Chapter 193: They won the game

The energy inside the arena on the night of Game 2 was suffocating.

​Eighteen thousand fans packed the stands, a sea of black and emerald jerseys roaring so loud the concrete beneath our skates vibrated. The arena air was biting cold, heavy with the scent of Zamboni exhaust, stale beer, and the electric, copper taste of playoff tension.

​Inside the locker room, the silence before the storm was deafening.

​I sat at my stall, meticulously tightening the laces of my left skate, pulling the leather until my knuckles turned white. My body felt remarkably tight and responsive—the high-dose anti-inflammatories held the deep-tissue ache in my hips at bay, while the double-layered, medical-grade adhesive patches pressed firmly against my neck, sealed beneath my compression collar. My blockers were holding. My scent was completely locked down.

​Beside me, Reid was a towering, silent force. He didn’t make a sound as he taped the blade of his stick with black friction tape, his broad shoulders squared, his grey eyes dark with a lethal, hyper-focused intensity.

Every few seconds, his knee would subtly brush against mine—a quiet, grounding pulse of Alpha reassurance in the middle of the noise.

​In the far corner, Russo and Miller were going through their pre-game stretching routine. Russo caught my reflection on the glass whiteboard, met my eyes, and gave a single, firm nod. The line was holding.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​Coach Devin slammed his fist against the heavy locker room door, his voice booming over the rumble of the crowd outside.

​"Alright, listen up!" Devin barked, storming into the center of the room, his eyes scanning every player. "Game 1 was a warm-up. Tonight, the Vipers are coming at us with everything they’ve got. They know we’re dangerous on the breakout, so expect heavy body checks, dirty stick work, and constant pressure on our centers!"

​Devin’s sharp gaze locked directly onto me.

​"Evans, you lead the charge. McCoy, you enforce the line. We take control of the puck in the first two minutes, and we don’t give them a single inch of ice to breathe! Bring it home, guys!"

​"SERPENTS ON THREE!" Russo shouted, jumping to his feet.

​"ONE! TWO! THREE! SERPENTS!"

​The locker room exploded into a deafening roar of gloves clapping, sticks pounding against the floorboards, and shouts of raw adrenaline.

​I grabbed my helmet, snapped the chin strap tight, and stepped toward the tunnel. As we queued up in the dark, narrow hallway leading to the ice, the blaring horn signaled the entrance. Flames shot up from the rink entrance, turning the ice into a brilliant, blinding stage.

​Reid stepped up right behind me, his massive frame blocking out the tunnel lights. He leaned down, his gloved hand coming up to rest heavily on the back of my neck—right over the hidden patches—his thumb pressing firmly into my skin.

​"Let’s play, Cap," Reid growled quietly against my helmet, his pine scent flaring hot and protective for just a split second before he brought it back under control. "I’m right behind you."

​"Don’t lag behind, McCoy," I murmured back, my voice cold, lethal, and steady.

"Heh!"

​The heavy double doors swung wide open. The roar of eighteen thousand fans hit us like a physical wall of sound.

​Stepping onto the ice, the sharp chill hit my face, and the last remnants of fear, uncertainty, and physical pain vanished into the fog of war. My mind cleared down to a single, unyielding objective.

​I glided to the center dot for the opening face-off. Across from me stood the Vipers’ lead Alpha center—a hulking, aggressive veteran who sneered the moment our eyes locked, lowering his stick to dig into the ice.

​The referee stepped into the circle, holding the black rubber puck high.

​I crouched low, digging my blades into the ice, my heart hammering a steady, powerful rhythm against my ribs. Beside me on the right wing, Reid coiled like a sprung trap, ready to tear through anyone who dared step into my lane.

​The whistle blew. The puck dropped.

​Game 2 had begun.

And just as it began, it ended with no incidents either.

Thankfully, there was no brutal, body-shattering bloodbath everyone had feared. Reid played like a man possessed on the left wing, operating with an unhinged, surgical level of protection.

Every time a Viper defensemen even looked like they were winding up for a heavy check on the Captain, Reid was already there—putting his broad shoulder into them, cutting off angles, and clearing a pristine path on the ice.

Between Reid’s relentless body checks and the team’s flawless execution of the breakout plays, we claimed a decisive, dominant victory.

​The Serpents had officially punched their ticket to the Finals.

​Two hours later, the private back room of a high-end steakhouse near the city center was deafening. The air was thick with the rich scent of seared ribeyes, spilled ale, and raw, triumphant adrenaline. Clinking glass mugs, loud laughter, and teammates shouting over one another filled the space as the boys celebrated our playoff run. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ

​I sat at the head of the booth, a heavy glass of draft beer resting in my palm. Having scored the game-winning goal in the final period, I let the rigid composure of Captain Evans slip for the first time in months.

I leaned back, taking generous gulps of my drink, letting the cool alcohol dull the lingering hum of fatigue in my muscles.

​Reid sat right beside me, his broad frame relaxed, though his grey eyes flicked over to my glass every time I took another swig.

​"Take it easy, Cap," Reid murmured under his breath, his warm hand resting casually over my knee beneath the table, his thumb rubbing a grounding circle against my leg.

​"I scored the winner, McCoy," I rasped back, a faint, rare smirk tugging at my lips as I took another sip. "Let me enjoy it."

​Reid didn’t try to control me or pull the glass away. He just chuckled softly, his scent a warm, protective envelope around me in the noisy room.

​After another twenty minutes of boisterous chatter, the heat and the alcohol started to make my head spin slightly. I pushed back from the table, using the edge of the wood to steady my sore hips as I stood up. "I need some air," I muttered.

​Instantly, Reid was on his feet beside me. A sudden memory flashed behind his eyes—the last time I had wandered off alone at a post-game celebration, straight into the path of Edward.

​"I’ll walk the Captain out," Reid announced casually to the table, slinging a broad arm around my shoulder with an easy grin. "Wouldn’t want him falling over out there."

​The table erupted into loud, drunken laughter.

​"Look at you two!" one of the veteran defensemen roared, sloshing his beer. "Remember the start of the season? McCoy looked like he wanted to put Evans through the plexiglass every single practice!"

​"Yeah, now you two are joined at the hip!" another chimed in, pounding the table. "Can’t even let Cap take a breath of air by himself!"

​I rolled my eyes, letting out a soft, breathy laugh as Reid guided me through the crowded restaurant toward the quiet side exit that led to the back alleyway.

​The cool, crisp night air hit my face the moment Reid pushed the heavy steel door open, instantly cutting through the warm haze of the alcohol. But as we stepped out into the dim, brick-lined alley, the quiet was broken by the muffled rustle of clothes and urgent, hushed whispers coming from the shadow of an industrial dumpster a few yards away.

​Reid stopped dead in his tracks, his arm instantly tightening around my shoulder to pull me back into the doorway shadow.

​Standing in the dim yellow light of the alley’s security lamp were Russo and Miller.

​Miller had Russo pinned lightly against the brick wall. His hand was shoved completely beneath Russo’s unbuttoned collar shirt, sliding over his chest. Russo was trying, with minimal effort, to push Miller’s heavy shoulder away but it didn’t even look like he meant it.

​"Stop it, idiot," Russo grumbled, his voice low, husky, and entirely stripped of his usual stern, quiet authority. "What if the others come out here?"

​"What?" Miller smirked, leaning in closer until his lips brushed against Russo’s jaw, his nose pressing deep into the crook behind Russo’s ear to take a deep drag of his scent. "Do you think they’ll think anything of two Alphas hanging out in an alleyway?"

​The alcohol in my system completely evaporated in a single, icy shockwave. My eyes widened, my mind instantly snapping into razor-sharp sobriety.

​A sudden cascade of memories clicked together like falling dominoes.

​That day when we ran into them at the supermarket and Russo had looked strangely flushed and annoyed... those quiet moments in the locker room where Miller seemed to take an absurd amount of pleasure in getting under Russo’s skin... the way Russo always stood just a fraction too close to Miller during line adjustments...

​I had dismissed all of it as standard teammate banter. Relevant details brushed aside under the weight of my own massive secret because I didn’t want to get involved. But this?

​They were... hooking up? Two Alphas?

​A sudden, sharp question flared in my mind. What if they weren’t both Alphas? What if one of them was hiding his identity to play on the ice, just like me?

​I racked my brain, desperately tracing back every locker room encounter, every scent marker over the last three years. But no—I had smelled both of their pheromones before. Russo smelled like heavy, bitter cedar; Miller smelled like sharp, metallic ozone. There was zero doubt in my mind—both of them were biologically dominant Alphas.

​Unless...

​Unless one of them wasn’t just a standard Alpha, but an Enigma.