I never meant to walk into that room.
One minute I was running from Miles—running from the sight of him buried inside someone else, running from the way my heart cracked open like cheap glass. The next, I was shoving open a door marked “Physio” on the Corvus side of the arena, thinking it was empty storage, thinking I could hide until the heat ripping through me finally let go.
It wasn’t empty.
Two alphas turned at the same time.
Tall. Broad. Still in blue and white jerseys, shoulder pads making them look even bigger, hair damp from the game they just lost. Their scents hit me like a physical blow—dark amber and smoky leather from one, sharp black pepper and worn-in hide from the other.
They were angry about the loss on the ice. I could feel it rolling off them like heat from asphalt in summer.
Then they inhaled.
Really inhaled.
Their nostrils flared. Pupils blew wide. The air in the room changed—thickened until it pressed against my skin.
They smelled it.
The heat.
The slick already soaking through my underwear.
The vulnerability I couldn’t hide.
I scrambled back, heart slamming so hard I thought it would break my ribs. My back hit the door. No way out.
One of them moved, his palm slamming beside my head, caging me in. The other stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to watch me fall apart.
Their eyes locked on mine.
Angry.
Unyielding.
Hungry.
They looked at me like I just become the perfect target for every ounce of rage they couldn’t spend on the ice.
And in that moment—trapped between two storm-cloud alphas who smelled like sin and violence—I realized three things at once:
I was in the wrong room.
I was in heat.
And I was about to become theirs.
Whether I wanted it or not.
Ice and Slick
A dark omegaverse hockey romance
