0010

Rowan’s Pov

My heart was still doing backflips in my chest as I pulled away from Asher on the ice.

I stared up at him for a second too long, my face burning hotter than a stove, before I stumbled backward on my skates and grabbed my stick like it was a lifeline. I told myself it meant nothing. It was just a stupid accident, a slip on the ice, and a moment of panic because we were playing too close to the line. But even as I told myself to calm down, my skin still tingled right where his hands had gripped my waist.

I couldn't afford to think about that. Not now. Not ever.

To keep my brain from exploding, I threw myself entirely into hockey. The next few days leading up to Silvercrest’s first big away exhibition game were an absolute blur of early morning practices, heavy conditioning, and grueling drills. If I stayed exhausted, I didn't have to think about Asher looking at me like I hung the stars, and I didn't have to look over my shoulder for Bianca.

Traveling with the team for our first away game felt completely surreal. When we boarded the big private team bus, I tried to slide quietly into a back row seat by myself, but Mason wasn't having any of it.

"Move over, rookie," Mason grinned, dropping his heavy duffel bag onto the seat next to me and plopping down right beside me. "You can't sit by yourself. That's against team code. You have to endure my terrible jokes for three hours."

Despite my nerves, I couldn't help laughing. "Is that an official team rule?"

"100 percent," Mason said solemnly, tapping his chest. "Right next to 'never steal the captain's post-game protein shake unless you have a death wish'."

The bus ride passed much faster than I expected. Mason kept me laughing the entire way, pulling other players into a loud, stupid debate about whether sports drinks or chocolate milk were better for post-game recovery. By the time we pulled up to the opposing team's arena, a few of the senior players who had previously glared at me during practice were actually tossing sarcastic remarks my way—not to be mean, but to test if I could take a joke.

I didn't back down. I fired right back with a dry comment about their terrible defensive footwork that made the whole back row howl with laughter.

Mason clapped me on the back so hard my teeth rattled. "Okay, Hayes, I see you! You're alright for a quiet kid."

Even from a few rows ahead, I could feel Asher watching us. Whenever I glanced his way, his dark eyes were fixed on me with a quiet, intense curiosity, taking in how naturally I was fitting in with the rest of the pack. He didn't say anything, but I could tell his mind was turning over a million miles a minute.

The away arena was loud, cold, and hostile. The rival team's fans packed the bleachers, booing the moment Silvercrest stepped onto the ice. It was my first major opportunity to prove myself outside our home turf, and the pressure sitting on my shoulders felt heavy enough to crack bone.

When the referee dropped the puck to start the first period, all the noise faded away into background static. There was only the ice, the black rubber, and the game.

The opposing team played dirty. They knew Silvercrest’s reputation, and they wanted to crush us. Within the first ten minutes, I took a brutal shoulder check into the plexiglass that rattled my teeth, and a defenseman tried to trip me up near the blue line. But I kept my center of gravity low, moved fast, and used every ounce of technique Aunt Ivy had drilled into me since I was a little kid.

By the third period, the score was tied, and both teams were running on pure adrenaline.

With less than two minutes left on the clock, Mason intercepted a sloppy pass in our zone, spun around, and fired the puck up the ice. I sprinted forward on a breakaway, my legs burning, pushing past two defenders who scrambled to catch up. The goalie rushed out to cut down the angle, but I faked a slap shot, slid the puck smoothly to my backhand, and flipped it right over his outstretched pad into the back of the net.

Goal!

The Silvercrest bench erupted. Mason reached me first, slamming into me against the glass with a loud cheer, followed immediately by the rest of the team. We held on for the final ninety seconds to secure a hard-fought, narrow victory.

We had won.

As we skated off the ice and headed toward the locker rooms, I was riding an incredible high. But that high didn't last long.

The intense physical exertion of playing a full, brutal game under maximum stress started taking a massive toll on my body. The suppressants I relied on—the few remaining ones I had managed to keep hidden—wore off rapidly under the heavy sweat and adrenaline. By the time we reached the team hotel, my skin felt hot, my pulse was racing out of control, and that sweet, dangerous scent of snow and vanilla was starting to break right through my skin.

Panic clawed at my throat.

When we walked into the hotel lobby, I kept my head down, mumbled something to Mason about needing to lie down, and bolted straight toward the elevators. I couldn't let anyone see me like this. If a teammate—or worse, an Alpha—caught my scent now, the game was over.

I unlocked our hotel room door, tore inside, and sprinted straight into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking the deadbolt with trembling fingers.

I slid down the cold tile wall until I hit the floor, pulling my knees to my chest and pressing the palms of my hands hard over my face. I breathed in and out, trying to force my body to calm down, trying to push the scent back inside.

Focus, Rowan. Just breathe.

Then heavy footsteps echoed across the hotel room floor outside.

Someone stopped right outside the bathroom door.

A deep, commanding knock rattled the wood.

"Rowan?" Asher’s voice came through, thick with a sudden, sharp edge of panic that matched my own.

I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath. "Go away, Asher! I'm fine!"

"You're not fine," he answered instantly, his tone leaving zero room for argument. The handle rattled as he tried to turn it, finding it locked.

Before I could answer, his voice dropped lower, right against the wood of the door, carrying a desperate intensity that made my heart stop.

"Open the door, Rowan," Asher quietly said. "I can smell that something is wrong."