Beg Me Like You Mean It, Captain

​"Is that a challenge?" he murmured. But before I could respond, he reached out—not to hit me, but to pluck the pen right out of my hand.

​"Give it back," I gritted out, my heart doing a traitorous skip that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the sudden, overwhelming scent of frozen pine that accompanied his proximity as he tried to be overbearing.

​"Come and get it," he challenged, holding the pen just out of my reach. He was being a brat, testing the leash to see how far it would stretch before the Captain snapped.

​"Reid, I’m not playing."

​"I am." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping so only I could hear it over the locker-room banter of the others. "You’re so wound up, Evans. Your knuckles are white, your pulse is jumping in your neck... and for what? A plastic pen? Or is it because I’m the only one in this room who isn’t afraid of you?"

I was annoyed at him and myself for putting up with this childish behavior.

And then, he dropped the pen—not into my hand, but onto my lap, his fingers lingering against my thigh for a fraction of a second too long.

It was a sturdy, deliberate touch that sent a jolt of pure irritation (and something far more dangerous) straight to my brain.

​"Enjoy your ’reflection,’ Captain," he smirked, turning on his heel to head back to the sofa.

​Russo shook his head, grinning at me. "Man, he really knows how to push your buttons, doesn’t he? It’s like he’s obsessed with you."

​"He’s just a child," I snapped, looking back down at my playbook. But the words on the page were a blur.

My skin felt hot where he’d touched me, and the smell of orange and pine was suddenly the only thing I could breathe in. I wasn’t reflecting on tactics anymore. I was reflecting on exactly how much I wanted to shove that smug smirk off his face—and the terrifying realization that, for the first time, my ’understanding’ nature was failing me.

​The evening drills were a ’bonus’ session Coach Devin threw at us to ’burn off the ego’ from the afternoon.

The temperature had plummeted, and the outdoor rink was a bowl of white ice under buzzing, amber floodlights. I was exhausted. The pressure of maintaining my ’Beta’ mask all day was starting to burn my nerves, and the cold was biting through my thermal layers.

​"Battle drills!" Coach Devin barked, his whistle echoing off the dark pines surrounding the rink. "One-on-one in the corner. Winner takes the puck to the net. Loser does laps. McCoy, Evans—you’re up."

​The team went silent, the kind of silence that happens right before a fight. I stepped into the corner, the ice crunching under my skates.

Reid was already there, his sturdy frame coiled like a spring, his eyes gleaming behind his cage. He didn’t look tired. He looked like he’d been waiting for this all day.

"Don’t hold back, Captain," Reid hissed as the puck dropped. "I’d hate for you to have to do laps on my account."

I bet he’d love it.

​The moment the rubber hit the ice, it was a collision of pure force. I went for the puck, but Reid played the body, slamming me into the boards with a sturdy, bone-shaking impact.

I felt the air leave my lungs, the smell of his frozen pine filling my helmet as he pinned me there, his weight an uncompromising wall of muscle.

I gritted my teeth, digging my skates into the ice. I wasn’t the biggest Alpha on the team, but I was the most technical player. I used my low center of gravity to shove back, my elbow catching him in the ribs as I fought for leverage.

​"Get... off," I wheezed.

​"Make me," he challenged, his voice rough against the side of my neck. He didn’t play the puck. He was too busy leaning into me, his hands gloved and rough as they gripped my jersey to hold me in place.

Our breath came in synchronized, white clouds of steam, and for a second, the sound of the team cheering faded into the background. It was just the scraping of our blades and the frantic drum of my heart against my ribs.

​I managed to spin him, the friction of our gear creating a sharp, burning heat despite the sub-zero air.

My face was inches from his, our cages nearly touching. I could see the dark, obsessive focus in his eyes—he wasn’t just trying to win the drill; he was trying to break my composure.

I hooked his skate and shoved, sending us both sliding across the ice in a tangle of limbs and sticks. We hit the center circle hard, the impact jarring my teeth, but I ended up on top, my knees pinning his sturdy thighs as I gripped the front of his jersey.

My inner Omega was shouting again, overwhelmed by the sheer, flexed power of him underneath me, his thighs solid and unyielding.

​"I told you," I panted, my voice trembling with a mix of adrenaline and raw irritation, "to get off."

​Reid didn’t fight to get up. He just lay there on the cold ice, looking up at me with that slow, evil smirk that made my skin feel too tight.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving under mine, and the scent of his sweat and pine was so overwhelming it made my head swim.

"You’re finally showing some teeth, Evans," he whispered, loud enough only for me to hear. "I was starting to think you didn’t have any." He reached up, his gloved hand resting for a heartbeat on my hip—a possessive, deliberate touch that I felt through the thick padding of my hockey pants.

​The whistle blew, sharp and demanding, breaking whatever moment that was.

"Get up, both of you!" Devin shouted. "McCoy, laps! Evans, take the puck!" I scrambled to my feet, my legs feeling heavy, but I didn’t look back as I skated toward the net. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and predatory.

He had cracked my ’perfect’ mask, and as I took the shot, all I could think about was the way his weight felt on top of me.

I’m so messed up. I breathed, a puff of white clouds escaping my lips, and I closed my eyes.

I can’t wait for this bonding trip to be over.