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I already knew that. But hearing a stranger say it out loud? Fuck.
My throat works over a swallow while I stare down at the slip. There’s a tiny tear, just beside one of the thin straps. One Remi has repaired with the tiniest pink-thread heart.
She isn’t a person who throws things away when they break.
And I’m not a person who gives up.
chapter
forty-five
The Pierson pack’s box is way too big without Meg and her alphas crammed into it.
They’re at home this week, prepping for her next heat. I talked to her this morning, and she seemed excited more than anything. I listened to her babble happily and wondered whether I would ever feel the same way.
Right now, the thought of my next heat makes me feel… well, hot. Burning with embarrassment and buzzing with apprehension. But also distinctly warm between my thighs.
It’s odd, living in a house with three alphas—men who are supposed to be mine—but still not knowing what my heat will look like. Will they all want to be a part of it? What if it happens while they have games scheduled? What if I end up alone with Smith?
Why does that make me feel warmer?
Nope.
Not going there. Especially while I’m alone, about to watch two of my alphas play the most violent sport I’ve ever seen.
I’m already on edge as it is. Cassian was taciturn all day. Much grumpier than usual. Although, he didn’t really treat me any differently. He just seemed to be seething about something.
I see that same intensity out on the ice already. Once his stretches are done, he skates impatient half-circles around the goal. It’s like pacing on ice. Every few minutes, he turns his head to look up at my box, and I try for a reassuring smile while I wave.
Could he really just be worried about me up here alone?
I don’t have much time to contemplate it before the lights go down, plunging the arena into darkness. The Jumbotron lights up, announcing the players. Flashing their faces beside their names and jersey numbers.
If Meg were here, she’d probably suggest we play Smash or Pass.
Tittering to myself, I open Snapchat and send her a clip of the introductions, along with a note suggesting she make this into some sort of game for the Osprey’s followers next season. She writes back right away, sending a screenshot of one particular player from the video, along with one word: Smash.
It’s Gunnar Sinclair, the guy the press keeps insisting will replace Damon. And, yes, he is, objectively smashable. All dark hair and mysterious eyes that make Damon’s look docile.
Not surprisingly, my Omega practically foams at the mouth as Damon is announced, his unfairly handsome face lighting up the screen as hundreds of fans scream for him. It doesn’t escape me that half of those screams sound more like moans.
I might be bothered if my alpha didn’t skate onto the ice and immediately spin to find me, pointing his stick up to our box with a wide, luminous grin.
Cassian is always the last name announced, as is customary with goalies. He lumbers out in all of his pads, cutting a no-nonsense path right to the goal.
Damon must notice he’s off, too, because I catch him whipping his head over to watch Cass get settled. They shout something to each other over the bass pounding through the stadium’s speakers. D’s shoulders bounce up in a shrug, and I take that to mean he isn’t too worried.
Now if only my Omega would get the memo. I feel like there’s a hamster wheel in my chest, spinning faster and faster.
My anxiety seems unfounded. The lights come up, the puck hits the ice, and they’re off. I watch as the opposing team works Damon into the boards again and again. He still manages to score, which is good because Cassian is definitely not himself.
By the middle of the second period, I am distinctly stressed. Damon is fighting for his life out there, dodging several players at once. With the defenders spread thin, trying to assist the offense and guard the goal, Cassian is on high alert.
He’s blocked upward of twenty shots, but three have snuck through. Damon scored once and Gunnar has another goal, bringing the score to 2-3.
I’m on the edge of my seat, biting my lip hard enough to blanch it, when the door to the box flies open. I jump, whirling around to find?—
Smith.
