Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

The sharp blast of the linesman’s whistle tore through the suffocating silence of the arena, and the game exploded into life.

Ballard immediately threw his massive weight forward, his stick slashing down like an axe to hack mine out of the way.

He was trying to muscle me off the dot by sheer Alpha brute force, exactly the flimsy trap I expected. Instead of fighting his weight, I gave a split-second give, letting his stick overcommit to the right.

With a sharp flick of my wrists, I jammed the blade of my stick under his, lifting it cleanly off the ice, and swept the puck backward between my legs.

"Russo, back boards!" I roared, already moving.

"Got it, Cap!" Russo snapped, collecting the loose rubber and immediately firing a hard, ringing bank-pass off the right boards to clear our zone.

The play moved at a breakneck, terrifying speed, a blurred collision of blue, white, and red jerseys.

I burst up center ice, my legs pumping with an unnatural, terrifyingly fresh power. My muscles didn’t ache; the heavy lethargy that had threatened to drown me just days ago in the mountains was completely gone. I felt light. Lethal.

It was the undeniable work of Reid’s pheromones in my system, a frustrating truth I didn’t have time to dwell on.

As I crossed the Vancouver blue line, Ballard came barreling down from my blind side, his eyes locked onto my numbers. He wanted to skate right through me, to prove his trash talk right in front of thousands of fans.

I checked my shoulder, cutting sharply toward the middle to draw his momentum, and then deftly chipped the puck high off the glass into the far left corner. I took the hit willingly, letting his heavy shoulder slam into mine, using the impact to absorb the shock and spin off him while he went crashing uselessly into the boards.

"McCoy, hunt it!" I barked, regaining my balance in a heartbeat.

Reid was already a bullet of blue and white. He didn’t even need the prompt. His long, sturdy strides ate up the ice as he closed in on the Vancouver defenseman trying to retrieve my dump-in.

The violent cracking sound of Reid slamming the man into the plexiglass rattled the boards and sent a thunderous roar through the crowd.

With absolute, careless dominance, Reid pinned the defenseman with a heavy forearm, using his skate to kick the puck out of the scrum and protect it behind the net.

I drifted into the high slot, positioning myself perfectly between the circles. The Vancouver defense was scrambling, entirely disorganized by Reid’s physical assault in the corner.

From behind the net, Reid turned. His smoky grey eyes locked right onto me through the tangle of sticks.

It was completely instinctual—the exact same unyielding chemistry we had shown in the lodge arena. Without a single look at his own stick, he fired a crisp, blind pass directly through the legs of the recovering defenseman.

The puck glided smoothly, perfectly flat, right onto the tape of my stick.

I didn’t waste a millisecond. I caught it on my forehand, shifted my weight to my back foot to deceive the goaltender, and released a vicious, snapping wrist shot toward the top shelf.

The Vancouver goalie flinched, his glove arm shooting out, but it was far too late.

PING.

The puck slammed violently off the inside of the iron post and buried itself into the back of the twine.

The red goal horn went off—a deafening, piercing wail that tore the roof off the stadium.

The red and white strobe lights flashed blindingly, and the jumbotron instantly flared with a massive graphic of my face alongside the numbers 1-0. We had scored just forty-two seconds into the first period.

"Yeah! That’s it, Cap!" Russo screamed, charging toward me and throwing his arms around my neck.

Miller, Gerald, and the rest of the line rushed the ice, mobbing us against the glass as the crowd chanted my name.

Through the chaos of gloves and congratulatory shoves, a heavy, solid arm slung tightly over my shoulder pad, pulling my torso firmly against a broad chest.

Reid leaned into the group hug, his helmet visor pressing right against mine, his clean, heavy scent of frozen pine cutting straight through the stale arena air.

The stadium was screaming, but his low, arrogant murmur was perfectly clear against my ear.

"Incredible vision, Evans," Reid whispered, his gloved fingers giving a hard, deliberate squeeze to the back of my neck, right over the hidden blister patch. "See? I told you we work well together."

Yeah, he might be a dick, a pervert, a demon and an asshole, but his play is no joke. He connects well with me when we’re on the ice and can read where I want to pass before I even spot an opening.

Some super rookie, alright. No wonder he’s so smug.

I hit my stick on the ice.

"It’s not over yet, boys. Eyes on the prize." I announced and locked eyes on Ballard. It seemed like he was out for blood now. I had to be careful if not he’d stomp me out before we could score more goals.

Ballard’s face was practically purple under his cage as the teams skated back to center ice for the next faceoff.

The bitter, woodsy smell of his cedar pheromones was spiking wildly, thick enough to make even the nearby linesman wrinkle his nose.

He wasn’t just embarrassed; he was completely humiliated in front of thousands of people by the ’weak Beta’ he’d promised to skate right through.

​"You got lucky, Evans," Ballard hissed, his boots tearing up a vicious spray of ice as he aggressively slammed his blades down at the center dot. "Forty seconds doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’m going to take you apart on the next shift."

​"Less talking, more playing, Ballard," I responded smoothly, my tone a flat, unbothered shield.

I dropped back down into my stance, keeping my center of gravity low and my eyes fixed entirely on the official’s hand.

​Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Reid glide back into his position on my left wing. He didn’t say a word to Ballard this time, but he deliberately tapped the blade of his stick against the ice—a heavy clack-clack that felt less like a warm-up and more like a warning to the entire Vancouver bench.

​The puck dropped for the second time.

​Predictably, Ballard didn’t even try to make a clean play for the rubber. The moment the linesman’s hand moved, Ballard threw his massive torso straight into my chest, a heavy, illegal interference attempt meant to completely flatten me before the play could develop.

​But I was already anticipating it. I absorbed the heavy impact with my shoulder pads, digging the edges of my skates into the ice to anchor myself, but the sheer force of his Alpha weight still rattled my ribs, sending a sharp throb through the bruised skin beneath my jersey.

​"Puck’s loose!" Gerald yelled from the blue line.

​Before Ballard could capitalize on his hit and pin me against the ice, a blue and white jersey flashed between us like a freight train.