Page 13

Maya

My clipboard is clutched tight against my chest as we stand at the edge of the rink, Holt introducing me to the Northvale Hawks. The guys are lined up, a mix of broad shoulders and eager grins, their skates scraping the ice in restless anticipation. One by one, they shake my hand—firm grips, wide eyes, big smiles that make my stomach flutter with nerves and something warmer, something like belonging. A lanky winger named Ethan steps forward, his glove off, and asks, “You gonna run one of your father’s plays?”

I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. “No, I’ve got some of my own.”

Brogan, leaning on his stick nearby, pipes up. “And they’re just as cryptic as her father’s,” he teases, “but when she explained it, it all made sense.”

I beam at that, his words sparking a glow in my chest, and I meet his hazel eyes, grateful for the backup. Holt clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention, and starts pointing out who I’ll have for the scrimmage—Brogan included, along with Ethan, a stocky defenseman named Sam, and a few others. “Brogan, you’re team captain. Maya, I’ll give you ten minutes to go over a few things, then we’ll start. First point wins.” He pauses, brown eyes locking on mine. “Doesn’t have to be perfect—just to see how our coaching styles mesh.”

I nod, swallowing the nerves clawing up my throat, and Holt takes his group toward the goal, barking orders as they spread out. I turn to my team, clipboard in hand, and lead them to the bench, where a whiteboard’s propped up. I brace for resistance—some dumb joke, a jab about my dad, anything to undermine me—but there’s none. They crowd around, wildly attentive, nodding as I sketch a play, lines and arrows flowing in the standard hockey shorthand, not Dad’s chaotic scribbles.

Ethan squints, then lights up. “We’ve never seen a play like that before.”

Sam chimes in, scratching his helmet. “Yeah, we have—in one of her father’s videos. It’s a little different, but yeah, you really are his daughter. They won’t know what’s coming.”

That gets a smile out of me, Brogan leaning a little closer from behind me. “And that’s the point. Holt took the players he knows best—ones who think on their feet, move at a moment’s notice, always looking to him for signs. They’re the ones who run our plays. He’s giving Maya a chance to work hers out, and he’s gonna see if he can counter them in real time.”

“That makes this a little more fun, then,” I agree.

Sam pipes up, smirking at Brogan. “Oh, and he’s being modest about all this shit. Brogan’s literally our team captain so…” I blink, surprised, and glance at Brogan, who shrugs, a faint flush creeping up his neck.

Ethan jumps in, unbothered. “Well, there’s Roman and Logan, that Alpha over there but yeah, Brogan is head captain. He likes to pretend not to be important.” He gestures to the board, “I think we’ve got a good chance of catching Holt off guard.”

I quickly wipe off the board. “We’ll run two versions of this. If I tap my shoulder, we switch to the second, got it?” They all agree, heads bobbing, and Sam reaches out, going to pat my shoulder in some teammate gesture. I flinch back, eyes wide, because it’s too fucking close to my neck, to that scar Nox left. I reach up to check it, my hoodie covering everything but that doesn’t change how unnerved I am.

Brogan’s there in a flash, stepping up to me with his hand raised for a high five. I give him a timid one, all of the other guys following, no questions asked. I mumble, “Thanks,” to Brogan, wondering how I stumbled into men that actually care about my wellbeing.

I lean toward the glass, clipboard tucked under my arm, watching the players skate into position for the scrimmage. Their laughter echoes across the rink, a warm tangle of jokes and jabs—Brogan shoving Ethan, Sam chirping something that makes them all crack up. It’s easy, this camaraderie, and it tugs at me, a reminder of what this team could be, of what I used to see with my father. I glance at Holt beside me, his whistle dangling from his neck. “How’s Dakota?”

Holt’s eyes flick to the goalie box, where Dakota’s adjusting his pads, then back to me. “He’s faring as best he can.I’m sure you know how stubborn he is. You should talk to him.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the clipboard. “But he’s your…” I trail off, unsure how to finish—mate? Omega? Pack?

“Yeah, but he’s also yours, Maya. I’d be stupid to keep you from him. You’re the only consistent person he’s ever wanted, and that isn’t gonna stop just because his designation’s changed. In fact, it might be more prominent.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “The doctor mentioned he’s gonna need people like he hasn’t before. Might not be in that overly sweet, cuddly way, but he’ll attach himself, use them as comfort. Late presenting can be terrifying—shifts everything you know on a dime.”

I sigh, shoulders sagging as his words sink in. My gaze drifts to Dakota, hulking in the goalie box, all pads and focus. He catches me looking and throws a sloppy smile, brown eyes glinting before he tugs his helmet on. The implications of what Holt’s offering hit me hard—an open door to Dakota, no strings, no claim on me. Part of me wants to feel disappointed, to wish he’d staked some kind of place for himself, but the bigger part’s grateful. He’s not pushing, not forcing his way in like Nox did. Holt’s softer and I realize that I’ve been comparing him to a monster this whole time, never giving him a chance. Dakota chose him—chose them —and that’s got to mean something, right?

I shake it off, forcing my focus back to the ice. Hockey’s my anchor, always has been, and I need it now. Holt blows the whistle, the scrimmage kicking off. I watch my play unfold in real time—Brogan weaving through defenders, Ethan’s quick pass, Sam holding the line. It’s surreal, like a dream I never thought I’d live. They’re good, really good, moving with a precision that makes my chest swell with a mixture of excitement and pride.

Holt’s side counters, his signals subtle but sharp—head tilt, hand flick—and I catch every one, my eyes darting between players. He shouts an order to his half and I lean forward, shouting back, “Switch it, Brogan! Second option!”

They pivot seamlessly, Ethan cutting left, Sam screening the goal. It’s like I’m transported back to being a little girl, standing on the bench while Dad coached, mimicking his calls in a soft whisper, pretending I was him. But now, this is mine—my play, my team, my voice ringing out. Brogan fakes a shot, passes back, and Ethan buries it, the puck slamming past Dakota’s glove. The guys whoop, sticks raised, and I grin, turning to Holt with a pride I haven’t known in years.

“Damn, that was a good play. We’re keeping that one.”

The guys skate off the ice, helmets tucked under arms, their laughter bouncing through the rink as they throw me high fives, palms slapping mine with enough force to sting. Ethan grins, sweat dripping down his temple, and says, “Fuck, Holt, you’ve got competition!”

The others hoot in agreement, my cheeks warming, caught off guard by their enthusiasm. Holt joins in, throwing me a wild smile. “No, this means I get to do my job and she gets to do hers.”

Roman skids to a stop beside me, peeling off his gloves. “So, we got a real coach now? Because, Mason’s a whole…” He cuts himself off. “Glad to have you, Maya. Holt, she’s coming to dinner, right?”

I frown, looking up at Holt for answers, my clipboard suddenly feeling like a flimsy shield. He sighs, nodding to one of the Alphas—Logan, I think—and says, “Would you help set up the cones?” The team groans, a collective whine, but Holt’s unfazed. “We had our fun, but we’ve got a game this weekend, and we gotta be on our best. Maya needs to see what she’s got to work with, and you all need to be breathing a little harder so everyone thinks we actually do something at practice.”

Laughter ripples through them as they skate off to grab cones, sticks clacking against the ice. I turn to Holt, brow raised. “What’s this about dinner?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, but my nerves betray me, a slight wobble creeping in.

“It’s more of a tradition than anything,” he explains. “Anyone new to the team, we go out to that sloppy joe diner a few streets over. Pig out, tell some stories, have a few drinks, then haul ass back to campus to grab enough sleep for classes tomorrow. They’re asking because we wouldn’t have practice in the morning.”

“Yeah, I could do dinner,” I say, then wrinkle my nose. “But sloppy joes?”

Holt grins, a rare flash of teeth that softens his gruff edges. “It became a tradition, and we don’t mess with those,” he says. “I’ve tried and got booted from one of the last dinners, so I let it be.”

I smile, liking how easy it is to talk to him, his calm cutting through my usual guardedness. My gaze drifts back to the ice, cataloging the players but then Dakota catches my eye, hunched slightly in the goalie box, movements slower than usual, and worry gnaws at me. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

Holt follows my gaze, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s holding something back. He turns to face me, his expression turning more serious. “I just need you to be straight with me, Maya. Does he have a chance?” I nod without hesitation, my heart answering before my brain catches up—Dakota’s always had a chance, always will. “Roman?” he asks, and I pause, unsure. “Brogan?” Another pause, longer this time, because Brogan’s rain-soaked warmth lingers too vividly. “How about Ethan?” Holt adds, a teasing lilt creeping in.

I wrinkle my nose, and he laughs, a low rumble that eases the tension. “Good to know there’s a baseline,” he says, then sobers. “There are no rules when it comes to relationships here. We’re all adults. I might be Dakota and Roman’s Alpha, but I’m not stopping you from exploring anything. Brogan too.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Why do you keep mentioning him?”

“Because you’ve been watching him all practice, and you’ve been on edge for days—except for a small moment after you left the coach’s office, where Brogan was with you.” My mouth opens to protest, but he cuts me off. “Don’t apologize. I don’t need it. I’m just saying I know how irresistible the pull of a mate is.”

I frown, confused. “You didn’t even see him with me!”

I point out, and he shrugs, a smile playing at his lips. “But I sent him. Your scent softened. He’s a balm for you, and I’m ecstatic, because he needs someone to soften his edges. He can be a little rough.”

“Brogan?” I ask, skeptical, because the guy I know is all charm and easy grins.

Holt’s brow lifts, amusement flickering in his expression. “All three of them are different with you, Maya. Brogan’s not sweet, Roman’s kind of an asshole, and Dakota tends to be a grump.”

“They’ve never been like that with me,” I say, and Holt just raises an eyebrow, that smile lingering as he turns back to the ice, where the guys are setting up cones, joking again.

Turning my attention back to the ice, I watch as Holt runs drills, occasionally explaining things to me. I have him rerun a few of them, jotting down notes about strengths and weaknesses, trying to keep up and at the same time falling seamlessly into something I know like the back of my hand. All those games I attended over the years weren’t just for fun. I was creating my own plays, jotting down ideas, things that could be improved. This is just in real time, more action, a little colder and a whole lot louder but it’s everything I was missing.

By the time practice is over, Holt telling me there’s a shower in the coach’s office, I know that this is exactly where I want to be. Even when the dean’s number pops up on my phone. I’m not at all surprised when Mason is still in the main office, leaning back in his chair as if he’s doing something. I kind of want to march in there and cuss him out but instead, I head into my father’s old office and into the lavish bathroom attached to it.

I pick up the call on the fourth ring, knowing that ignoring it won’t do me any good.

“Maya, I’m sorry for the state of the team,” he says. “I knew an assistant position was open, but I had no idea the true extent of things. I’d understand if you’re not interested.”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll take it. But you could’ve warned me the coach was a deadbeat and didn’t want me here.”

The dean sighs, a tired sound. “ I’m sorry for that too. It’s gonna be bumpy the next few weeks—unless you’re willing to take the head coach position, Mason needs to stay, even if in name only.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why do I feel like we’re gonna bump heads a bunch?” I ask, half-joking, half-dreading.

“I’ve never seen him have a problem with Holt, so I’m not sure he has a problem with you. If you have an issue, call me or let Holt know. I asked Holt if he wanted to be coach, but that’s off the table. I’ll look into finding someone else. You work on getting us a championship.”

“I think I can do that,” I say, and hang up, pocketing my phone.

The bathroom is much cleaner than I expected, spotless even with fresh towels, the air fresh with a clean, rainy scent that reminds me of Brogan. My mind snags on that, wondering if he helped clean, and before I can stop it, a fantasy takes over—Brogan in here, his hands on my waist, kissing me slow, pressing me against the tiles, fucking me with that easy charm turned hungry. I shake it off, cheeks burning, but the thought shifts, pulling Dakota into the frame as I’m caught between them. Then Roman and Holt, their hands, their heat—

I snap my eyes open, refusing to give into those thoughts. “That’s not possible.” My voice echoes in the empty space, a weak protest against the want pulsing through me. I strip down, tossing my clothes onto a bench, and start the shower, cranking it as hot as I can stand. There’s no use blocking those men out, though, and it’s only a matter of time before I give in completely.

Still, one thing at a time. Shutting off the shower, I let the steam curl around me as I reach for one of the towels resting just outside. I find nothing, grumbling as I have to step out into the cold air of the bathroom, only to be met with the one person who shouldn’t be fucking anywhere near here.

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

He’s standing a few feet away, by the entrance, a pile of towels at his feet. A grin splits across his face, one I used to mistake for charm as he steps closer. “I told you the next time we met, you wouldn’t have your boy toy to protect you.”

My blood runs cold, memories of his hands, his bite, flooding back, and I back up, hitting the wall. He’s between me and the door, and I realize with a sick lurch that I’m alone—no Holt, no Brogan, no Dakota to pull me out of this. My gaze darts to the door, a motion he clocks as Nox rushes toward me, his hand clamping around my neck with a force that steals my breath.

“I don’t take kindly to watching you parade yourself around with not just one of them but a handful,” he snarls, a venomous edge to his words. “You’re mine , Maya, as I’ve told you, and I told you where you belong—which is at my side. Figure out whatever you need at this campus, because I gave you time to think about it.”

My blood boils, fear and fury tangling in my chest as I claw at his hand, nails digging into his skin. “You bastard,” I gasp, voice scraping past the pressure on my throat. “You told me what you wanted and I told you what wasn’t gonna happen.” His grip tightens, cutting off my air, and I struggle, fighting to stay present. “You left me for someone else,” I choke out, “and now you’re threatening me to get back together? Fuck you.” I spit in his face, a desperate act of defiance, his free hand cracking across my cheek.

Fear surges through me, because this anger is new and unhinged, nothing like the Nox I knew, the one who hurt me with words and betrayal, not fists. “You’re a little whore,” he whispers, leaning closer, his breath hot on my face, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ll take you home, rebond you, and we’ll live like a happy little family. You’ll give me children and you’ll give up all these frivolous pursuits.” His words twist my stomach, a sick promise that makes my vision tunnel, spots dancing as I gasp for air that won’t come. I’m still struggling, kicking, clawing, but his hold’s too tight, and I’m fading, the bathroom’s tiles blurring into gray.

I didn’t think ignoring Nox would push him to this but he was always unpredictable. Trust was never there, not really, and now I see why my instincts screamed to run. “Why now?” I croak, voice barely a whisper. “Could’ve married me then.”

“Because the money’s needed,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Just be a good girl and come home.”

“Home isn’t with you,” I push out, defiance burning through the fog. My hands flail, searching for anything—tiles, sink, something to grab—but nothing’s in reach. I act on instinct, ramming my knee up toward his groin. It’s not as hard as I want but it’s enough. He stumbles back, cursing, hands cupping himself as he bends over, and I suck in air, deep, ragged breaths that burn my lungs.

He straightens, face twisted with fury, and charges again but this time, I’m ready, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I dart to the side, bare feet slipping on the tiles as I bolt for the door. Mason is conveniently not across the hall as a scream tears from my throat, praying the locker rooms aren’t soundproof.