Page 14 of Fresh Ice
Instead of running, Alonso tilted his chin up, forcing his voice steady. “Thanks.” It was an admission of something Alonso was lacking—a family who looked after him, and not just his career.
Levy shrugged. “Can’t believe you totally charmed my parents. I didn’t know you were so smooth, Olive,” he teased.
Alonso huffed. “I didn’tcharmthem, I wasrude, I should have—”
“We need to get some Pop-Tarts in you. Obviously your blood sugar is low, and it’s making you incoherent.”
Alonso rolled his eyes but didn’t protest further.
They munched on their treats once they were warm, Alonso peering at Levy tentatively. “Why did you start playing hockey?” he asked.
“Oh, my Uncle’s wife is Canadian and she used to insist on putting games on. I got totally hooked. Even when I was three it just seemed so damn fun, you know? I loved it when the players slammed each other into the boards—the noise, the way the crowd reacted.”
Alonso’s lips twitched into a smile. “Bet you don’t love it so much now.”
Levy chuckled. “Yeah, no. I mean, it was better in Juniors, but oh my God…some of these guys.”
Alonso perked up. “Right?Like Samuelson from the Boars.”
“Holy fuck. I’m legit scared when he’s on the ice with me, I’m not gonna lie. He could flatten me like a pancake.”
Alonso laughed, delighted. “You? Look atme.”
There was a still, strange moment as Levy followed his instructions andlooked. His eyes raked from Alonso’s head to his feet, passing over him like an electric touch.
Alonso shuddered as Levy snapped his gaze away, the tension dissolving.
“Yeah,” Levy croaked, clearing his throat before continuing. “Youarea bit of a shrimp.”
Alonso’s mouth hung open. “Ashrimp?”
Levy shrugged unapologetically, but Alonso could see how it was nothing more than light-hearted teasing.
“I’m six foot, you know.”
“You’re five eleven.”
“I’m six foot!”
The conversation didn’t get any better from there.
**********
Gabby didn’t let pessimism take over the team, but it was as if the brutal loss against the Cats had cursed them. They began losing, and losing, and losing, and couldn’t pick themselves up again.
The guys were still joking around in the locker room, but there was an obvious, forced edge to it as the New York media went at them relentlessly. It was almost a relief to go on the road and escape an arena full of their booing fans.
Not that the change of scenery improved their performance.
To make matters worse, Alonso was getting cramps at a frequency he hadn’t experienced since the first year after starting on suppressants. He knew perfectly well that he should go to a doctor—he depended on his body to be healthy and functional to play hockey—but he was incapable of opening that can of worms.
Alonso didn’t know where his dad got him the pills, and not even the team medics knew he took them—thank God the league didn’t perform the invasive check-ups of old where they would sniff out people’s classifications. Now, all you needed was to state if you were an Alpha or an Omega, and they would take your word for it.
There was nobody Alonso could turn to about this. It wasn’t like his dad would care—as long as he could play hockey, he was fine.
Of course, that was when everything went to shit.
It was after another miserable game, this time against the DC Eagles. A few members of the team were going out for supper, but Alonso just wanted to go to his room and lick his wounds in peace.
