Page 37 of Puck Your Friend
I sigh. “But we wouldn’t push it that far with her. And besides, we might be large, but we aren’t a baby’s head large. I’m just saying, it’s not impossible if we approach it right.” I glance at each of them.
Logan flips his hair back. “I’ve never heard of a pack that gets with a Beta over an Omega. If it gets out, the media will run with it, especially since we’re going to win this season. She’ll be slapped into the spotlight. It needs to be up to her if she even wants that.”
I set my coffee down. “I don’t care if she wants to be platonic until the end of time. We’re not letting her go again. I’ll live like a fucking monk if it means I can love her.”
They nod. At least we’re on the same page.
The silence turns heavy.
Logan clears his throat, breaking it first. “Do you think it was a heat that night at the lake? With hindsight, her behavior then reminds me of the Omega at the heat clinic; the one we helped.”
Ford shakes his head as he takes the lid off his blender bottle and turns on the tap. “She was fifteen, sixteen is the youngest I’ve ever heard with Omegas presenting. Plus, that scent doesn’t line up how she smells now. All the pheromone suppressantsI’ve been around smell like wet iron. She smells plain.” His voice is steady, leaving no room for us to argue.
I don’t keep my mouth shut when I’ve got something to say. “That night by the lake, she didn’t smell like she does now, and you fucking know it. Something doesn’t make sense here.”
Ford exhales slowly and sets the blender cup down to air dry on the dish rack.
Wes runs a hand over his face. “We didn’t actually help any Omegas, either, Logan. Alpha Aid would’ve paid well, since we were living off of instant ramen, but we walked into our assigned room and she smelled like rotting fruit. None of us lasted five minutes, remember?”
I shake my head. “Didn’t even get a dollar for the attempt.” I glance over at Ford. “I remember you grabbed the trashcan and puked. She started crying. You probably gave the poor girl trauma.”
Footsteps on the stairs make us go silent.
She steps into the kitchen. She’s still wearing my hoodie. I’d hoped for nothing underneath, and I have to adjust my stance and force myself to calm down.
Last night was hard, in more ways than one. Knowing she was lying down the hall from me, in nothing but my hoodie and her underwear, nearly undid me. I spent far too long in the shower after she went to bed. My dick doesn’t care that she’s a Beta when I know there’s a way around that.
Frankie doesn’t just look tired. Her skin’s gone flat. The glow she used to carry is missing. She used to have a rich golden hue to her tan skin. Dark smudges hang under her eyes, and her steps drag.
She isn’t the same girl from camp who crushed every sport she tried.
11 years ago…(age 15)
We’re playing on the old, but recently asphalted, outdoor basketball court repurposed for rollerblade hockey and rollerblading. Spray-painted markings outline faceoff circles and goal creases.
The goals are held together with duct tape. One net doesn’t even have mesh on the bottom half, but no one seems to care. Camp tournament week always brings out the chaos.
My team’s down by one in the final period, The winner will go to the finals in two days to take the trophy. The sun’s brutal today, not a cloud in the sky. My shirt clings to my back under the chest pad, and my lungs burn.
Frankie lines up at center. Ford takes the draw against her. I hang back as the left winger, waiting to see how she opens.
Wes and Logan flank her as wings. Marcy and Dani play as her defensemen. Five on five. No goalies. She gives Ford a look thatsays she already knows how it ends. To her, we’re obstacles, not players.
The plastic puck drops.
She’s gone in half a heartbeat, cutting inside and dragging the puck behind her as if it’s weightless. I try to match her stride, but she wheels wide and leaves me spinning. Ford chases her down the left lane, but she fakes a pass and cuts back. From the high slot, she fires it low and fast, the puck catches just inside the post. The net ripples.
A cheer goes up from the sideline, where a few counselors and campers watch from behind the fence. Her team whoops, banging their sticks against the pavement, but she doesn’t gloat. She just circles back toward center, focused and calm. She’s probably already thinking about the next play.
The counselor lets us reset with the blow of his whistle. Four minutes left. One last push.
I square up, planting hard. “That’s the last one.”
She cocks her head. “You sure about that?”
Next play, I pick her up on the breakout. Wes covers the slot for her side. She passes off to Marcy, who’s still more interested in being seen than scoring. The puck clatters awkwardly off her stick, but somehow it makes it back to Frankie. She sends it wide to Logan, cuts through the middle, takes the return pass, and slaps it home. Another goal. Her second this period. We’re done for.
Logan lets out a laugh. Ford mutters a curse under his breath, earning a glare from the counselors on the sideline. I stay quiet, chest heaving, still trying to get my head around the fact she just scored on us again.
