The Alpha's House

Jay

I swore I’d never be back.

I left this state before sunrise with a duffel bag and a bad decision. Now, I’m driving back into Dallas on a multi-million-dollar contract.

Life’s sure got a sense of humor.

Dallas didn’t just trade for me, they signed me for eight years. Which means I’m not visiting or just passing through. Dallas just became home again.

Traffic slows and a line of brake lights flare red in front of me. I strum my fingers against the steering wheel, crawling forward with the rest of Dallas while the skyline carefully rises in the distance.

The city looks bigger than I remember. Steel skeletons stretch into the sky where empty lots once sat as cranes hang over the downtown core. I run my hand through my tousled dark hair. Dallas changed. But people, in my experience, usually don’t.

“Walker built this team,” the sports radio guy continues. “He changed the culture here. Made Dallas a hard team to play against. But Mercer — Mercer is the kind of player who changes a game in one shift. This trade tells me Dallas is all-in for the Cup.” I roll my eyes. They make it sound simple, like everything fits perfectly into stats and highlight reels.

Maybe for them, it does. For me, it’s more like walking back into a house I set on fire and hoping everyone forgot I was the one holding the match.

My phone vibrates on the console and I glance down at the screen. I texted the Alpha last night. Figured it wouldn’t be right walking back into his territory without saying something first.

You’re welcome at the house tonight. Family dinner. Would be nice to see you.

He’s short and direct, no questions. That was his way of saying I wasn’t banned from the territory. Which, considering how I left, is probably more than I deserve.

I shove the phone in my pocket and stare out into traffic. I’ve played in Game Sevens, scored overtime winners and nearly hoisted the stanley cup twice. But somehow walking into this locker room feels worse than all of that.

Because hockey is easy but facing my pack after ten years? That’s a different kind of fight.

“Best case scenario,” the second guy says, “Dallas just became a Cup contender overnight. You’ve got Walker as captain, Mercer on the first line, that’s a dangerous combination.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“Worst case scenario… that locker room explodes. Might be a case of too many predators in one room if you ask me.”

I laugh under my breath, knowing there’s some truth to that and stop at a red light. The light turns green and I roll forward slowly with traffic. The Dallas Devils practice facility comes into view a few moments later, black steel and glass standing tall like a fortress.

The truck door slams behind me and I stand there for a second, staring up at the Devils logo stretched across the side of the building. Black, silver, and red glare down from the wall while devil horns work into the lettering like whoever designed it expected a Stanley Cup banner to hang here one day.

Like winning wasn’t a dream here. It was a plan. It’s anything but subtle.

I shift my gear bag higher on my shoulder and start toward the doors, gravel crunching under my shoes, heat already coming off the pavement even though it’s still morning. Texas is a different kind of hot than Florida. It’s meaner and drier, almost like the air itself wants to fight you.

I smirk for the first time in two days. Fitting, considering how this day is probably going to go.

Because somewhere inside this building is Nash Walker and I’m pretty sure he’s not going to be happy to see me.

Cold air rolls off the rink and hits my face instantly, offering me refuge. I push open the locker room door and conversation dips slightly the moment I step inside. Not silent but close enough. That familiar pause when a group of athletes suddenly notices someone new entering the room.

I don’t hesitate. I walk straight to the stall with my name above it like I’ve been here all season and drop my bag onto the floor.

“Morning,” I say, like this is normal.

A few guys nod back but they’re still watching because every guy in this room knows exactly who I am.

Former Tampa Bay first-line center. Back-to-back sixty goal seasons. Power play quarterback. Big trade acquisition, even bigger contract.

Which means half this locker room is wondering if I’m about to take their ice time. I sit down on the bench and start unpacking my gear slowly.

Skates, tape, gloves. Routine. Routine keeps things simple.

A couple guys pass by my stall and introduce themselves.

“Ryan.” Winger.

“Cole.” Backup goalie.

“Good to have you here.”

They’re polite and professional as expected. My fingers tighten slightly around my skate laces. The locker room door swings open again and the room shifts instantly.

It’s subtle, just like a ripple but every player here feels it. That silent recognition that the captain just walked in. I don’t have to look up to know who it is but I do anyway. Nash Walker stands in the doorway. Ten years haven’t softened him, if anything they’ve carved him sharper.

He’s bigger than I remember, broad shoulders filling the black training hoodie stretched across his chest. Dark hair still damp like he already finished a workout before the rest of the team even arrived.

Same intense presence. Same Alpha energy that used to make entire opposing teams nervous before puck drop.

Only now, there’s something colder behind his eyes. His gaze lands on me immediately. Every single guy here understands exactly what’s happening and Nash doesn’t move, he just stands there.

I lean back slightly against the bench, meeting his stare without blinking. Finally Nash steps inside and the door closes behind him.

No one speaks. He walks across the locker room slowly to his stall which sits three lockers down from mine. He drops his bag onto the bench and then finally says, “Mercer.”

His voice is low and controlled but not friendly either.

I nod once. “Walker.”

The air tightens in the room instantly. A couple younger guys glance between us like they’re watching a fight that hasn’t started yet.

Nash’s jaw shifts slightly. “You’re late.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. “Practice doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Same Nash, same stubborn bastard. For a second it almost feels like we’re twenty-one again, standing in the same locker room and arguing about stupid shit before practice. Except this time there’s ten years of silence sitting between us.

His eyes flick briefly to my stick. “Still tape your blade like that?” The chirp sounds casual. But it’s not.

I shrug slightly. “Still captain?”

A few guys glance between us. Nash doesn’t answer. He just walks away.

Coach Eric enters the locker room a minute later, clapping his hands together. “Alright boys, listen up.”

Players start standing, gear bags zip up and skates scrape against the floor. Coach flips through his clipboard. “Line rotations today.”

He points toward me. “Mercer, you’re running first line.”

Across the room Nash lets out a quiet laugh. The look on his face says he’s not assumed.

“Of course he is,” Nash mutters while pulling his gloves out of his bag.

The locker room stills, then Nash adds calmly without even looking at me. “Mercer’s always been good at showing up when the hard part’s already over.”

Silence spreads across the room. No one speaks but I feel my wolf stir beneath my skin because Nash Walker just reminded the entire team exactly what kind of man he thinks I am. And judging by the way the locker room suddenly feels colder? The message landed exactly the way he wanted.

Practice is fast. Physical, precise and Nash has already hits me twice. Both late, both hard and both on purpose.

A scrimmage begins and I catch a pass near center ice and cut across the blue line. The defense closes too slow and I fake left with ease, cut right and then release.

The puck snaps past the goalie before he even drops into the butterfly and the net ripples. A few guys whistle.

But before the next play starts, Nash hits me into the boards. His shoulder slams into my ribs from the side, sending me crashing. The hit comes a half-second late and the Coach blows the whistle instantly.

“Walker!”

But Nash already skates away, like nothing happened.

I push myself off the boards slowly. I let out a low growl from my chest and I know he hears it.

The next shift starts and this time I chase a puck behind the net. Nash arrives at the exact same moment.

Stick lifts, shoulder contact. A little too aggressive. Again.

After the second one, I skate past him and mutter, “Still holding a grudge?”

“You think that expires?” He doesn’t look at me but his words drip like there’s venom laced in them.

Practice ends an hour later and the team drifts toward the locker room. My ribs ache slightly where Nash hit me earlier. It’s nothing serious but enough to serve as a reminder that this is his show and I’m only the supporting cast.

I’m halfway to the tunnel when Coach calls out behind me. “Mercer.”

I stop and turn as Coach skates over slowly. His expression is calm but measured. “Walker’s the captain here.”

I nod. “Understood.”

He studies me for a moment. “Whatever history you two have…”

He gestures toward the rink. “…keep it off my ice.”

Play nice, understood. “Yes, coach.”

He nods once, “all good?”

“Different arena, different jersey, same game,” I reply and shrug my shoulders.

A wide smile spreads across his face as if he’s satisfied with my answer then he starts to skate away. “We’re excited to have you here Mercer. I’ve got a good feeling about this.”

The locker room is loud after practice. Music playing, showers running and guys yelling across the room like they’re still on the ice.

I’m sitting at my stall unlacing my skates when Ryan drops onto the bench across from me and tosses a roll of tape into his bag.

“So,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “You’ve been in Dallas before, right?”

I shrug. “A while ago.”

Cole, the backup goalie, leans back in his chair two stalls over. “Then you probably already know Walker’s sister.”

My hands pause on my skate for half a second before I keep untying the lace like the question doesn’t mean anything.

“Madison?” Ryan says. “Yeah, you know Madison.”

Another guy across the room whistles. “Everyone knows Madison.”

I keep my head down. “Can’t say I remember.”

Ryan laughs. “Bullshit.”

Cole grins. “Walker’s little sister is a rocket. Like… dangerous rocket.”

“Absolute problem,” someone else adds from the showers. “You look at her too long and Walker might actually kill you.”

A defenseman walks by and chimes in, “Saw her at The Den last month. Half the bar stopped talking when she walked in.”

“Not exaggerating,” Ryan says. “Like a movie scene. Slow motion. Hair flip. The whole fucking thing.”

Cole nods seriously, “If she wasn’t Walker’s sister, this locker room would be a war zone.”

Someone across the room yells, “It already is, we just don’t say it out loud.”

A couple guys laugh.

Ryan looks back at me. “You’ll meet her eventually. She shows up to games sometimes.”

I pull my skate off and toss it into my stall. “Sounds dangerous.”

Cole smirks. “That’s the problem. She knows it.”

Ryan leans back against the lockers. “Walker nearly killed one of the rookies last year for talking to her after a game.”

“No he didn’t.”

“He absolutely did.”

“He just made him bag skate.”

“Same thing,” Cole says. The room erupts in laughter.

Ryan grabs his hoodie and stands up. “Couple of us are grabbing beers tonight. You should come.”

Cole nods, “Yeah, team usually goes out after the first practice with a new guy. Initiation without the hazing.”

I grab my towel and stand. “What kind of initiation?”

Ryan smirks. “We see how many drinks it takes before you start telling stories you shouldn’t.”

Cole adds, “And we see if Walker actually speaks to you outside the rink.” That gets a few laughs too.

I pull my shirt over my head and grab my bag. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Ryan claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Eight o’clock. The Den.”

He starts walking toward the door, then turns back and adds casually, “Oh, and if Madison’s there, just remember — we never warned you.”

The locker room erupts in laughter again. I shake my head slightly and sling my bag over my shoulder.

Because the truth is they have no idea.

The last thing I need is a warning about Madison Walker.

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