3-3

Kael

The locker room buzzed with pre-game energy. We had skates scraping on rubber mats, pads being strapped on, and sticks clattering against benches. I was still pulling on my jersey when Coach clapped his hands sharply.

“Alright, boys! It’s time. Let’s go out there and show them what the Vipers are made of. Play smart, play hard, and keep your heads up. No stupid penalties. We’ve got this.”

A chorus of “Yes, Coach” answered him. One by one the guys filed out, helmets under arms, sticks in hand, gloves already on. The hallway echoed with the rhythmic clack of skates on concrete.

I was the last one lingering, double-checking the tape on my stick.

The coach, who is actually my dad, stopped me with a firm hand on my arm.

I turned to face him. He studied me for a second, the way he always did.

“You seem ready,” he said quietly.

I gave him a small nod and a half-smirk. “I’m always ready.”

A proud smile touched his mouth. “That’s my carbon copy.”

We stood there a moment in that easy father-son silence. I stepped in and pulled him into a quick hug, pads making it slightly awkward.

“I won’t fuck up the show today,” I murmured.

He pulled back and gave the back of my head a light smack. “What did I tell you about vulgar words, boy?”

I shrugged with a grin. “Sorry, old man. Force of habit.”

Before he could scold me further, I scurried down the hallway and caught up with the team.

The moment I stepped onto the ice, the roar of the crowd hit me like a wall.

The arena was packed. Rows and rows of faces filling every tier, scarves and jerseys in every direction, the noise bouncing off the glass and the rafters and coming back louder than it left. Somewhere up in the stands, someone had a drumbeat going, and the rest of the section had picked it up. The energy was the particular kind that only exists when people have shown up expecting something worth watching.

Bright lights. Clean ice. The familiar cold biting at my face the moment I pushed off the boards.

I did a few quick warm-up laps, letting my legs find their rhythm, the stick feeling solid in my hands, the blades carving smooth lines into the fresh surface. Around me, my teammates were spreading out, shaking off the locker room stiffness, the sound of skates and the occasional shout cutting through the crowd noise.

The Razorbacks were already out on their half, stretching and moving with the focused looseness of a team that had been here before. A few of them glanced over. Nobody waved.

Good.

I didn’t come here to be friendly.

The puck soon dropped, and the game exploded into motion.

First period was intense — fast transitions and hard checks along the boards. I assisted the opening goal midway through with a clean pass, making it 1-0. The Razorbacks answered late in the period to tie it 1-1.

The second period was a battle. We regained the lead when I won a face-off deep in their zone and set up our defenseman for a heavy slapshot from the point. We carried the 2-1 lead into the third period.

The game was flowing well in the third period. We were up 2-1, skating hard, cycling the puck cleanly in their zone. I felt sharp. I won another face-off deep in the Razorbacks’ end and fed the puck out to the point for a heavy shot.

Then it hit me.

A faint but unmistakable trace of blood scent cut through the cold arena air. It was sweet and rich underneath the metallic edge. Crushed berries. Warm honey. That same heady pheromone signature from when I’d split Riven’s lip last night.

My head snapped up mid-stride. No fucking way.

It was faint, diluted by distance and the crowd, but I knew it instantly. Riven’s blood. Riven’s pheromones.

My focus shattered.

The puck slipped off my tape. A Razorback forward stole it cleanly and broke out on a rush. I chased, but my legs felt heavy, my instincts screaming toward the stands instead of the play.

“Get your head in the game, Kael!” My dad’s voice boomed from the bench, sharp and frustrated.

I ignored it, eyes frantically scanning the crowd as I raced back. There, near the visitors’ side, hood pulled low. Riven sat rigid, one hand gripping his other arm tightly, face twisted in obvious pain. His jaw was clenched, lips pressed thin. The bruise on his mouth looked darker under the bright lights.

Was he hurt again? Had the split reopened? Or was something else happening?

The scent spiked for a split second. It was sweet, tempting, flooding my senses and making my cock twitch even through the adrenaline. Omega. If he was bleeding even slightly, those pheromones would be leaking out, calling to every Alpha nearby.

What the hell was—

The Razorback forward deked our defenseman and fired a quick wrist shot. The puck sailed past our goalie before I could recover.

The lamp lit up.

3-3.

“Shit!” one of my linemates snarled, slamming his stick against the boards as we skated back for the intermission break.

“What the fuck is on your mind, Kael?” another teammate snapped. “You just handed them that tying goal!”

I didn’t answer. My eyes stayed locked on Riven. He was still clutching his arm, looking pale and tense, clearly trying to hide whatever was wrong.

The whistle blew, ending the period. We filed off toward the bench area. My dad was waiting, his arms crossed, face tight with worry and frustration.

He pulled me aside immediately. “What’s going on out there? You were solid all game and suddenly you’re sleepwalking in the third period.”

I sighed heavily, yanking off my helmet and running a gloved hand through my sweat-damp hair. I stripped off my jersey, peeled away the heavy gloves, and dropped my stick against the boards with a loud clatter.

“Find someone else,” I said flatly. “I don’t think I can continue to play right now.”

My dad’s eyes widened. “Are you okay? Injured?”

“No, I’m not.” I shook my head, jaw tight. My gaze flicked back toward the stands where Riven was sitting. “And if you let me stay on the ice with that guy still up there in the stands… I might fuck up even worse.”

He followed my line of sight, brow furrowing. “What guy??”

I didn’t explain. I couldn’t tell him that Riven’s blood scent was crawling under my skin, making my Alpha instincts riot and destroying my concentration. Couldn’t admit that all I wanted was to vault over the boards and get to the straight boy who was slowly driving me insane.

My dad studied me for a long moment, worry deepening the lines on his face.

“I need to sit this one out,” I said quietly. “Trust me on this.”