Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

​"I was here first, Reid," I said, my voice calm and practiced. I met his smoky grey eyes, refusing to flinch. "And as Captain, I’m telling you to take the links and leave the patty for someone who actually knows how to follow a rotation."

​Reid didn’t budge. He stepped closer, leaning into my space until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He looked down at the sausage, then back at me with a slow, snobbish smirk that made my blood boil, but my Omega swooned at the oppressive energy.

"You’re the ’Understanding Captain,’ right?" Reid mocked, his voice low enough that the guys behind us couldn’t catch the bite in his tone. "The one who always puts the team first? Well, I’m twenty-one, I’m still growing, and I just burned three thousand calories out-skating you in that neutral zone drill. Seems to me like the ’understanding’ thing to do would be to let the future of this team have his breakfast."

​"Well, the future of this team needs to learn how to respect the hierarchy," I gritted out, my fingers tightening on my tray.

Reid let out a short laugh. He didn’t look back down at the food; he kept his eyes locked on mine, challenging me.

"Hierarchy? Is that what we’re calling it now? You’re so obsessed with your little rules, Evans. It’s almost like you’re afraid that if you stop being ’The Boss’ for one second, we’ll all see how little substance there actually is under that jersey."

​He didn’t wait for my response. With a sudden, sturdy flick of his wrist, he snagged the sausage and dropped it onto his plate, the metal tongs clattering loudly against the tray.

"You...!"

"Thanks for being so... understanding," he whispered, the word dripping with a sarcasm that felt like a slap.

He straddled like a penguin, off toward the rookie table, leaving me standing there with an empty tray and a simmering, cold fury in my chest.

I wanted that sausage.

Russo clapped me on the back as he passed, oblivious to the war that had just been waged over a piece of meat.

"Don’t let the kid get to you, Cap!" Russo laughed. "He’s a brat, but he’s our brat."

​I forced a smile, my heart thudding a bit too fast. And the reason it was beating so fast? Well, that’s because the sheer, exhausting weight of Reid McCoy was just too much for my blood pressure and inner Omega to handle at once.

He was pushing every button I had, trying to find the crack in my ’perfect’ armor. I looked over at him, watching him laugh with the other two rookies, the undisputed king of his little circle.

He was arrogant, snobby, and completely convinced he was untouchable. Fine, I thought, grabbing a miserable-looking scoop of eggs. Let him think he won this round. But there will be no next time.

Yeah, there definitely wouldn’t be a next time, because what was going to come next was something I never expected.

​Personal reflection time was supposed to be a quiet hour of journaling or stretching, but with nineteen Alpha hockey players cooped up in a mountain lodge, it usually devolved into a chaotic mess of card games and chirping.

I didn’t join them, though.

I was sitting in one of the oversized leather armchairs near the fireplace, trying to look ’approachable yet occupied’ with a tactical playbook. I needed to show the guys I was locked in for the season, even if my pulse was still erratic from the morning’s hits.

"Hey, Cap, you got a second?" Miller called out from the center of the rug, where he, Russo, and a few others were sprawled out over a deck of cards. "We’re debating the penalty on that last drill. Russo says it was a clean check, I say you were targeted."

​"It was a drill, Miller," I said, not looking up. "The only thing targeted was the puck."

​"See? Boring!" a familiar, snobbish voice cut through the room.

Reid was lying on the sofa directly opposite me, his long, sturdy legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He wasn’t playing cards. He wasn’t reflecting. He was slowly peeling an orange, his grey eyes fixed entirely on me.

"Our Captain is too ’understanding’ to admit when someone gets under his skin," Reid continued, tossing a piece of orange zest toward the fireplace. It missed, landing on the toe of my boot, but I didn’t react. "He’s like a statue. No temper, no scent, no personality. Just... directives."

​Russo snickered. "Careful, McCoy. He’ll make you do suicide laps until you puke."

​"He won’t," Reid said, his voice dropping into that confident, arrogant tone.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, deliberately encroaching on the quiet space I’d tried to build.

"He’s too busy being the ’Perfect Beta’ to actually get angry. Right, Evans? You wouldn’t want to ruin that pristine reputation by showing a little bit of teeth."

He was mocking me, trying to get a rise out of me. But even while he kicked me with that smirk on his lips, he looked... hot.

Why did he have to be blessed with looks, talent, and a bad personality? Well, I guess the heavens are fair to some extent.

​I finally looked up.

"Well, if you’re bored, Reid, there’s a woodpile outside that needs stacking. It might actually give you some of the muscle mass you’re currently lacking. While you’re at it, you’ll be doing all of us a favor and shutting your mouth."

A chorus of "Ohhh!" went up from the card players.

Reid’s eyes sparked—not with anger, but with that terrifyingly bright competitive light. He stood up, walking over to my chair. He didn’t stop until his knees were inches from mine, forcing me to tilt my head back to keep eye contact.

What was this habit he had picked up recently? Always trying to show he was taller. Always trying to show he was more fit. Always trying to look at me from above while I tilted my head back to look at him from below.

Did it feed his ego? It definitely did.

And did it diminish mine? Not one bit.