Her Hockey Alpha Mate

Hailey.

The rink is freezing, but I've gotten used to it. The soft tapping of my typewriter echoes through the noise from the hockey fans at the arena. It’s another night, another hockey game, another column I’ll rewrite three or more times before it passes my father’s inspection.

A soft sigh slips from my lips as my fingers move fast on the typewriter. The hockey players from Southside College are playing against a team from a rival school. My job is simple: record the stats, edit the sports column for the school newspaper and try not to fall asleep when the puck is being slammed into the opponent’s net.

I tilt my head up slowly and my eyes lock on someone with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair that stands out among the other players. My heart surprisingly skips a beat as I suddenly recognize who it is.

“Hailey! Are you watching the plays, or are you dealing with something out of the box up there?” A familiar voice yells from the bench.

I do not bother glancing down. I know that voice so well because it belongs to my father. It is sharp, just like a blade scraping against the ice. The man can easily tell when I’m distracted. And right now, I am.

I lower my gaze and keep typing, murmuring to myself to stay focused.

“Focus, Hailey. Focus. Focus.” I keep saying as if that will stop me from staring at the star hockey player of the college, Rhys Soren—Southside’s hockey team captain.

I am staring at him. I know I am and it’s fucking weird because I’ve sworn on my life not to get involved with any hockey player. Except that Rhys Soren is impossible to ignore.

He is six-foot-something with broad shoulders—enough reason for me to stop staring at him. He moves across the ice too fast, too strong, like he was born with skates instead of feet. His movement feels strange.

All eyes are on him now with every shift of his body. A stunned gasp ripples through the air when he passes the puck at a speed that feels inhuman.

“Goal!” the crowd roars, chanting his name like he's some god.

I lower my gaze again and type it into the typewriter. A goal. I lift my head up again, then my breath catches in my throat. His brown eyes are fixed on the press box where I’m sitting. No, they are on me.

Heat rushes to my face for some damn reason I don't care about. I tilt my head down and tell myself it’s a coincidence. Or that’s just the way he looks at every other person. I just have to find an excuse, because if he's actually looking at me, then I’m already in more trouble than I can write my way out of.

A few minutes later, Rhys scores the final goal and the game ends. Southside College defeats the rival school and the crowd erupts into familiar chaos, roaring and chanting the winning team’s name.

My father snaps out orders, reminding the players not to let the win make them think more highly of themselves than they should. I wonder if that’s necessary considering how long he lectures them every day in the locker room until their sweat turns cold.

I gather my notes, slipping the last page into my backpack. All I want is to sneak back to the dorm before my father can trick me into doing more work. But the universe rarely lets me off easily.

“Hailey!”

Too late. I scrunch up my nose and stop halfway down the press box steps. My father is waiting at the bottom of the steps, clipboard under his arm and his expression unreadable.

“Dad?” I call out, acting surprised as if I don’t know he’s standing there.

“You weren’t paying attention tonight,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “I could feel it.”

I swallow hard, then force a smile. “I got the stats, Dad. Every goal and every foul was recorded neatly. I’m just fine,” I say softly.

“You were staring.”

A jolt shoots through my chest. I tell myself he didn’t mean his words the way I heard them. But my father’s gaze is cold. There’s no doubt he knows where my attention has drifted.

“Stay away from the players, Hailey.” His voice drops to a whisper, but it’s laced with an edge. “Especially him.”

A cold chill runs down my spine. I swallow, gripping my backpack tighter as if it will shield me from falling apart. He knows exactly who I was staring at.

“I don’t even talk to them outside the press box. You’ve made sure of that,” I say in protest because I cannot let him see through me.

“Keep it that way,” he says with a sigh, probably in relief. “Hockey players will ruin your life.”

Before I can reply, he darts towards the locker room, leaving me trembling with words I can't say.

Stay away from hockey players.

No falling for jocks.

You can't date jocks.

I sing to myself like it's a rhyme as I walk through a group of fans waiting for autographs. I keep my head down, hugging my backpack tightly to my chest.

Everywhere smells of sweat and cleaning fluid and I just want nothing more than to get to my room and have a sweet sleep. And avoiding hockey players, of course.

“Hey, Hailey,” a voice says, stopping me in my tracks.

The voice is low, steady, and too close.

I turn slowly, my heart racing in my chest for some reason I can't even decipher.

And my eyes land on him—Rhys Soren. He's still in his gear, his jersey clinging to his broad shoulders. His brown hair is damp, curling at the ends.

His light brown eyes lock on me and suddenly the air shifts. The hallway feels too small. And for a fleeting second, I see something strange in his eyes—something feral, animalistic, almost inhuman.

What the hell is happening?