Chapter 8: Jayce

Chapter

Eight

JAYCE

T he puck slams into the back of the net with a satisfying thwack. I grab another from the pile at my feet, wind up, and let it fly.

Thwack.

Again.

Thwack.

My arms burn from the repetition, but I welcome the pain. Anything to distract me from the intoxicating scent of omega—of Ember—wafting from the breakroom.

Fuck .

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of her standing so close, her delicate hand fisted in my scarf as she inhaled deeply. The way her eyes had widened slightly, pupils dilating as she breathed my scent. " Salted caramel. " The flush that had crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a rosy pink that made me want to trace it with my tongue...

I growl, shaking my head to clear it.

This isn't helping.

Nothing's helping.

I've never felt so out of control, so... desperate.

Is this what it's like for other alphas? Alphas who aren't used to every omega they meet falling at their feet?

But I know the answer to that.

Those omegas aren't our mate.

They don't smell like home and desire and everything I never knew I wanted all rolled into one petite, feisty package.

They're not Ember.

I wind up for another shot, putting all my frustration into the swing.

The puck goes wide, ricocheting off the plexiglass with a resounding crack.

"Looks like you could use a goalie," a dry voice calls out behind me.

I turn to see Mason leaning against the boards, a wry smile on his face.

I shrug, trying for nonchalance. "If you're offering."

He pushes off, skating toward the goal with easy grace. "Might as well put all this pent-up energy to use, right?"

I snort.

That's one way of putting it.

We fall into an easy rhythm, the familiar routine of practice a welcome distraction. For a while, there's nothing but the scrape of skates on ice, the thud of puck against pads, the harsh sound of our breathing.

But even as I lose myself in the physical exertion, my mind keeps drifting back to Ember.

To the way she'd looked at us all—wary, confused, but with an undercurrent of... something.

Curiosity?

Desire?

Or am I just projecting what I want to see?

"You're telegraphing your shots," Mason calls out after blocking yet another attempt. "What's got you so distracted, hotshot?"

I roll my eyes, retrieving another puck. "Take a wild fucking guess."

He chuckles, but there's no real humor in it. "Yeah, stupid question."

I line up for another shot, focusing on my form. This time, the puck sails past Mason's outstretched glove, finding its home in the back of the net.

Small victories.

"You really stepped in it earlier, huh?" Mason says as he tosses the puck back to me.

I wince, remembering my clumsy attempts at flirtation. "Fuck off. Like you'd have done any better."

"Oh, I don't know about that," he drawls. "Our mate hasn't threatened to cut my balls off, at least."

"She started it," I mutter, knowing how childish I sound. "And she's not our mate. Not really. Not if she doesn't want us."

The words taste bitter on my tongue.

The others were right when they were busting my balls about those books earlier. Hell, I'm probably the only one who's given more than a passing thought to actually finding a mate. We're all so focused on the sport, on the rest of the team, but in the back of my mind, it's always felt like there was something missing.

Some one .

But now that I've caught her scent, felt that instant connection...

The thought of her rejecting us makes something twist painfully in my chest.

Mason's quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind his mask. Finally, he says, "You ever think maybe that's why she's so prickly? Because she does want us, and she's scared shitless of what that means?"

I pause, puck balanced on the blade of my stick. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, stretching out his legs in a series of practiced movements. "Think about it. She's a professional athlete, just like us. You know how much work that takes, how much sacrifice. And here we come, four strange alphas, basically telling her that biology says she's supposed to be with us. That's gotta be terrifying."

I frown, considering his words. It makes sense, in a way I hadn't considered before. "So, what, we're just supposed to back off? Let her go?"

The thought makes my inner alpha snarl in protest.

She's ours .

How are we supposed to just... walk away?

Mason shakes his head. "Nah, that's not what I'm saying. But maybe we need to show her that being with us doesn't mean giving up her dreams. That we'd support her, just like she'd support us."

"And how exactly are we supposed to do that when she can barely stand to be in the same room as us?" I ask, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"By being patient," he says simply. "By showing her who we really are, not just what she thinks alphas are supposed to be."

I snort. "Right, because I've done such a great job of that so far."

Mason laughs, a real laugh this time. "Yeah, well, maybe tone down the caveman act a bit. She seems like the type who'd appreciate a little finesse."

"Finesse," I repeat, testing the word out. "Not exactly my strong suit."

"No shit," Mason says dryly. "But you've got other qualities. Use 'em."

I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"

He considers for a moment. "You're funny when you're not trying too hard. You're loyal as hell. And you care, even if you suck at showing it sometimes."

I blink, surprised by the unexpected praise. "Uh, thanks?"

Mason waves it off. "Don't let it go to your head. Now come on, show me what you've got. And this time, try not imagining the puck is Ember's clothes, yeah?"

I feel my face heat up. "I wasn't?—"

"Sure you weren't," he says with a knowing smirk. "Now shut up and shoot."

We fall back into the rhythm of practice, but my mind is whirling with new possibilities.

Maybe Mason's right.

Maybe we just need to show Ember who we really are, beyond the alpha posturing and hockey personas.

But as I wind up for another shot, a traitorous voice in the back of my mind whispers something else.

What if who we really are isn't enough?

I push the thought away, channeling all my focus into the puck. It flies true, finding the gap between Mason's pads and the post.

He curses, fishing it out of the net. "Nice one," he grudgingly admits.

I grin, some of my usual cockiness returning. "They don't call me Iceman for nothin'."

"They absolutely do not call you that," Mason says flatly.

"That one reporter did," I mutter, retrieving another puck.

"Yeah, well, that reporter was probably drunk off his ass," Mason retorts. "Face it, Jayce, you're about as?—"

"Hey, guys. Is there room for one more?"

Ember's voice cuts through our banter like a knife, and we both whip around to see her gliding toward us on the ice. She's shed her jacket, revealing the form-fitting gray leotard underneath. Her cheeks are flushed a delicate pink, and I catch myself wondering if that blush extends lower...

Fuck.

Focus, Jayce.

But it's hard to focus when her scent hits me full force. It's stronger now, sweeter, with an undercurrent of something musky and intoxicating. My mouth waters, and I have to physically stop myself from taking a step toward her.

"Everything okay?" Mason asks, his voice tight. I can tell he's affected too, but he's always been better at hiding it than me.

Ember shrugs, a casual gesture that does interesting things to her chest. "The breakroom was getting a little stuffy. Thought I'd come out here, burn off some energy."

Stuffy?

Even with the backup generator running, it's far from hot in there.

Which means...

Oh. Oh shit.

Her heat.

It must be progressing faster than we thought. The realization sends a jolt of both excitement and panic through me.

We are not prepared for this.

"What kind of energy did you have in mind?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I immediately want to kick myself even though I actually didn't mean it that way.

This time.

Way to go, asshole. Real smooth.

Ember's eyes narrow, and I can practically see her hackles rise. "Excuse me?"

"No, I didn't—that's not what I—" I stammer, tripping over my words in my haste to backpedal. "I just meant... fuck. I'm sorry. For that, and for earlier. I was being a dick."

She studies me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she gives a small nod. "Apology accepted. For now."

Relief washes over me, followed quickly by determination. This is my chance to start fresh, to show her I'm not just some knothead alpha. "Thanks," I say, then inspiration strikes. "Hey, you want us to teach you how to play?"

"Play what?" she asks, brow furrowed in confusion.

I gesture to the stick in my hands. "Hockey. I mean, you've already got the hard part down with the skating. The rest is just rules and technique."

Mason shoots me a look that clearly says, " What the fuck are you doing? " But I ignore him, focusing on Ember.

She looks skeptical. "I don't know..."

"Come on, it'll be fun," I coax. "Unless you're scared?"

It's a cheap shot, appealing to her competitive nature, but it works. Her eyes flash with that same fire I saw when we first met.

"Fine," she says. "Teach me."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Mason interjects, ever the voice of reason.

But his words seem to have the opposite effect, only making Ember more determined. "Why not?" she challenges. "Afraid I'll show you up?"

I can't help but grin at her spirit.

This girl is something else.

"What's going on?" Adder's voice rings out as he and Carter join us on the ice.

"We're teaching Ember how to play hockey," I announce, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

Adder raises an eyebrow, looking from me to Ember and back again. "Is that so?"

Ember nods, her chin raised in defiance. "Unless you have a problem with that?"

For a moment, I think Adder might object. But then he smiles, a slow, approving grin that makes something in my chest loosen. "Not at all. Let's do it."

We spend the next hour going over the basics—how to hold the stick, how to pass, how to receive a pass. Ember's a quick study, her natural grace on the ice translating well to the new skills. But it's when we get to shooting that things really get interesting.

"Here, let me show you," I offer, moving to stand behind her. I pause, suddenly hyper-aware of how close we are. "Is this okay?"

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. "Yeah, it's fine."

I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her body. It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to press myself against her, to bury my face in the crook of her neck and breathe in that intoxicating scent.

Focus, Jayce. You're teaching her to play hockey, not trying to get in her pants.

Or rather, her leotard.

"Okay," I say, my voice rougher than I'd like. "You want to grip the stick like this." I demonstrate, then guide her hands into position. Her skin is soft and warm under my touch, and I have to bite back a groan as my mind drifts to the idea of those graceful hands gripping something else entirely.

"Like this?" she asks, adjusting her grip slightly.

"Yeah, that's perfect," I manage. "Now, when you swing, you want to transfer your weight from your back foot to your front foot." I demonstrate the motion, careful not to actually touch her. "It's all about the follow-through."

Ember nods, a look of intense concentration on her face. She takes a practice swing, and I can't help but admire the fluid grace of her movement.

"Not bad," I say. "Want to try it with a puck?"

She nods, and I set one up for her. "Remember, eyes on the target, transfer your weight, and follow through."

Ember takes a deep breath, lines up her shot, and swings. The puck sails through the air, missing the net by a good three feet.

"Shit," she mutters, frustration evident in her voice.

There it is.

That perfectionism and competitive spirit that have driven her to the top of her field. It's the same thing that motivates me every time I'm on the ice.

I never imagined we'd find an omega who matches our drive and intensity on or off the ice, but little miss cotton candy is full of surprises.

"Hey, that was a good first try," I reassure her. "Most people can barely hit the puck at all on their first shot."

She turns to look at me, a determined glint in her eye. "Show me again?"

I swallow hard, nodding. "Sure. Um, do you want me to...?" I gesture vaguely, asking permission to get close again.

To my surprise, she nods. "Yeah, that helps."

This time, when I step behind her, she leans back slightly, her body just barely brushing against mine. The contact of her round ass bumping up against my crotch, even if there's a bunch of gear between us, sends electricity shooting through my veins, and I have to take a deep breath to steady myself.

"Okay," I say, my voice embarrassingly husky. "Let's try this again."

I guide her through the motion once more, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. Her scent envelops me, clouding my thoughts, making it hard to focus on anything but the feel of her in my arms.

"Like this?" she asks, and the breathy quality of her voice does nothing to help my concentration.

"Yeah," I manage. "Just like that. Now, give it a shot."

She takes aim, winds up, and lets the puck fly. This time, it sails cleanly into the net.

"Yes!" Ember exclaims, whirling around to face me with a brilliant smile. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.

"Nice shot," I say, grinning back at her. "You're a natural."

"Yeah, you are," Adder agrees, gliding over to high five her. The force of it spins her around a little, but she holds steady with perfect balance and laughs, her hand still wrapped in his big glove.

Her laugh makes my heart skip a beat. I've never seen her like this. None of us have, and even without glancing at the rest of my pack, I know it's affecting them the same way, seeing this more lighthearted side of the fiercely competitive omega.

Our fiercely competitive omega.

I feel a stab of guilt for thinking that way, but I can't help it.

"I don't know about that, but it was fun," she says.

"See? Told you," I tease.

She rolls her eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Yeah, yeah. Don't let it go to your head."

I'm about to respond when I notice her shiver slightly. "You cold?" I ask, natural protectiveness creeping into my voice.

She shakes her head. "No, I'm fine. Just... a little warm, actually."

The implications of that statement hit me like a ton of bricks. Her heat is progressing, and fast. I exchange a look with the other guys, seeing my own concern reflected in their eyes.

"Maybe we should head back to the breakroom," Adder suggests gently. "Get you something to drink, cool off a bit. I checked and the showers still have hot water, too."

Ember looks like she wants to argue, but another shiver wracks her body, and she nods reluctantly. "Yeah, okay."

As we make our way off the ice, I can't help but feel a strange mix of emotions. Pride at how quickly Ember picked up the basics of hockey. Worry about her impending heat and how we're going to handle it.

And beneath it all, a simmering desire that threatens to consume me if I let my guard down for even a second.

Mason catches my eye as we reach the boards, giving me a small nod of approval. Maybe he was right. Maybe showing Ember who we really are, beyond the alpha posturing, is the key to winning her over.

But as I watch her walk ahead of us, her movements graceful even in regular shoes, I can't help but wonder if it will be enough.

If we'll be enough.

Because the thought of losing her, of never getting to explore this connection between us, is more terrifying than anything I've ever faced on the ice.