Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

While Russo and the others were tapping, Reid being Reid and making all sorts of remarks about how he was going to smash the other team once he got on the ice, I was focused on putting my food down and forcing it to stay down.

Luckily, no one was paying attention to me, being considerate and all.

But as soon as I was done with my food, I bolted.

I didn’t wait for the plates to be cleared or for Russo to finish his story about some goalie in the minors. I stood up, muttered something about needing to check my skates, and bolted.

I could feel Reid’s eyes on my back—heavy and knowing—but I didn’t turn around. I hurried back to the cabin, the frozen gravel crunching under my boots, and grabbed my gear with trembling hands.

My skin felt like it was crawling, the heat sitting right under the surface, waiting for a chance to break me. But I didn’t want to wait in that room for Reid to come back and force me on my knees again.

I headed for the rink.

The outdoor ice was just there, quiet, the kind of silence that rings in your ears, broken only by the distant moan of the wind through the pines.

I stepped onto the ice, the familiar bite of the blades digging in, and took a long, deep breath of the sub-zero air. It stung my throat, sharp and dry, but I needed that sting. I needed the cold to numb the thrumming at the base of my spine.

But how good would that do?

I didn’t ponder on it for long and began to skate. Fast.

I did laps until my lungs burned and my legs felt like they were made of stone. I pulled a puck from the bag and started firing them at the empty net. Crack. Thud.

The sound of the puck hitting the boards was the only thing keeping me anchored. I was sweating despite the cold, my white, misty breath coming in ragged hitches. I wanted the ice to soak into my bones and freeze the orchid scent out of my blood.

I wanted to act like the heat was never there, never threatening.

So, I continued doing the one thing I loved in the silence that felt like time around me had stopped.

That’s it. I thought. No noise, no criticism, and especially no Reid.

Omegas were never allowed to do sports. Well, the only sports they were allowed to do were the ones that required their delicate features.

Maybe figure skating, ballet, pole dancing... if that can even be considered a sport. It doesn’t.

I was born an Omega. I was born fragile and weak, but not once had I ever craved the fragile things that Omega’s do.

Ever since I was little, I loved to watch rugby. I loved to watch football. I loved to watch lacrosse. And most especially, I loved to watch ice hockey.

Violent games where men throw themselves at each other. There’s a reason why Omegas weren’t allowed to join these sports. It was too physical. But just the physicality wasn’t the issue.

What would the team do if an Omega suddenly went into heat before a game and influenced the hormones of the remaining players?

It’s the unpredictability that bans Omegas.

And right now, I’m facing that unpredictability. I’m just glad it didn’t happen before a game.

I just... want to play hockey.

I was lining up for a slap shot, my muscles coiled and tight, when the gate clicked.

The sound was small, but it felt like a gunshot. I didn’t have to look to know who it was. The air shifted, the crisp smell of the winter night suddenly drowned out by that sharp, aggressive frozen pine.

My body reacted before my brain did—my knees went weak, and the puck skittered away, forgotten.

Reid skated toward me. He wasn’t in his pads, just his skates and a heavy team hoodie that made his shoulders look twice as wide. He moved with a casual, sturdy grace, his blades spraying a fine mist of ice as he stopped just a few feet away.

"Why are you following me, Reid?" I rasped. The cold hadn’t worked. If anything, the freezing air made the heat radiating off him feel like a furnace. "We had a deal, remember?"

Reid didn’t answer right away. He looked at the scattered pucks, then back at me, a slow, snobbish smirk pulling at his mouth. He looked entirely too comfortable, too in control.

"Following you?" He snorted, the sound dry and mocking. He reached out with his stick, deftly hooking a puck and pulling it toward him. "Is that what you think, Captain? That I’m tracking your every move through the snow?"

He flipped the puck up, catching it on the blade of his stick and beginning to juggle it with an effortless, flexed power that made my stomach flip.

"Maybe I just wanted to get some extra reps in," he said, flicking the puck into the top corner of the net without even looking. He turned back to me, his grey eyes dark and focused. "You don’t own the rink, do you? I’m just here to shoot pucks. If the ’Understanding Captain’ is too distracted to share the ice, that sounds like a you-problem."

"Go back to the lodge," I gritted out. My knuckles were white where I gripped my stick. "I need to be alone."

"You look like you’re about to collapse, though," Reid murmured, skating a step closer. The smell of him was everywhere now, thick and suffocating. He leaned in, his voice dropping below the hum of the lights. "The ice isn’t going to put out that fire. I can see your pulse from here."

I stood there, my chest heaving, the cold air doing nothing to stop the way my skin was beginning to itch with a desperate, familiar need.

Reid didn’t back off. Instead, he skated another inch into my space, the serrated edge of his blade digging into the ice with a sharp crunch.

He reached out, not with his hand, but with the toe of his stick, hooking it behind my skate and pulling just enough to force me to stumble forward, right into his chest.

The impact was solid. He was like a wall of unyielding muscle, and the heat coming off him felt like a physical assault against the sub-zero night.

I gasped, my hands flying up to catch myself against his sturdy shoulders, and for a split second, my inner Omega absolutely roared with approval.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, my voice cracking as I tried to shove him back. "We’re outside, Reid. Anyone could walk out here."