Page 3 of Broken Ice
“If you insinuate that my scent should be covered, or that I can’t have my heats, or undervalue me in any way—I’m not going to take it lying down. I put up a hundred and four points last season. I can do it again.”
White gave him a puppy-eyed expression of sympathy. Beau hated it, but at least it was better than derision. “Beau, I assure you that we traded for you because we want you here. We want not only the bestofyou, but the bestforyou.”
Kelly nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely.”
Beau sat back in his seat. That sounded extremely fanciful, but he wasn’t going to say so out loud. “Okay.”
Greg piped up. “We’ll figure out a good program to help your body recover from the suppressant abuse. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you, but we can find a private moment for me to do so.”
“I’ve already gone to a specialist, so we can liaise with her.”
“Perfect.”
The meeting wrapped up soon after that. Beau was taken around and given an extensive tour of where all the training rooms were, how the laundry process worked, where the sticks and extra gear were kept.
Beau made sure to talk to everybody he encountered, getting their names, asking a few questions about them. As much as he’d clashed with the Warriors’ front office, he’d always seen the staff as allies.
“As you know,” White said, “training camp starts tomorrow, so most of the guys aren’t here right now, but there should be a couple of them in the gym.”
Beau didnotwant to deal with his future teammates—or current teammates, he supposed—right now, but it wouldn’t look good to refuse.
They stepped into the weight room, White still talking, but Beau was hit with the best fucking scent he’d ever smelt.
Emilio fucking Torres.God, Beau had really hoped not to have to deal with him today.
Torres was on a weight bench, but he shot up as soon as Beau entered. His oval face was unfairly handsome, nose strong, dark hair flopping over his forehead. Despite having been born and reared in Sweden, his mother was Portuguese, and it was obvious in his complexion.
Torres wrinkled his nose dramatically, and there was one of the many reasons why Beau disliked him.
Ever since Beau had first presented, he’d been told his scent was too strong. It had been ‘disruptive’ in class and ‘distracting’ in the locker room, but Beau had been proud of it. It was usually Alphas who dominated a space with their scent, but Beau could match the best of them, and he’d worn that like a badge of honour. It felt like a ‘fuck-you’ to all the Alphas who thought Beau should do less, or be less, because of his designation.
On the ice, he used it like a tool. Let his scent bloom off him, grating against the senses of other players, getting in the faces of goalies and forcing them to deal with his funk.
Which wasn’t to say Beau hadn’t developed a complex about it.
The thing he’d learnt during the whole suppressant debacle was that maybe he’d been covering up his insecurities with bravado for so long that he’d convincedhimselfthat he didn’t care how Alphas reacted to his scent.
When Johnson had told him to take one for the team and get on suppressants, Beau had hesitated, but he’d said yes. One of his linemates at the time, Ossy, had asked him about it, and some of the guys had chirped about how it wasn’t the same without him stinking the place up, but even those comments he’d secretly taken the wrong way, convincing himself that his teammates felt nothing but relief that they didn’t have to smell him anymore.
It turned out Johnson was just a massive fucking asshole who had the ingrained belief that Omegas were a distraction in the locker room. It wouldn’t have mattered how potent Beau’s scent was—he’d have been put on suppressants either way.
Because it was clear in his contract that the league and its franchises weren’t liable for the effects of medical procedures a player consented to, they’d been free to wash their hands of Beau and not deal with the mess his body had been left in.
Which fucking sucked, sure, but part of Beau was just glad he was out of there.
Even if it was to the goddamn Manatees of all hellish places.
And, sure, Beau was wary of his new team because they’d been mortal enemies not a month before, but it was also due to the guy staring at him across the room with a pinched expression on his face.
From the very first game they’d played against each other, Torres had made it obvious how much he disliked Beau’s scent. Wrinkling his nose, rearing away—one time, he’d actually covered the lower half of his face with a gloved hand when Beau had gotten too close.
Beau didn’t care what chirps were lobbied at him—he’d heard it all. Butthat? An Alpha reacting with such open disgust to an Omega’s scent?
It was beyond insulting—it was borderline taboo to do that to someone, let alone in public, while beingfilmed.
The worst part was that Beau had been asked about it every time the Warriors and Manatees faced off for more than a fuckingyear. “The rivalry between Atlanta and Miami has always been chippy, but it seems to have reawakened by your rivalry with Torres,” a reporter had commented once.
It was true—ever since the Conference finals of 1986, those two teams had been at each other’s throats. One of the Miami players had severely injured Atlanta’s captain, and all fuckinghell had broken loose. That it had been on a dirty play meant that retaliation was a must.
