Chapter 49: Our Lyrics don’t match

Reid let out a short, humorless breath, his eyes fixed on his moving finger.

​"But I didn’t want the boardroom, Kain. I wanted the noise," he said, and for a split second, the heavy, dominant Alpha in front of me looked incredibly young. "There’s nothing like it. Slamming bodies against the boards, netting pucks in a packed arena, hearing thousands of people go absolutely wild while the cold of the ice seeps right into your bones... It’s a high I’ve chased since I was seven years old. It’s pure. It’s real. When you score, nobody is cheering for your family’s bank account. They’re cheering for you."

​I kept my gaze on him, the wooden spoon still idle in my hand. I could hear the absolute sincerity in his words, a stark contrast to the snob who usually lounged on my couch.

And for a second, I saw myself. I saw myself sitting excitedly and watching the exciting games, cheering my favourite players, my favourite team, and aspiring to be like them when I grew older.

For ten years, I played hockey, and my talent was recognized. I became a captain in the seventh year. I’ve been the captain of the Seattle Serpents for three years now, irrespective of what the world thinks my gender should be doing.

It’s me... against the world.

I thought no one got me. No one would understand... but here’s the most arrogant and hot-headed rookie singing my song, but with different verses.

The world is obsessed with Alphas.

​"My family is obsessed with perfection," Reid continued, rolling his shoulders back as that stubborn, familiar pride crept back into his jaw. "Everything has to be curated. No raw emotions. If they couldn’t understand why I needed that rush, I was completely prepared to cut ties with them permanently. But the funny part? They won’t let me."

​He chuckled, though it sounded a bit dry this time.

​"They think this is just a phase. A rebellion. They’re convinced I’m going to get tired of the bruises, come crawling back, and pick up my inheritance. That’s why my mother still calls me every single Sunday morning. To check up on me, see if I’ve broken a bone, and listen to see if I’ve finally changed my mind about the league."

​Reid stopped tracing the counter and looked up, his smoky grey eyes meeting mine with a strange, softening vulnerability.

"She acts like she’s just auditing my progress, but I know she’s only calling because she actually wants to know how I’m doing and can’t just bring herself to admit it. They’re all just so stuck up. They hide every single ounce of human emotion behind a rigid corporate front."

​A subtle, genuinely amused smile touched his lips, a look that actually reached his eyes. "I became the official problem child of the McCoy dynasty the exact moment I realized that laughing out loud was the absolute best way to express my excitement. They hated that I was loud. They hated that I was expressive. So... I just leaned into it."

​He leaned a little closer to me, the faint scent of his frozen pine pheromones drifting between us in the quiet kitchen, entirely unthreatening now.

​"So there you have it, Cap," he murmured, his voice returning to that low, teasing register I was all too familiar with. "My tragic, old-money backstory. Now you know exactly what kind of monster you’re dealing with."

​I stared at him for a long moment, my blank expression hiding the sudden, complicated knot tightening in my chest. Hearing him talk about a family that hid behind masks, a family that couldn’t just tell the truth about what they felt... it struck a chord that was a little too close to home.

He was fighting his family’s corporate mask, while I was wearing a biological one every single day just to survive on the exact same ice.

​"I see," I said softly, turning back to the stove to finally stir the simmering casserole, trying to ground myself before my inner Omega started finding him endearing. "Thanks for telling me."

​"Don’t get used to it," Reid warned, though his tone was light as he stepped back, giving me my space again. "But hey, if you ever feel like sharing why the perfect, untouchable Captain keeps black-market suppressants in his kitchen... I’m all ears."

I paused, my hand tightening on the wooden handle of the spoon. The steam from the pot rose between us, a warm, shifting veil that temporarily blurred his sharp features.

​"I doubt I’d ever feel like telling you," I said evenly, keeping my tone as level and clinical as possible.

​Reid didn’t push. He just let out a lazy chuckle, turning his head back toward the living room where the post-game analysis was muted on the television screen. He walked over to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and cracked it open with a sharp twist of his wrist.

​We may be singing the same song—chasing that exact same electric, bone-chilling roar of the crowd, fighting against the suffocating expectations of a world that wanted to dictate exactly who we were supposed to be—but the most important thing is the lyrics.

​And ours don’t match.

​His rebellion cost him a corporate throne, a massive inheritance, and some cold shoulder from old-money elitists who still kept tabs on him every week. If he failed, if he got tired of the bruises and the broken bones, he had a multi-billion-dollar safety net waiting to catch him. He could afford to laugh out loud, to be loud, to be a bratty, arrogant rookie who didn’t give a damn about the rules.

But me...?

​If my mask slipped for even a fraction of a second, I might not lose an inheritance, but I would certainly lose my career. I would lose my ten years of grueling sacrifice, my captaincy, my dignity, and the very right to step onto the ice.

I would be dragged through the mud by the league, stripped of everything I had built with my own two hands, and reduced to a political scandal.

​He was playing a high-stakes game of chicken with his family. I was fighting a daily war against my own biology.

​"Suit yourself, Cap," Reid’s voice broke through my thoughts, a low rumble from the edge of the kitchen island.

He leaned his lower back against the counter, taking a slow sip of his water while his smoky eyes tracked the rising steam from the stove.

"The offer stands. But right now, that ’lacks flavor’ broth is actually starting to smell decent. How much longer?"

​"Ten minutes," I muttered, carefully sliding the heavy glass lid over the baking dish before sliding it into the preheated oven.

I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel, consciously resetting my expression back to the blank, untouchable mask of the Seattle Serpents’ captain.

"Go sit down. If you touch my prep bowl again, I’m locking you out."

​"Whatever you say, boss," Reid smirked, his snobbish, playful demeanor sliding back into place effortlessly as he walked back toward the leather couch, leaving me alone with the quiet ticking of the kitchen timer.

I let out a breath of relief, the heavy tension slowly leaving my shoulders as he retreated into the living room.