Page 56 of Puck & Her Blades

Is it only Asher getting out his anger about the Omega party or the fact that he can’t bond with the Blades?

Cygnus is watching me carefully like I may do something crazy like launch myself onto the ice.

Instead, I force myself to blow Asher a kiss.

A cheer goes up in the arena.

That’s probably earned Sydney another couple of million.

Asher grins, casually pretending to catch the kiss and hold it over his heart.

Yet there’s something earnest in his eyes that makes my heart feel like breaking.

What if it wasn’t a joke or a stunt?

What if Asher meant it as a way to show me that the Blades want me, no matter what bullshit the commentator said about the party?

What if — just what if — he meant that his heart is for me, Ice, the Omega inside the puck mascot?

I have to find out.

CHAPTER 8

UBS Arena, New York

My pulse is racing, as I tiptoe into the Washington Blades’ empty locker room.

My nose wrinkles.

The delicious scent of hyped up Alpha pheromone is buried underneath the equally disgusting chemical scent of rubber mixed with sweat and the mildew stench of hockey equipment.

There’s something sweet mingled in there that doesn’t fit, but I can’t quite make it out.

Anxious, my breathing is ragged.

But I have to do this.

I need to find out more about the Beta, Asher.

Why did he single me out publicly?

I clench my hands into fists.

Why did he make it so that I’m desperate to steal one of his jerseys to add his scent to my nest as well?

Dressed in my normal black sweater and pants after the match (it was close, but Asher scored the second goal to win the game for the Blades, and I may have broken the number one rule again in my excitement), I edge one more step into the forbidden locker room.

My ass is going to be kicked, if I’m discovered.

I dodged around security, who were guarding this room, when they were distracted by a gang of puck bunnies on the hunt for Zev.

The three Alpha security team were twice as large as me with beards that looked like they could intimidate most people into submission on their own.

But I can do this.

I have half an hour, while the players are in their post-match review with Roarke. He’s the type of hardass who doesn’t even allow them the night off to revel in a success, before he’s ripping a performance apart and trying to work out ways to improve.

I press my back against the metal locker and take a careful step forward.

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