CHAPTER 3 — COLLISION COURSE

MICAH

The next day, the ice felt narrower.

Not physically.

Instinctively.

I noticed it the moment my skates touched the surface—how space collapsed faster, how eyes tracked me even when they pretended not to. The whispers hadn’t stopped overnight. If anything, they’d grown teeth.

Word spread fast at Black Ice.

Someone had hit me from behind.

Ronan Farrow had intervened.

No one said why.

They didn’t need to.

Alphas didn’t protect weakness. They crushed it—or let it be crushed. The fact that Ronan had stepped in at all was enough to make people curious. Curious was dangerous.

Scrimmage teams were posted on the glass wall beside the rink. Names listed in stark black letters, dominance rankings woven carefully into each lineup. I scanned the list once, then again, my jaw tightening.

My name sat right in the middle.

Ronan’s was at the top.

Opposite sides.

A ripple went through the rink as players scanned the lists. Smiles sharpened. Anticipation crackled through the air like static before a storm.

They wanted to see it again.

I adjusted my gloves, rolling my shoulders as I stepped onto the ice. My pulse stayed steady, but my instincts stirred uneasily beneath my skin, pacing like a caged thing. Scrimmages were worse than drills—unpredictable, aggressive, designed to provoke loss of control.

And control was the only thing keeping me alive.

The whistle blew.

The puck dropped.

Chaos followed.

Skates carved violently into the ice. Bodies slammed together. Shouts and snarls echoed off the boards. Ronan moved like a force of nature—cutting through the rink with brutal efficiency, shutting down plays before they could form. His presence warped the game around him. Players adjusted instinctively, either rallying behind him or steering clear.

I stayed out of his reach.

At least, I tried to.

Every time I accelerated, he adjusted. Every angle I took, he anticipated. It wasn’t flashy. It was terrifyingly precise.

He wasn’t trying to dominate me.

He was studying me.

I slipped past one defender, then another, skating hard along the boards. The puck stayed glued to my stick as I cut inward, muscles burning as I searched for an opening.

It never came.

Ronan appeared in front of me without warning, body angled perfectly to block my path. His eyes locked onto mine—cold, focused, burning with something I couldn’t name.

I veered left.

He matched me.

Right.

Blocked again.

My instincts screamed.

Don’t engage. Don’t challenge.

But the ice left no room for retreat.

I feinted, spun sharply, and slid the puck through his legs in a move so fast the crowd gasped. I darted past him, heart slamming against my ribs as adrenaline surged.

For half a second—

Freedom.

Then his arm hooked around my waist.

Not a full tackle. Not illegal.

Just enough.

Enough to pull me back into him.

My back hit his chest. Solid. Unyielding. His grip tightened, firm and deliberate, breath hot against the side of my neck.

Every system in my body short-circuited.

My suppressants flared violently, heat spiking through my veins as my scent surged dangerously close to the surface. Panic licked up my spine. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, grounding myself in pain.

Let go.

He didn’t.

“Fast,” Ronan murmured, voice low, meant only for me.

“Too fast.”

I twisted free and shoved off hard, legs burning as I put distance between us. The puck was gone. The play moved on.

But the damage was done.

I could still feel him—his grip, his scent, the weight of his attention pressing against my back.

The scrimmage intensified.

Hits came harder. Tempers flared. One Alpha snapped completely and was dragged off the ice snarling, eyes glowing feral gold, four coaches barely holding him down.

No one looked surprised.

I kept moving.

Always moving.

Jayden was everywhere—cutting passes, laughing when he stole the puck, clapping teammates on the back like this was nothing more than a friendly game. At one point, he skated close enough to murmur softly:

“You should be careful.”

I didn’t look at him.

“Careful gets boring fast around here,” he added lightly. “People start wondering what you’re hiding.”

The whistle blew before I could respond.

End of scrimmage.

I bent forward, hands braced on my knees, lungs burning as I fought to keep my breathing even. Sweat slicked my skin beneath my gear, cold and dangerous. My suppressants buzzed uneasily in my bloodstream, still too warm.

Across the ice, Ronan stood perfectly still.

Watching me.

Not like a predator about to strike.

Like a problem he was determined to solve.

As we skated off, he fell into step beside me without warning. Close enough that his presence pressed against my senses, overwhelming and intimate all at once. Several heads turned. I felt it—attention sharpening, curiosity spiking.

“You don’t play like an Alpha,” Ronan said quietly.

My spine stiffened. “Is that a problem?”

His gaze flicked to me—sharp, unreadable.

“It should be.”

We reached the tunnel leading off the rink. He stopped.

I didn’t.

“Tyler,” Ronan said.

Hearing my name on his tongue sent a jolt straight through my chest. I turned despite myself.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice until the noise of the rink faded into nothing.

“If you’re lying,” he said calmly, almost thoughtfully—

I didn’t flinch. I slid my hands into my pockets, forcing my posture loose.

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

His eyes searched my face like he expected it to crack.

“I will find out,” he said finally.

Another glance. Measuring. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the threat hanging between us like a blade.

I stood there long after he was gone, heart pounding, suppressants cooling at last.

Collision course.

That was what this was.