4: "Hope you warmed up properly, pretty boy,"

Freya's pov

I stare at my phone, reading Sebastian’s text again—6 AM at the rink, bring your best, the ice shows everything—and my stomach twists, because it’s 3 AM, and I haven’t slept, my mind running through every way this could go wrong, like not being fast enough, or them noticing I’m different, or messing up so bad they kick me out before I start.

Tyler mumbles about biochemistry in his sleep, and I want to wake him just to talk, but what would I say, that I’m scared three alpha werewolves might see through my disguise in a few hours? My hands shake as I get out of bed, fear making it hard to breathe, but there’s also excitement, a buzz under my skin, because this is my chance to prove girls even like me can play hockey as well as boys.

I slip into the bathroom and look in the mirror, where Freddie Sterling stares back with tired eyes and sharp cheekbones, the short haircut making my face look older, stronger, and I practice deepening my voice, squaring my shoulders, standing like I belong even though I feel like I’m falling apart.

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself, “you’ve played hockey your whole life, they’re just boys, big, intimidating boys, but still just boys.”

It doesn’t calm me much.

My alarm buzzes at 5:30, but I’m already dressed, hockey gear feeling heavy, each piece another part of the lie I have to keep up, and the walk to the arena feels endless, the campus quiet with frost on the grass, my breath puffing out in the cold, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure it echoes across the empty quad.

I reach the arena, hands shaking as I push the door open, and inside, the dim emergency lights make everything feel strange, quiet, heavy. I’m lacing my skates when footsteps echo behind me.

“Early bird, huh?” Logan says, already in full gear, standing still but giving off a quiet strength that makes my mouth dry.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, hoping my voice stays steady, “thought I’d get here early.”

He nods, eyes locked on mine, studying me like he can see every secret I’m hiding, and says, “Smart, Sebastian doesn’t mess around, he’ll push you until you break or prove you belong.”

“What about you?” I ask before I can stop myself, “Do you think I belong?”

The question hangs between us, my pulse racing, palms sweating in my gloves, and Logan’s stare sharpens, making me feel exposed, but he says, “I think you’re hiding something, but everyone’s got secrets, what matters is if you can play when it counts.”

He steps onto the ice, moving smooth and confident, and I want that ease, that sureness, so bad it hurts, so I take a breath and follow him, the cold air hitting my face, clearing my head, because this is where I’ve always felt right, where fear fades, and it’s just me and the game.

“Look who showed up early,” Sebastian’s voice cuts through the rink as he skates out from the other tunnel, Zane right behind him, and my brain freezes.

Sebastian moves like he owns the ice, all sharp confidence, and when his eyes meet mine, my stomach flips, heat spreading through me. “Hope you’re ready, Sterling,” he calls, “because we’re not going easy on you.”

Sterling, not pretty boy this time, but the nickname from yesterday still stings, making me wonder if I look too soft, if he suspects something, or if he’s just being a jerk.

Zane glides up, smiling, but his eyes are sharp, calculating, and he says, “Morning, Freddie, ready to show us what you’ve got?”

With all three staring at me, I feel small, like they’re circling me, their alpha energy making me want to run, but this is my shot, my dream, so I force a grin and say, “Born ready.”

Sebastian’s smile is all challenge, and he says, “Let’s see it.”

The next hour is brutal, drills that would exhaust anyone, fast passing sequences that burn my arms, one-on-one battles for the puck that leave me gasping, shooting exercises where they pick apart every move while I fight to stay upright.

But I keep up, and more than that, I shine, every late night in London’s underground rinks, every time I got knocked down and stood back up, every goal I scored when no one believed in me, it all comes together, and I’m not just good enough, I’m better.

The fear is gone, replaced by adrenaline and joy, because this is why I risked everything, why I cut my hair, left my family, became someone else, for moments like this, playing the game I love at this level.

“Damn,” Zane says after I slip past Sebastian so clean he almost falls, “where’d that come from?”

I grin, chest tight with pride, and say, “Just warming up.”

Sebastian skates over, stopping close, his scent—pine and something heavy—making my head spin, my heart pounding, and he says, “Not bad, Sterling,” his voice rough, “but let’s see you handle real pressure.”

Logan slides in on my other side, Zane on the other, and I’m boxed in by three alphas, their intensity making it hard to breathe, the air heavy, tense.

“Three-on-one,” Sebastian says, “keep the puck for thirty seconds, you’ve got our respect, lose it…”

“I won’t lose it,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel, even though I’m shaking inside.

Sebastian leans close, his breath near my ear, and says, “Confident, I like it, but confidence without skill’s just noise.”

He pulls back, eyes locked on mine, challenging, and I can barely think straight, but the puck drops, and it’s chaos, Sebastian coming at me with raw force, Logan precise and relentless, Zane quick and tricky, but I’ve been ready for this my whole life without knowing it.

I move fast, slipping through gaps, using their size against them, finding space where there shouldn’t be, passing to myself, dodging like they’re standing still, fear gone, just fire and focus, fifteen seconds, twenty, twenty-five.

Sebastian dives for the puck, and I slide it between his legs, spinning past so fast he nearly hits Logan, then Zane tries to trap me against the boards, but I use his speed to slip by, twenty-eight, twenty-nine.

“Time!” Zane calls.

The rink goes quiet, just our heavy breathing, and I’m shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline, but I’m still standing, still holding the puck, still here.

Sebastian skates over slow, stopping close, his eyes intense, and says, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Logan joins him, nodding, and says, “Kid’s got real skill.”

“Skill?” Zane says, sliding up, and they’re around me again, but it feels different, like I’ve earned something, “That was something else.”

Sebastian taps my helmet with his glove, a small gesture that feels big, and says, “Welcome to the team, Freddie Sterling, try not to outshine us too bad.”

I should feel on top of the world, because I passed their test, earned their respect, got my spot on the Crescent Moon Wolves, but as they skate toward the locker room, I see Sebastian glance at Logan and Zane, something passing between them, sharp and unspoken, making the air feel heavy again.

I passed their test, but as I watch them talk in low voices, I can’t shake the feeling the real challenge is just starting, and I don’t know if Freddie—if I—can handle what’s next.

Sebastian’s words stick with me—the ice doesn’t lie—but I’m starting to think the ice might be the only thing telling the truth here.