Love on ice

Molly POV The cursor blinked on my laptop screen, the words Plantagenet succession staring back at me like a dare. My notes were scattered across the little table in our flat, potato chips on one side, mug of tea on the other. I had my penguin pajamas on, hair in a messy bun, exactly how I liked it .quiet Friday nights, no drama, just history. The front door banged open. “Molly!” Alexis’s voice rang down the hall before I even looked up. “Don’t you dare be in those pajamas.” I sighed, tugging my hoodie tighter around me. “Too late. I’m knee-deep in medieval kings and very committed to it.” She appeared in the doorway, a storm of blonde hair, high heels, and glitter. Her jeans looked painted on, her top cut scandalously low, and she smelled like cocoa butter and perfume. Her grin was lethal. “Put the notes away, Bennett. We’re going out.” “Out where?” I asked warily. “Hockey,” she announced, like it was the best idea in the world. I blinked. “As in… ice hockey? The thing with sticks and men trying to murder each other on skates?” “Exactly that. Polar Blades are playing tonight. You’ve been a hermit for weeks, and Jensen is starting—he’s hot and I’ve got a shot.” I groaned. “Lex, you know I don’t do crowds. Or hockey. Or sweaty alphas smashing into each other.” She perched on the edge of the table, scattering my notes. “Exactly why you need to come. Balance. You bury yourself in history; I drag you into the twenty-first century.” “Hard pass.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “You owe me. Who bought you chocolate ice cream after Trent called you boring? Who marched into his lecture and told him where to shove his smug face?” “Okay, that was heroic,” I admitted, pressing my lips together. She smirked. “So get your butt out of those penguins. Wear jeans, maybe mascara. I’ve got tickets, front row.” “Front row?” My stomach dropped. “That’s practically on the ice!” “Exactly. You’ll thank me when some six-foot alpha crashes into your lap.” “God forbid.” But Alexis was relentless. Ten minutes later, I was in her car, wearing the least offensive outfit I could put together—jeans, oversized flannel, sneakers. My auburn hair was still messy, and I refused mascara on principle. The arena smelled like popcorn, cold air, and faint metal. The crowd buzzed with chatter, scarves waving, jerseys flashing white and gold. I tugged at my flannel and muttered, “I already regret this.” “You’ll live,” Alexis said, dragging me down the steps. Our seats were right on the barrier, close enough to see the players’ sweat when they skated past. I clutched the plastic cup of Coke she shoved into my hand. “You realize I know literally nothing about hockey?” “That’s the beauty of it. Just cheer when I cheer.” The team burst onto the ice, blades scraping, helmets gleaming. Alexis leaned forward, shrieking when number 21 skated past. “There’s Jensen!” she squealed. I tried not to laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re about to have fun,” she shot back. The announcer’s voice boomed, music pounded, and the game began in a blur of speed. I had no idea what was happening, but the players flew across the ice with lethal grace, slamming into each other like warriors. Then I noticed him. Number 58. Broad shoulders, dark curls spilling under his helmet, green eyes catching the light even from here. He skated like he owned the ice, powerful, dangerous, magnetic. “Who’s that?” I asked before I could stop myself. Alexis followed my gaze and grinned. “Grayson Wood. American. Total bad boy. Got kicked out of the NHL for punching a ref.” My brows shot up. “That’s… reassuring.” “Hot though, right?” I looked away, cheeks warming. “Doesn’t matter.” But it did. Because even from here, I could feel something like static in the air, prickling my skin. And when he slammed another player against the glass, his eyes flicked up, just for a second, meeting mine. My breath caught. The game escalated. The crowd roared, bodies slammed, sticks clattered. Alexis screamed encouragement, half-standing every time Jensen touched the puck. Me? I was watching number 58 too much. Grayson Wood. Every time he skated past, the faintest whiff of peppermint teased my senses, cutting through the cold air. My omega instincts stirred uneasily. No, I told myself. Absolutely not. “Come on, Blades!” Alexis shouted, yanking me back to reality. The referee blew the whistle. A penalty. Players shoved each other, tempers flaring. I shifted uncomfortably, clutching my Coke. “This is insane,” I muttered. “Best part!” Alexis was practically bouncing. Then it happened. Grayson collided with another player—Haskin, Alexis hissed his name so violently the barrier in front of us shuddered. I flinched, heart racing. The puck slid away. The players tangled, sticks clashing. Shouts echoed. And then Haskin slammed Grayson again. There was a sickening crack as the barrier in front of us shattered. Time slowed. I saw shards of plexiglass explode, saw Alexis scream beside me, felt the shockwave rattle my bones. And then six feet three of muscle and ice gear came crashing straight toward me. Right into my lap.