33. Thirty Three - Rebel

thirty three - rebel

. . .

A throat clears, and I look up to see Mama standing beside our table looking down at me, eyes curious. I get an instant bad feeling in my gut. I've done nothing wrong, but that's always what my mind jumps to when I'm faced with this type of situation.

"The way he looks at you… you've got him wrapped around your finger." I go to speak, but she silences me again. "I'm not saying it's bad. Just saying it's been a long time since Tater has brought a girl to the restaurant. It's been even longer since I've seen him smile this much." I can't help but chuckle at her nickname for him.

"As someone who's never really had anyone in my corner, Tate has been the one constant. I didn't know how much I needed him until I saw what I was missing." The words are my truth. I love the gruff side of my alpha, but the one who's friends with a little old couple who owns a small pizza joint? I'm melting inside.

"He'll never tell you this, but that man brought us out of a really tough time. A few years ago, we were struggling. The business was losing money. No one wants mom and pop shops anymore. It seems like people always go to the bigger names. So, we were losing business. But he stepped up for us without asking for anything in return. He paid off the debt and got us back on track. He used his position as a hockey player to promote us. Business picked up again after that." She sighs. "We tried to pay him back, but he told us to keep our money. He had more than enough. I can't say many people in this world would do the same."

Just hearing this story is breaking my heart. How can my alpha, who's kind of a domineering asshole, be the same guy she's talking about? I listen as she continues to praise Tate. The way she talks about him like he's her son. The amount of pride she has for him is overwhelming.

She reaches for my hand and holds it on the table. "What I'm trying to say is you've got a good one. He may come off as gruff, but that's just how he is. He's always been a little rough around the edges, but he's got a good heart in him."

"Revealing all my deep, dark secrets and embarrassing moments over here?" I look up to find Tate has returned, and he's got a smirk on his face turned towards Mama.

"No, just explaining to Rebel here how grateful we are for everything you've done."

His cheeks flush almost as if he's embarrassed for being a help. "I did what anyone else would do."

She raises a hand to his cheek and pats it. "You can tell yourself that until the cows come home, but we all know that's not true."

"Maggie!" I hear a voice yell from the kitchen, and she smiles.

"Ooops, guess I'm needed. The pizza will be out in just a few minutes." My brows furrow. We haven't ordered pizza yet. I look at Tate for some type of clarification, but he just continues chatting with Maggie before she turns on her heel and heads to the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind her.

"We didn't order pizza yet…" I whisper to Tate as if Mama Maggie is going to overhear us.

He winks. "She knows my order. It's never changed."

"But what if I don't like it?" I can't help but razz him.

"You will."

The bond tingles, and I smile. I love being able to feel his emotions. All of them. Especially the times where he's so carefree and happy, like now.

Five minutes later, Maggie is coming back through the swing door and heading our way. She lifts the pizza boxes and smiles, "Here's your pizzas, all ready to go. Are you eating here or taking it with you?" I go to respond, but Tate beats me to it.

"Taking it with us." Tate pulls a fifty from his wallet and hands it to her.

She shakes her head and shoves it away. "You know your money's no good here anymore."

"I," he says with a smile, "am a paying customer, Mama. Therefore, you're getting paid." Leaning down he drops it on the table, grabs the boxes, throws an arm around me, and leads me toward the door. "Have a good night, Mama."

"Take care of each other." I peek back over my shoulder to see her smile touching her eyes, wide as ever. She waves a small goodbye when we make eye contact and winks. I really hope this isn't the last time I see her. No, this won't be the last time, I tell myself. Tate isn't going anywhere.

I abandon the voices in my head trying to convince me otherwise and hold onto my alpha just a little tighter as we make our way to his car. He looks down at me with a wide grin plastered across his face before he leans in and kisses my forehead. He helps me into the car while still holding the pizza, and then hands it to me after I get my seatbelt buckled.

The ride home is short, and we're walking through the front door in the next ten minutes. I make my way into the living room when Tate heads for the kitchen. Things cling and clang as he grabs plates and napkins for the food before walking into the living room. He's got the pizza boxes in one arm, the plates and napkins on top, with the other hand holding steady on top. "And now… let me proudly present your dinner."

I can't help but laugh. "Disney? Really?"

"Yep." He smirks but says nothing else as he puts the pizza and accouterments on the coffee table. Grabbing the remote, he plops down onto the couch beside me and starts flipping through the channels. "It's not too late, we should be able to catch the last few minutes of the game."

"You had a game tonight?" I ask, suddenly feeling guilty.

He nods. "Yep, and I told Coach that I had to spend the day with my omega. He wasn't happy about it, but he accepted it." I frown, my eyes dropping to my hands in my lap. He reaches up, lifting my chin with his thumb and forefinger. "No, no hiding. You needed me today. I won't ever leave you when you need me."

The comment has a tear slipping from my eye at the sheer genuineness in his voice. He truly means that. I nod. "Okay."

He looks away from me, seemingly satisfied by my answer, and starts looking for the right channel. Finding it, he turns it on. It's the last six minutes in the second period, and the Hellbenders are up four to one.

I try to follow the puck as best I can, but it's not exactly easy on TV, unless they have those little bubbles with the player's names on them pop up above each of them when they have the puck. But that doesn't happen often.

We get settled, and Tate loads up our plates with pizza. "How hungry are you?"

"Starved." I whisper, not sure whether it's that I'm really wanting food or him. I've found it incredibly hard to focus the last day or two. Even though I had a breakdown in the shower, I still managed to think about sex only a few hours later.

I can't stop sneaking peeks at him today. He's so rugged and sexy. His scent is overpowering, and the struggle is real fighting against myself to climb him like a damn tree. My heat is definitely coming and soon, but I don't want to tell Tate yet. Hockey season is important, and I don't want to distract him by worrying about my heat.

I know the next few games are a big deal, and I refuse to be the reason he plays like shit. Plus, everyone will know it was his omega. I will be the reason he plays so poorly. They'd blame me. Bringing a piece of pizza to my lips, I moan at the cheesy goodness settling against my tongue. "Holy hell, that's delicious!" I exclaim. Tate responds with the perfect smile. Of course, he knows this already.

My next bite elicits another moan, and this time, Tate does say something. "Rebel…" It's a warning. I can see the heat in his eyes. The promise of delectable sex just below the surface. "If you moan again, I won't be held liable for my actions." This is his low and growly, sexy Tate voice. The one that turns me on, and he knows it.

I grin at him and then reply in a teasing lilt. "Is that a threat?"

His smile is feral. "It's a promise, Rebel." As much as hot sex sounds amazing right now, I am actually hungry. So, this time, when I take a bite, I inwardly moan in delight. I've made it through three slices of pizza before I claim defeat and set my plate down on the coffee table beside the now empty pizza box.

When my eyes finally reach the TV again, I notice that the announcers are speaking, or the talking heads, as Tate so eloquently calls them. We're in intermission. There's an alpha on the screen speaking with someone. He's covered in sweat and breathing heavily. My only thought is: do they really not give these guys a break before they make them get on TV and talk? Apparently not. Although, he doesn't seem like he minds too much.

They ask him about the game and what he thinks the team needs to do going into the next period. He chats about better defense and a few other things. Before I know it, he's heading back to the locker room to join his fellow teammates as they relax and prepare for the next period.

"What is it about hockey?" I ask, seemingly out of the blue. I've never asked Tate before.

He shrugs. "There's just something about being on the ice. A certain peace maybe. Like when you go to the rink before the game and it's so quiet. It's just you and the ice. But then… the arena starts to fill up with all of these people who come to see us. Our loyal fans, who will pay money to see us every week, even if we lose. It's like being on a stage, I suppose. The adrenaline is going, the crowd is cheering, thousands of people are shouting out our names or singing along to whatever ridiculous song is playing through the speakers between plays. Being on that ice, getting to play the sport, I love… Sometimes I look out at the crowd and ask how this is my life."

"Ya know… they say goalies are the craziest ones on the team because who else wants a puck coming at them going ninety miles per hour when you're the only thing standing between the puck and the net."

He smirks. "We are crazy, but we're also good at what we do. Take Drake and I. We're a team. There's no I'm-better-than-you competition. If he wins a game, I win. If I win a game, he wins. We've been playing in the same leagues since we were teenagers. It takes a certain set of skills to be a goalie. Hand and eye coordination, determination, and tons of practice. Plus a desire to do better, to learn everything you can about your craft. Not just for yourself, but for the team. When I skate out onto that ice, I'm playing for my teammates, my coach, our fans, not just myself."

I lean into him, whispering low into his ear, even though no one else is here. "I know all about your hand-eye coordination skills, and I have to admit, they are pretty good."

Fuck , there I go again, acting like a horndog.

He turns his head to greet me and takes my lips in a forceful kiss. He tongue pierces my lips and entwines with mine, dueling for command. Something I don't give up so easily.

The sound of a blaring whistle pierces through the haze of lust encircling us. I didn't even realize the game was back on. Tate is instantly distracted by the fight breaking out on camera between a couple of the Hellbenders and Wolves players.

"Fuck…" The word is uttered from Tate's mouth, and I don't see what he's referring to until the refs break up the fight happening right in front of the goal post. The goalie is on the ground, not moving. Reality hits like a ton of bricks. That could be Tate one day, and the idea that he would ever be hurt has me wanting to run.

"What's wrong?" I ask Tate as if he'll know the answer just by looking at the screen. The refs have officially moved the players away from each other and are escorting them to the penalty box to wait out their time. They aren't happy, still yelling at each other, even though they're in their own separate boxes.

My mouth hangs open as I watch everything before me. There is a stretcher rolled out onto the ice, heading towards Drake. My heart is in my throat. "Is he going to be okay?" It's not really me asking anyone in particular.

The guys huddle around their downed goalie, watching on as the medical team inspects him. A few minutes later, he's coming to. Some of his teammates help him up and assist him getting back to the bench, where he then proceeds to head back down the tunnel to get checked out.

The other goalie for the Hellbenders now has his helmet on, and he's headed toward the goal. Stopping in front of it, he does a weird little hand sign, touches each of the goal posts, and then does some sort of religious sign. He stretches before shuffling back and forth on the ice. "What's he doing?"

"He's scuffing up the ice around the goal to make it less slippery. Doing that lets us get around easier when we're making saves." My head nods in understanding. It makes sense.

"What happened with Drake?"

"I'm sure they'll let us know once they find…" His words are cut off when the announcer comes back, stating that Drake has suffered a concussion and won't be back to the game tonight. I have to wonder what happened.

As if the TV knows exactly what I'm saying, it starts a replay of the shot. It hits him right in the face mask, knocking him out cold. That's got to hurt.

"Well, shit. That means he's going to be out for a couple games. Concussion protocol and all that."

"So, that means you'll be playing?"

He grins at me. "Yep, little one, you finally get to see all of this in action."

A snort slips out as I shake my head. "So cocky."

"You love it." And, dammit, he's right, because I absolutely do.