Page 2 of Puck Your Friend

And it’s a lie. One of many.

If anyone finds out, I’m done. Not just fired or dragged through a legal mess for falsifying my designation. But ruined. In this industry, Omegas don’t exist. No one wants a heat risk in the locker room, near alpha athletes. We’re distractions andscandals waiting to happen. There’s no universe where I could’ve been hired and been myself, and since I couldn’t follow my dreams, this was the next best thing. I will do whatever it takes to keep it.

Doug waves me over as he opens the entrance door.

The entrance is plain. This is their practice facility, so I’m not surprised. The rink smell hits me as I cross the threshold: ice, disinfectant, and something warmer beneath it. Something spiced. It’s faint, but I like it.

I tighten the scarf around my throat, praying the spray holds. For months now, my heat has tried to start every day. My supplier says he has the best quality full-suppressant out there, and that it’s me, not him. I know better than to trust promises from a man I meet in secret once a month. He has the balls to call his brand Freedom.

It gives mefreedomto live my life. That’s the lie I tell myself, so I keep buying it.

Doug steps up next to me as we stare at the rink through the windows in the hall. “How do you want to do this?”

I sigh as I fight the pain in my head to think about the steps we need to take. “Let’s go get the rink manager. He’ll need to show us where they are so they know what’s up. Then we can get their warm-up, some practice B-roll, and end with the beginning of the season interviews.”

He nods. “Lead the way.”

The second-floor office space smells of stale coffee and possibly mildew. It turns my stomach. I’ve been so sensitive to odors lately, everything makes me want to puke.

Doug trails behind me, his camera case bumping against his leg as we face a long hall of closed office doors. Each one has a faded placard beside it, and I scan for the name I was given.

Todd Clancy.

We pass a few doors labeled storage, finance, and laundry. Then I spot a nameplate half-hidden behind a faded poster for a youth League tournament:Todd Clancy. Found him.

I knock and the door eases open on its own. I peek around the edge, then push my way into the room.

He’s hunched behind a desk littered with energy drink cans and chip bags, his eyes locked on the monitor in front of him as if the world outside doesn’t exist.

I knock on the door again. He doesn’t look up and I frown. The asshole could at least glance at me. “Excuse me, sir. I’m with Victory Newsline Media. I was told to check in with you before we start filming.”

His gaze drags from the screen to my badge. “Francesca Darian?”

I nod. “Fran or Frankie is fine.”

He wipes his hands on his jeans and stands, tossing a glance at Doug. “Locker room’s cleared for press. The PR let me know you were coming. He should’ve been the one to do this shit.”

Well, isn’t he just a ray of sunshine…

He coughs hard and motions with his hand. “Get a move on. I’ll walk you down. Just stay back until I tell you it’s good.”

He walks past us, and I glance at Doug. This isn’t what I was expecting, but all right. Doug shrugs and follows, and I do the same.

We head back downstairs.

It’s not a long walk, as we turn a corner and head down a hall. That same spicy scent returns, reminding me of the clove cigarettes my dad used to smoke when I was younger. I’ve always liked the smell, even though I’ll never smoke. It pulls at me.

Todd bangs twice on the metal locker room door, then peeks his head in. “Everybody decent?” A few muffled responses. Someone curses. “Some kind of media team is coming through. Don’t be gross.” He turns back to us. “You’ll want to keep left. If you need anything, don’t come find me.”

He walks off, letting the door close, and Doug catches it, glares at the back of Todd’s head, and holds the door open for me. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and step inside.

The room buzzes with multiple conversations. Maybe twenty players are scattered throughout. None of them look at us, as if they have this happen all the time. Some are bent over taping sticks, others stand half-dressed and tugging on gear.

Then I see them toward the back of the room. Sitting on a long bench.

Ford Markov.

Jace Lopez.