Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

As the evening drew near, the skies outside got dark, and the stadium was packed.

The blue and white jerseys of a few thousand roaring fans filled the stands, creating a deafening wall of noise that vibrated through the arena’s concrete floor.

And just as the director had predicted, the fans were eating up the Jumbotron like it was a piece of eye candy.

​Every time the promotional banner flashed onto the massive screens above center ice, a collective wave of excited chatter and high-pitched cheers echoed through the bowl.

The raw, heavy intensity captured between Reid and me was blown up for the entire stadium to see, fueling exactly the kind of speculation management wanted. To them, it was perfect marketing; to me, it was a giant, high-definition reminder of the snare I was trying to escape.

​Down in the tunnel, the air was thick with the scent of ice, rubber, and the collective nervous energy of the team.

I stood at the front of the line, tapping the tape of my stick against the concrete floor to keep my focus entirely locked in.

Behind me, Russo, Miller, Gerald, and the rest of the boys were bouncing on their skates, eager to finally get out there and hit someone.

​"Alright, bring it in!" Coach Devin barked, his voice easily cutting through the pre-game music blasting from the arena speakers.

He stood at the mouth of the tunnel, holding his clipboard, his face dead serious. "Vancouver is going to try to play a heavy, physical game tonight to slow us down. They think we’re soft after being up in the mountains for three days. First line—Evans, McCoy, Russo—you set the tone from the very first whistle. Show them whose barn this is!"

​"We got this, Coach," Russo called out, slamming his heavy gloves together.

​"Don’t just talk about it, back it up," Coach Devin warned, giving me a solid nod. "Lead the way, Cap."

​"Let’s go, boys," I commanded, my voice deep and steady, completely stepping into my role.

​The heavy arena gates swung open, and the crowd’s roar hit us like a physical force. Yes, this was it. This aggressive energy is what I’ve lived for for the past ten years. And being at the start up, the very core of the team was a dream I would never trade for anything.

This was why I could drop my head, drop to my knees, and beg that stuck-up bastard.

I skated out onto the ice first, the bright stadium lights reflecting off the fresh, pristine sheet of blue and white.

As I circled our half of the ice for the final warm-up laps, I purposely kept my eyes down, refusing to look up at the giant screen or back toward the left wing where Reid was gliding with his usual effortless grace.

​The heavy arena doors on the opposite side rattled open, and the Vancouver squad glided out onto the ice.

They looked like an absolute menace, clad in their away-white jerseys with bold red lettering. They immediately began skating in tight, aggressive circles, roaring like animals to psych themselves up, their skating boots throwing up heavy sprays of ice.

A few of them lined up at the center red line, staring us down, their eyes burning with a hostile intensity through the transparent plastic visors of their helmets.

​Before the warm-up clock could even tick down, their captain, a towering, heavy-set Alpha named Ballard, skated right up to the red line, stopping directly in front of me.

​"Hey, Evans," Ballard sneered, his voice cutting through the arena’s ambient noise, dripping with thick, deliberate malice. "Weak Beta. You belong on the benches where the crowd is watching, not out here. We’re going to run you over tonight."

​He kept going, spitting out a barrage of dirty trash talk, his heavy, bitter pheromones practically drifting across the line to assert dominance.

​Right next to me, Russo’s face went completely red. He lunged forward, his knuckles tightening around his stick, looking ready to smash the guy’s visor right into his face. "What the fuck did you just say to him?"

​Before Russo could cross the line, a heavy stick slid in front of his chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. It was Reid.

​Reid didn’t even look at Ballard. He just kept his smoky grey eyes fixed on the ice, a lazy, unbothered smirk pulling at his lips. "Easy, Russo. Let the man talk. Look who’s about to lose to a ’weak Beta’ anyway."

I didn’t think Reid would be the sensible one in this situation, but as much as he looks down on me for being weak—especially now knowing I was an Omega this whole time—he knows exactly how capable I was.

And he was by far, not going to let anyone aside from himself call me weak.

​I took a deep breath and pulled Russo back by his jersey, my expression entirely frozen in stone.

I didn’t let a single word of Ballard’s provocation register on my face.

There was a reason being a Beta captain had its distinct advantages. If I were a hot-headed Alpha who took every piece of trash talk as a personal challenge to my pride, I’d be getting into brawls before the game even started, picking up major penalties, and costing my team the match.

My lack of volatile Alpha instincts allowed me to stay perfectly cold, calculated, and in complete control of my bench.

​"Save it for the puck drop, Russo," I ordered, my voice deep, steady, and commanding. "Ignore them."

​Ballard let out a mocking laugh, skating back to his squad, but the trap had failed. We weren’t rattled.

​When the buzzer sounded to signal the end of warm-ups, we lined up at our bench for the starting puck drop.

​"Evans, McCoy, Russo, get out there," Coach Devin ordered from the bench, giving my shoulder pad a firm tap.

​I skated out to the center ice circle, my heart hammering against my ribs, though my face remained an unreadable mask of stone.

I dropped low into my faceoff stance over the red line, gripping my stick with white-knuckled intensity. Across from me, Ballard hunched down, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the referee’s hand, ready to test me.

I knew he was going to go after me first, to knock me out with his size, but I wasn’t going to fall for it. I had played this game long enough not to get caught up in a flimsy trap.

​To my left, the heavy, familiar weight of Reid’s presence settled into the wing. Even through the cold air of the arena, the subtle, clean scent of his pheromones drifted past my visor.

He didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead, but the sheer confidence radiating off his broad frame was impossible to ignore.

​The linesman stepped up to the dot, holding the black rubber puck over the ice. The entire stadium went dead silent for a fraction of a second, the tension stretched taut like a wire.

​Focus on the puck, Kain. Nothing else matters.

​The referee’s hand twitched, the puck dropped, and so went the whistle.