Page 14 of Puck & Her Blades

My leg twinges in sympathy.

What if I crash out and burn all over again like last time?

My breathing picks up, and I’m sweating already. My hair is plastered over my forehead. I clench my jaw.

Come on, Puck. It’s time to show that you can still shake your furry ass.

I put my hands on what would be my hips, twirling. I overbalance, before I force myself to repeat the spin over and over and over…

I’m no quitter.

When I gain a sense of the costume, I launch into the dance routine, which was my favorite warm-up before my skating contests, Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.”

It was true then, and it still is, right?

I work my stuff.

Yeah, this is one sexy Puck mascot.

I laugh, exhilarated.

Until I hear the slow clapping from the doorway.

Shit.

I’m glad that the costume hides my blushes. In fact, it’s liberating to be hidden. After all, it’s Puck who’s acting rebellious and wild — who’s in the spotlight — now.

So, I put my hand on my hip and tilt my head.

In the doorway, a huge wolf mascot with a lolling tongue stares at me.

He’s wearing the North Carolina Wolves Jersey.

So, that’s who the Blades need to beat tonight in the first match of the Conference Finals: their long-term rivals.

I sniff.

There’s not much scent. There must be a Beta inside the North Carolina Wolves’ mascot, Wolfie.

He’s the most hated mascot in the Alpha NHL because he has the most attitude and bullies any Omegas in the crowd.

“Fuck, I really thought that it was a windup. Is Roarke so desperate that he’d employ an Omega for a Beta’s job?” Wolfie sneers in a nasal voice.

I wave my finger at him. “Bad wolf. What about the number one rule? No talking. You’re ruining the magic and shit.”

Wolfie huffs. “The magic and shit is just for the dumbass fans. You know, the kids and that. Back here in the locker rooms, we can talk, drink, hell, even fuck, if you’re up for it.”

He swaggers closer, and his pink tongue lolls side to side.

I wrinkle my nose. “As much as I’ve always dreamed about being screwed by a wolf furry in a smelly locker room, while dressed as a puck, I’m going to have to pass.”

Wolfie sniffs. “Your loss.”

I seriously don’t think that it is.

“Well, good to meet a fellow thespian,” I say, trying to remain friendly.

Suddenly, Wolfie’s casual attitude changes, and he lowers his face closer to mine.

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