Page 4 of Broken Ice
It’d been a brutal series, animosity calcifying by Atlanta’s Stanley Cup win that year. Although the players of those teams had retired a long time ago, the bad blood remained, getting significantly worse after Beau was drafted and Torres turned out to be an absolute dickhead.
“I don’t have a rivalry with him. I’m here as part of a team to play against another team. If Torres has trouble being a decent person to Omegas, that’s not something I want to get involved in.”
Of course, all Torres ever said was that it was ‘taken out of context.’
Buddy, it’s on camera,Beau couldn’t help but think.The whole fucking context was filmed.
So, after the shitty year Beau had experienced, after a series of heats so painful he’d honestly thought about going to the hospital during the last one, being traded to a team with a player who had similar views to Johnson was a blow Beau had struggled to take.
But hehadtaken it, and he’d gotten up again, and he was absolutely determined to make it everybody’s problem if Torres so much ashintedat Beau covering up his scent.
“Oh, hey,” a voice to his right said. Apparently, there were more people in the room than Torres—Donovan Chester was there with that affable scent and that affable smile of his. A veteran Alpha from the Midwest, he was one of those third-line players who weren’t the most talented but were steady and consistent enough to be an invaluable part of the team. He had a milquetoast face and a matching personality, from what Beau had seen of him.
Beau gave him a nod. “Hey. Nice pants.”
Donovan looked down at his bright-blue compression shorts. “I think they suit me.”
“Sure, bud. Totally unrelated, but do you happen to be colour-blind?”
On the other end of the room, Torres huffed. Donovan, because he had an actual soul and a sense of humour, laughed. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you some of these soon. They’ll match your eyes.”
Beau snorted. His eyeswerea weirdly intense shade of blue, he’d give him that. “Fuck you, buddy.”
“Right back at’cha.”
“Where’s your fearless leader? Don’t tell me he’s slacking already?”
Pavel Lebedev was the well-known captain of the Manatees, a gentle giant of a Russian player, although he had been in America since he was sixteen, his accent faint. He and Torres were two peas in a pod, as far as Beau could tell, but Pavel seemed distinctly more likeable. Beau had hung out with him during the previous All-Star weekend, and they’d gotten along surprisingly well, something the media couldn’t get enough of.
Donovan nodded to the hallway. “He’s on the ice, actually.”
Beau perked up. “I didn’t know we were allowed out there today.”
Donovan shrugged. “Yeah, if you want. Some of us are saving our legs for camp, but you know Pav.”
Beau turned to White. “You think I can hop on for a few laps? My skates and sticks are here.”
“Sure. Why not?”
Donovan hummed in amusement. “Whoa. You’re happy, huh?”
Beau realised that his scent had bloomed wide at the news, and he reined it in. Just a little, though—he didn’t want togive off the impression that he was going to be making himself smaller just so they didn’t have to deal with his Omega-ness.
“Is that gonna be a problem?” Beau said in his most passive-aggressive, sweet voice.
Donovan frowned. “Uh…you being happy?”
Beau stared at him. He didn’t believe Donovan was dumb enough not to catch his meaning.
“Oh. Because of the…” Donovan made a vague gesture around his nose. “Dude, no. I’m not going to police your scent, jeez.” Like that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
“Well, at least that makes one of you.” Beau shot Torres a sunny grin.
Everybody in the room smelt decidedly uncomfortable—and so they should.
“Okay, well, I’m gonna hop on the ice. Nice talking to you, Chester.”
“Call me Donovan or, like, Don.”
