Page 11 of Fresh Ice
“Let’s go, baby!” Levy shouted in his face, grin ecstatic.
All Alonso could do was laugh as the rest of the guys on the ice crowded him, cheering his first goal as though it meant as much to them as it did to Alonso.
Even at the bench, guys jostled and shook him playfully. Gabby knocked his helmet off and rubbed his knuckles into Alonso’s scalp like an emotionally constipated big brother.
The goal was all the sweeter when the game ended in a win, everybody making a big deal of it as they returned to the locker room, spraying him with Gatorade bottles as if it were champagne. The obligatory picture with the puck captured him soaking wet, dark hair dripping into his eyes.
The whole team piled into a bunch of Ubers, even the old married guys with Omegas and kids waiting for them at home. They took over a massive table at a brewery in Queens, stuffing themselves with sausages and sauerkraut and stout beer.
Gabby bought Alonso his first drink, setting the pint down so roughly he sloshed it all over the wood underneath. “There you go, kid. You did it. Now relax and have fun, eh?” Gabby ordered only half jokingly.
Alonso blushed at how obvious his desperation had been. “Yeah,” he said, meaning it.
Letting go wasn’t as difficult as Alonso had imagined it would be, carried by the momentum of getting that milestone over and done with. It helped that everybody was in such a good mood. They plied him with drinks in a borderline irresponsible way, what with him only being nineteen and below the legal drinking age in the States, but Alonso wasn’t going to protest.
For the first time in a long time, he really, truly, felt part of the team.
Levy draped himself over Alonso’s side, grin dopey with alcohol. “That goal was so fucking pretty, babe.”
Alonso smiled at him, not even twitching at the endearment. Levy was so close that his scent filled Alonso’s head with a pleasant haze, a glittering cloud descending on his thoughts. “Yours too. I mean, your first goal. You didn’t score today, but that’s okay because I did and we won.”
Levy started laughing as if that was the funniest fucking thing he’d ever heard. “You were so mad when I scored that goal, oh my God.”
“I wasn’t mad,” Alonso protested.
He hadn’t beenmad. He’d been…scared. Scared about what his dad would say. Scared that he would never be enough.
But he wasn’t about to say that out loud.
“You were soooo mad. You were pouting for a week straight.”
“I don’t pout.” Alonso pouted.
That just made Levy crack up again.
Alonso startled as Gabby clapped a few times in front of their faces. “Okay, kiddos, time to go home.”
They both protested loudly but were instantly overruled by the rest of the team. It didn’t even matter, really—they were going home together, so Alonso didn’t have to leave Levy and his bright, clear smile behind.
Not that it would matter if he did…Alonso was just very warm, and Levy smelt so, so good.
Even their apartment smelt almost exclusively of Levy. The medication Alonso took to change his scent made him seem like an Alpha, but it was muted and didn’t tend to linger.
“Home,” Levy screamed way too loud once their apartment door was closed behind them.
Alonso shushed him even though he was giggling too much to sound convincing. “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”
“You’regonna get us kicked out,” Levy countered.
Alonso shoved him away as he headed to the kitchen. “It’s Pop-Tart time.”
“It’s what?” Levy asked behind him.
Alonso ignored him in favour of digging through the shelves, crying out in triumph when he found what he was searching for. He brandished the colourful box full of the Earth’s most delicious treasures, waving it in front of Levy.
Levy gaped. “Where the hell were you keeping those?”
“None of your business,” Alonso declared, taking two unsteady steps and making it to the toaster only to be foiled by the Pop-Tarts packaging. “How do you even get these open?”
