Chapter 2: REBECCA

{THE PENALTY BOX}

I walked away from the lights and the noise, My skates make a clicking sound on the rubber floor of the tunnel.

The change from the hot arena to the cool, wet air of the back hallways always felt like a hard hit.

Behind me, I could still hear the fans chanting my name. It should have felt like a victory. It should have been the happiest moment of my life.

But the effect of Jaxon's hand on my neck was a feeling that wouldn't leave my skin.

He didn't just want me to play; he wanted me to submit. And tonight, I had done the opposite. I had won the game, but I had lost the war of wills.

The main locker room door swung open, and the smell hit me first—sweat, stale ice, and the overwhelming, aggressive pheromones of twenty Alphas and Betas in a state of high-adrenaline celebration.

The moment I stepped inside, the room erupted.

"There she is!" Cole shouted, jumping up onto a bench.

He was already half-undressed, his massive Alpha frame glowing with sweat. He did not look like the guy who had tried to freeze me out ten minutes ago.

Winning changed everything—or so it seemed.

"The girl with the golden wrist! Seriously, McCall, where did that come from?"

"I told you,"I said, keeping my voice calm as I moved through the maze of discarded pads and tape. "I saw the opening."

"You ignored the Coach's signal," Trevor added, ruffling my hair as I passed.

There was a smirk on his face, but his eyes held a sparkle of something else—respect, or maybe just a new kind of hunger.

"Bold move. Jaxon looked like he was ready to commit a felony on the bench."

"He's always like that," I muttered, heading toward the back corner.

Because I was the only girl on the team, the university had changed the facilities. My locker room was basically a converted equipment closet at the far end of the main room, blocked by a steel door.

It was small, cramped, and smelled of laundry detergent and old leather, but it was the only place in this building where I did not have to feel twenty pairs of eyes tracking my every move.

"Don't be long!" Cole yelled after me. "After-party at the frat house in an hour. You're the guest of honor, Becca. Don't tell me you're too 'Omega' to handle a few beers."

The room broke out in laughter. I did not join in. I stepped into my private nook and slammed the steel door shut, the sound echoing.

Finally. Silence.

I sat on the narrow wooden bench and began the brutal process of stripping off my gear. Every piece of equipment felt ten pounds heavier than usual.

I peeled off my jersey—the one with my name on the back, the one I had bled for—and threw it into the corner.

My body was a map of bruises. Purple-and-blue blossoms lined my ribs where I had been checked into the boards, and a long, angry scratch ran down my thigh.

But it was my birthmark—the faint, swirl-shaped mark on the back of my neck that all Omegas carried—that felt like it was pulsing.

It was a biological warning system, and right now, it was screaming.

I grabbed my towel and headed into my private shower stall.

The hot water was a godsend. I leaned my head against the cold tile and let the spray wash away the salt, the filth, and the remaining scent of the Alpha-dominated arena.

I closed my eyes, trying to imagine my father's face.

'I did it, Papa. I showed them.'

But every time I tried to picture my dad, Jaxon's ice-blue eyes intruded. I could still feel the way he looked at me...like I was a glitch in his perfect machine.

Like I was something he needed to break.

I stayed under the water until my skin was raw and the steam filled the small room, turning everything into a white blur.

I felt safer in the fog.

Eventually, I turned off the tap and stepped out, wrapping the towel tightly around my chest. I walked back into the small locker area, reaching for the clean clothes I had left on the bench.

I stopped dead.

Jaxon was there.

I didn't have time to scream.

His hand shot out, fingers twisting brutally into my wet hair before I could even register his presence.

He pulled my head back hard enough that my neck cracked, forcing my eyes up into his icy, murderous stare.

My back hit against the cold tile wall.

The crash punched the air from my lungs. The towel slipped from my grip and pooled uselessly around my waist, leaving me completely naked.

"Coach...." The word barely left my mouth before his other hand wrapped around my throat.

He didn't squeeze hard enough to choke me, but the deep force against my windpipe made it clear he could.

His massive frame pinned me flat, his dark Alpha scent crashing over me like a wave, stuffy and suffocating.

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear, voice low and hateful.

"You just couldn't help yourself, could you, McCall?, you love it, don't you?" his voice was a low, vibrating growl against my ear.

"The cameras. The cheering. The way you walked off that ice like you are something special."

"I... I did my job," I gasped, my fingers clawing at his wrist, but it was like trying to move a steel shaft.

"Your job is to obey," he hissed, his fingers tightening just a bit on my hair, leaning my head at a hurtful bend. "You think because you're an Omega on an Alpha's team, you get to play hero?"

"You think winning one game makes you special?" he growled. "You're a liability. You're a distraction. And tonight, you were an attention-seeking brat."

His hand shifted from my throat, sliding down my body with a speed that made my blood turn to ice.

He didn't touch me gently.

His large hand hooked onto my inner thigh, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

Pain flared bright and hot.

"You're hurting me!" I cried out, my voice cracking.

"Jaxon—stop!"

He didn't. Instead, he pushed my legs apart with his knee, his grip tightening as his thumb pressed into the sensitive skin just below the curve of my ass.

Shame burned through me as my scent shifted—sweet, slick, desperate—betraying me in the worst possible way. My stomach tightened without me meaning to, heat flooding low and unwanted.

I hated it. I hated him. I hated myself more.

Jaxon noticed immediately. A cruel smirk ghosted across his lips.

"Look at you," he whispered, voice dark with satisfaction. "Already dripping for the man who wants to break you."

His fingers moved higher, rough and persistent. Two fingers dragged through my folds, spreading the slippery proof of my body's betrayal.

I whined, trying to twist away, but there was nowhere to go.

He had me trapped against the wall, one hand still fisted in my hair, the other working between my legs mercilessly.

Every stroke was added up to punish.

He circled my clit with brutal force, then pushed inside me without warning, curling his fingers hard against that spot that made my knees buckle.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood, fighting the building wave, but my body wasn't mine anymore.

It was his.

The pain and the pleasure twisted together until I couldn't tell them apart. My hips jerked against his hand despite myself, chasing the friction even as tears stung my eyes.

"That's it," he breathed against my neck, voice rough. "Come apart for me like the desperate little Omega you are."

I shook my head frantically, a broken sob escaping. "Please... don't...."

But it was too late.

The orgasm crashed over me like violence—sharp, humiliating, and unstoppable. My back arched violently against the tiles, a choked cry tearing from my throat as my walls clenched around his fingers.

Slick gushed over his hand, my scent exploding in the small room, sweet and obscene.

My entire body shook and jerked, the release forced out of me whether I wanted it or not.

Jaxon didn't stop until the last spasm tore through me, milking every second of my shame.

When it finally ended, he pulled his hand away slowly, deliberately. I collapsed instantly, legs giving out completely.

I slid down the wet wall and hit the floor in a shaking pile, naked, dripping, and utterly broken.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the water still clinging to my skin. My thighs were slick with evidence I couldn't deny.

I felt ruined. Small. Owned.

Jaxon stood over me, looking down with cold hate, like I was something filthy he had just used and tossed aside. He wiped his fingers on his pants without a second glance.

"Pathetic," he said flatly.

He just fixed his shirt, his face turning back to stone.

"Enjoy the attention while it lasts, McCall," he said, his voice cold. "Out there, you're the star. But behind these doors? You're just my little plaything. Nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded."

He turned toward the door, stopping only to look back one last time.

"Clean yourself up," he commanded, the words dripping with spite. "You smell like a mess."

The door closed behind him, and I was left alone in the steam and quiet, crying on the floor of the locker room I once thought was my safe place.