Page 3 of In Too Deep

“I think my roommates and I have something, a bonding trip of sorts.” I try to be vague without arousing suspicion.

They seem about ready to ask follow-up questions, but our conversation gets interrupted as one of the Ovs from the pair on defense—it’s hard to tell if it’s Evgeny or Grigori mid-flight—lands a massive cannonball, splashing nearly everyone in the room, including the person shoving their way through the door.

“What the hell do you hooligans think you’re doing?”

The music stops and everyone goes silent as we realize that the newcomer standing dripping in the doorway is none other than Logan McQueen. No one moves, no one even seems to breathe as we wait. His shoulders are back, his brow low over a heated glare. We’re so fucking screwed. It’s gonna be bag skates for a month, and we’re going to be post-game cleanup duty for the rest of our careers. But then he chuckles and steps aside. Behind him are the rest of the coaching staff and Rachel, Tori’s co-worker in the Public Engagement office. And in their hands are four enormous flat boxes.

“You left your fucking pizza order in the lobby. We’ve been drooling over it for twenty minutes,” he shouts with a laugh, a smile splitting his face.

You could almost hear as every asshole in the room unpuckers. I sayalmost, because it’s hard to hear anything over the shout of excitement and the stampede racing toward the food.

I laugh as Iscroll through the photos Rachel just uploaded to the shared Public Engagement hard drive. The team successfully landed in Buffalo, and apparently it was a dash from the airport to make sure they could make it with enough time to practice before the game tonight. Rachel had texted me that I wouldn’t believe what went down at the hotel, and I’ve been waiting on bated breath for more details. It made fielding emails about the rapid change of plans for our annual Christmas benefit event that much harder to focus on. And boy howdy, are these pictures worth the wait.

Shirtless pictures of hockey players are a marketing team’s wet dream, and I have them in abundance. Guys who barely crack a smile in formal photoshoots are grinning from ear to ear as they play chicken and toss around what looks like an exercise ball. I don’t know if they were even aware of the camera half the time, which is perfect.

My scrolling finger stops when I come across a series of images that make my heart skip a beat. Spencer, Eli, and Oli are standing on the pool deck, in all their bare-chested glory, laughing with Logan, of all people. And what’s better, the head coach also seemed to let his hair down. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him dressed in anything other than polo shirts and button-downs, which seems like a crime against humanity now that I can see what he’s been hiding.

Logan McQueen is a former NHL player himself, whose promising career was cut short after a devastating neck injury. But it appears that he hasn’t let himself go in the slightest. His arms are nearly as jacked as the alphas surrounding him, with at least a handful of abs peeking out from behind the towel draped around Logan’s shoulders. What I did not see coming from a mile away is the sheer amount of ink covering his skin. Mostly grayscale images cover his pecs and shoulders, wrapping around to his back, all strategically placed so not a line or dot would show when he’s dressed in professional attire.

My stomach flips and my mouth waters the longer I stare, and I have to push my laptop away to regain my composure. But even then, my core still tries to clench on air as my intrusive thoughts start demanding me to find out if his skin would taste like his apple cider scent if we licked every inch of that body art. I take a few deep breaths, trying to get myself under control. But all I can hear in the back of my mind are snippets of the conversation I’d had with my doctor this morning.

After getting a blood sample analyzed, we’ve discovered that my heat blockers are no longer working. It was bound to happen eventually, my omega-health specialist had said. Once my body recognized compatible alphas, most heat blockers and suppressants cease to work. There are ongoing studies about the phenomenon, but the bottom line was that I’m stuck at the mercy of my natural cycle again for the first time in nearly sevenyears. No more blockers. No more hormone supplements. No more birth control implant, though that last one was more due to it already being at the end of its efficacy than anything to do with my whack-ass omega shit. We’re keeping the birth control pills for now, as it’s too dangerous to quit those cold turkey, but I’ll be weaned off them within two months. It remains to be seen if my mood stabilizers will be necessary, but the continued presence of my intrusive thoughts points to that being a different chemical imbalance in my body.

When I think I’ve got myself cooled down, I bring my laptop back toward me, settling deeper into the corner of my couch as I set about selecting the snapshots I’m going to use for my post. I try to pick a fair spread, but Eli is just everywhere, gap-toothed smile and pale skin and perfect legs…

And there goes another set of panties. Fucking sex-on-a-hockey-stick alphas.

Eventually, I get it together and move my shortlist to my personal drive, touching up a handful to post on the team’s socials. I sigh as they go live, setting my laptop on the side table nearest to me and readjusting the fuzzy blanket I’d snuggled into. Winter in New Orleans isn’t nearly as harsh as it is back home in Michigan, but the humidity really drives the chill to your bones. There’re still a few hours until I’m on duty for the game, and while I should be folding laundry or something else productive, I’m too cozy to get up.

I’d forgotten how strong the omega nesting instinct is over the last few years. A lot of things about my designation went away once I stopped having heats. I don’t turn into a whiney puddle if an alpha looks at me the wrong way, and I rarely felt the need to make myself smaller for anyone. I’m going to do my damnedest to not let this change affect my job, but I work around young, virile, mostly unbonded alphas. So, it’s going to be quite a feat.

My phone pings, pulling me away from my navel gazing. As I see the name at the top of the notification, tension releases from my body.

Eli

Just saw your post. Glad you got my good side lol

Do you have a bad side?

I was gonna say from behind, but Oli would disagree ;-)

My face flushes hot as the image of Eli on his knees, all that pale skin on display and glistening with sweat as Oli looms over him. Oliver’s yellow-gold eyes glowing with heat as he stares me down. Each sharp snap of his hips acting as a promise and a threat spoken in the most primal language.

The whine that escapes me as I rub my thighs together has me hiding under my blanket, despite there not being anyone around me to witness my shame. But in the dark, only lit by the glow of my phone screen, it’s easier to let my hand wander down the front of my leggings. I’m practically dripping, which is new for me. Usually, it takes several minutes of dedicated foreplay to get me ready for action, as it were, and even after that, I’d still supplement with bottled lube. Now, my fingers glide across my clit with ease, teasing the swollen bud until I’m gasping.

I’m pretty sure you look good from below, too.

But it’s been a minute, so my memory might be playing tricks on me.

The messages are sent before I can stop it, my mind flashing back to when Eli had me pinned to this very couch, devouring me until I came not once, not twice, but three times. How he made me talk through everything he was doing to me. And then he took me back to my bed and altered the foundation of my entire reality. My fingers move faster as I remember my face pressed into the couch at the boys’ house, my ass in the air as Oli rearranged my insides. My overheated body pressed between Oli and Eli as they filled my pussy and ass with their knots, my eyes locked onto Spencer’s ocean orbs as he stroked his cock with a manic sort of energy. And then my mind adds another figure to the tableau, one with emerald eyes and tattoos and a touch of silver at his temples, commanding me with only a glance and a smirk.

My orgasm comes out of nowhere, rushing me like a linebacker and sending me into outer space. I pant as I come down from the high, almost dizzy from the rush of endorphins. Fucking hell, when was the last time I was able to get myself off manually? I usually have to use one of my vibrators and maybe a knotted dildo if the vibe alone isn’t cutting it. I’m still pulsing with aftershocks when my phone buzzes in my hand.

Eli

We’ll just have to jog your memory when I get back home then, won’t we, sunshine?

I slide farther down the arm of the couch until I’m flat on my back, covering my eyes and clutching my phone to my sternum. I can practically feel my heart pounding against my ribs.

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