Page 87 of Puck & Her Blades

This Omega selection ball is the first time that I’ve been allowed inside Blade House. I’m not sure that I’ve seen so much gold-leaf or as many crystal chandeliers in the same room before.

The ballroom’s ceiling is high and ornate.

The drapes are gold and diaphanous, swathing the walls. They’re printed with the team’s logo. In each of the four corners stand huge fir trees. They’re topped with stars, which are decorated gaudily with miniature robins, wearing skates, as if even birds are trying out for the Alpha NHL.

Beta servers, who are dressed in smart violet uniforms, weave between the groups of Omega guests.

The Omegas stand around excitedly with their chaperones, clutching flutes of champagne or fruity cocktails and fancy canapés.

There aren’t any Alphas in the room.

I haven’t been able to find Jackson and Zev. In fact, I can’t see any of the Blades.

I guess when it’s your selection ball, you can be fashionably late.

I keep straining to check that Asher hasn’t been forced to work tonight as a server.

It’d be just like Roarke to humiliate his Companion player like that.

Yet Asher is the reason that I’m here tonight at all. He’s the reason that the Washington Blades are celebrating.

Last night, during the game, I was a fucking wreck, terrified for Jackson.

I knew the stakes.

Jackson would have been beaten in front of the entire team, if the Blades had lost.

Now that I know Jackson properly and the fact that he’s wanted me for years in the same way I have him — this is our second chance to be together because he intended to ask to bond with me before my fall on the ice — the thought of his suffering cuts me like a knife.

It feels like we’ve already missed out on years of being together.

Jackson’s my Alpha.

My blood sings the truth of it.

Every minute of the game, my heart was in my mouth, at the thought of my Alpha being hurt.

Yet I shouldn’t have been worried because Zev and Asher must have felt the same thing. I’d never seen them work together so flawlessly before.

Asher was like a fucking machine. He was frighteningly focused.

The way that the three attackers skated together was like they had telepathy. Even the commentator joked that all three appeared to be bonded.

Yet they didn’t need to be bonded because they were connected by their aim to win and save Jackson.

Was it also to win me?

I shiver, taking a quick drink of my non-alcoholic cocktail.

It’s sweet, but I wish that the citrus tang on my tongue was actually soft, creamy peaches.

Asher deserves a special treat.

My hockey god scored five goals.

The other team didn’t even score once.

I grin, leaning against the wall and scanning across the room.

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