Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

"You’re making us late, Cap," Reid called out, already dressed in his deep blue jersey, the number 7 standing out in clean white.

​I had already dragged my tie off, rolling it up aggressively because he pissed me off but how was he already fully dressed?

I looked over at him, completely vexed by his casual arrogance. I picked up my own jersey and stared at my number 14, and the prominent ’C’ stitched onto it. The ’C’ felt incredibly heavy right now.

​"I would be perfectly on time if you stopped distracting me and kept your hands to yourself," I gritted out, keeping my voice low.

I turned my back to him, using the locker door as a shield while I quickly changed out of my suit and into my under-armor gear.

Every movement of the fabric made my body feel extremely sensitive. The nipples he had sucked, the places he had kissed and nibbled on, I could feel them all too well it was infuriating.

​I could feel Reid’s eyes tracking my back. It was far more infuriating how much space this demon took up in my head.

I pulled my blue jersey over my head, adjusting the collar carefully before grabbing my skates.

​"Let’s go," I said, my tone cool and collected. I didn’t wait for him, marching straight out of the locker room toward the auxiliary rink where the media team was waiting.

​"Right behind you, Evans," Reid chuckled, his heavy strides easily matching mine in the corridor.

​The studio setup on the ice was blindingly bright, surrounded by giant umbrella lights and cameras.

The marketing director, a woman in her late thirties, waved us over immediately. "Perfect timing, boys. We need the first-line promotional shots for the Vancouver rivalry. Shoulders squared, look intense."

​I mean, it’s hard for our shoulders not to look squared with the shoulder pads. I kept that thought to myself and stepped onto the ice, forcing my face into the calm, reliable captain persona I always showed the world.

​Then Reid slid into place right next to me.

​"Get a little closer," the photographer called out. "Shoulder to shoulder. Lean into each other. Show us that tight-knit synergy."

​Reid didn’t hesitate. He shifted his weight, his massive, sturdy shoulder locking tight against mine.

Even through the heavy layers of our padding, the contact was solid and entirely too close. The faint, clean scent of his pheromones cut right through the cold air, making my pulse hitch.

​"Like this, Cap?" Reid whispered, keeping his face perfectly fierce and serious for the camera, though his voice was pure mockery. "Is this enough synergy for you?"

​"Shut up and look at the lens," I muttered through my teeth. I’m not the one looking for more synergy, moron.

I stared straight ahead as the flash went off, capturing the perfect lie of our partnership.

"Hold it right there, don’t move," the photographer called out, lowering his camera for a split second to adjust a dial. "The lighting is hitting the numbers perfectly, but I need more intensity. McCoy, drop your hand onto Evans’ shoulder. Evans, lean into it. Look like you’ve got each other’s backs no matter what."

​I barely suppressed a groan.

Before I could even prepare myself for it, Reid’s heavy, gloved hand came down on my shoulder pad, his fingers gripping the edge with a firm pressure.

He pulled me slightly closer, forcing my side completely against his torso.

​Even with the thick layers of padding separating us, the heat radiating off him felt like a direct assault on my senses. The subtle scent of his pheromones bloomed in the cold air, thick enough that my inner Omega began to stir again, desperate to lean into the comfort of his strength.

I forced my posture to stiffen, fighting the natural instinct to yield.

​"Perfect! Just like that," the director chirped from behind the monitor, completely oblivious to the war happening under my jersey. "The contrast between you two is great. It looks completely natural."

​Natural. If only they knew.

​To the rest of the world, I was just a Beta captain mentoring a hot-headed rookie Alpha. Two guys sharing close quarters on a promotional poster wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow.

In fact, management actively encouraged this kind of media strategy. It gave the fans exactly what they wanted—fueling the endless ship edits and rumors on social media, keeping the Seattle Serpents trending before the puck even dropped against Vancouver.

​"You’re very stiff, Cap," Reid murmured, his face remaining completely frozen in a dark, brooding stare for the lens. His thumb gave a subtle, deliberate squeeze against the back of my neck, right over the edge of the hidden blister patch. "The photographer said to lean in. Don’t be shy."

​"I am leaning," I hissed back, keeping my eyes locked on the camera, my jaw clenched so hard it ached. "Get your hand off my neck."

​"Just building that team chemistry," he whispered back, a faint, dark chuckle vibrating through his chest against my arm.

He was loving every single second of my discomfort, entirely aware of how much power he held in this bright, public space.

​"Alright, give me one more where you’re both looking slightly toward each other, like you’re sharing a tactical look," the photographer ordered, gesturing with his hand. "On three. One, two..."

​I turned my head slightly, my eyes clashing with Reid’s smoky grey gaze. Up close, the fierce intensity he was putting on for the camera felt entirely too real, completely predatory.

He looked down at me with a lazy, arrogant confidence that sent a nervous shiver straight down my spine, his hand tightening on my shoulder as if reminding me exactly who I belonged to behind closed doors.

​The flash went off again, blinding us for a fraction of a second.

​"Fantastic! We got it, boys," the director clapped, turning to review the digital shots on the screen. "That’s going to look incredible on the stadium jumbotron tonight."

Wait, what? That pic just now? No way.