical.
“You okay?” Jax asks as we line up for the faceoff.
I nod, tightening my grip on my stick. “Just another Tuesday in Alphaland, boss.”
The truth is, I’ve heard worse. Much worse. The beta comments started the day I entered the league and neverstopped. The league doesn’t know what to do with betas like me, players who don’t fit neatly into their alpha-glorifying narrative.
So I built myself into someone they couldn’t ignore. When they said I was too slow, I trained until my legs could outpace most forwards. When they said I wasn’t tough enough, I became the guy no one wants to meet in the corners. When they questioned my place among the alpha stars, I earned it with blood and broken bones.
The faceoff. Jax wins it clean, and Dmitri clears the puck down the ice. Twenty seconds left.
The Raptors retrieve, mounting one final desperate rush. Their forwards fly through the neutral zone, a coordinated attack designed to overwhelm. I backpedal, angling to force the puck carrier wide. He cuts inside instead, a move I didn’t anticipate.
I pivot to recover, but my edge catches a rut in the ice, a momentary loss of balance that’s all the opening he needs. He’s past me, driving toward the net with speed. Aidan squares up, but he’s alone against a skilled forward with momentum.
