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Which is probably stupid.
Because two seconds later, we’re both on the ice, pounding each other’s faces through our gloves.
Cassian hauls me back by my jersey and shoves me into the boards. I hear Gunnar laughing while my packmate mutters, “We won, Damon. For fuck’s sake.”
I let them tow me to the edge of the ice and pull me into the tunnel, then I tug my helmet off and swipe at my split lip.
Motherfucker.
Smith will be so mad if I have a black eye and that matching service thingy calls us in. If they ever call us in. The odds Cassian spat at both of us made the whole thing sound like a pipe dream.
Although, like I said: I’m extra lucky. In fact, this whole thing is very on-brand.
If anyone is going to find their soulmate from a cup of jizz, it’s me.
At this point, I’m not sure what’s scarier—the idea of actually finding our omega, or the implosion Smith will have if he can’t check this box off. He’s obsessed with that shit.
It started when he was seventeen and their parents had their accident. He thought organizing everything into a list was the best way for him to get his shit together and take care of Cassian.
It wasn’t that simple, obviously, but he never let the damn thing go. Even when the list changed and grew, forming sub-lists and sidenotes. Didn’t matter. He just worked harder, did more.
Once he got his degree, he expanded his company. Once the company expanded, we made more money, and he had to learn about using it. Once he had our accounts secured, he started in about property. That led to our new house and two years of renovations, none of which ever got finished.
Now he wants us to have an omega? For what? So he can add ten new lists for all the shit he or she will need?
Poor bastard’s just chasing his tail if you ask me.
I mean, no one did, but still.
It’s ironic. Smith’s been beating his head against the wall, trying to get Cass on board; if he was looking for an ally, he could have just asked me.
Most of the women gathered around the locker room entrance are betas, cloaked in scent sprays meant to mimic omega perfume. My dick perks up with a lazy sort of interest, and I almost roll my eyes.
Come on, Big D. You know this isn’t what we really want.
To be fair, I don’t know what we really want. I just know that every girl bouncing their titties at me looks the same, somehow.
None of them actually do… but… they do. You know?
Jesus. I need a shower.
Gunnar is more than happy to scoop up all my chips. He flashes them a grin and offers a cowboy’s gentlemanly nod. It matches his accent. “Evenin’ ladies.”
They eat that shit up. Which is fine by me. I got my shots in, and we won, so, you know, let the new kid eat cake. Or pussy. Whatever.
“Mathers!”
That would be Coach Rolly, ready to hand me my balls for that scuffle after the final buzzer. Which is fair. My eye is swelling up already. We’ll have to get ice on it to make sure I can still play in the game we have in two days.
If I can’t score for us, I’m basically useless. To the team and my pack.
It will be fine, though.
Like I said— I’m a lucky bastard.
chapter
six
