Temptation On Ice: My Rival Is A Girl

Hannah~ Thirty days. I’ve survived exactly thirty days in the human world, and I’m already questioning every single decision that led me here. I stand at the industrial sink in the back of Mario’s Italian Kitchen with my arms deep in greasy dishwater that smells like old garlic and regret. My hands move on autopilot, scrubbing one plate after another while my mind keeps spinning. Back home, freedom sounded perfect. No arranged marriage to Alex, that arrogant Alpha who treats pack alliances like his personal property. No more lectures from my Dad about my responsibilities as the Alpha’s daughter. Just me, finally making my own choices. Instead, I’m here. Washing dishes for pennies. The water soaks through my cheap apron and clings to my jeans. My back aches from standing here since five this morning. Humans pay for everything—rent, food, even the damn water I’m using right now. I still remember staring at that vending machine on day three, convinced someone was robbing people in broad daylight. Back in pack territory, if you’re thirsty you just walk to the river. Simple. Here, survival comes with a price tag and a monthly bill. And I hate it. I grab another plate and scrub harder. My thoughts drift to Alex’s smug face the night I ran. “You’ll come back,” he’d said. “You always do what’s expected.” Yeah, well, watch me prove Alex wrong. CRACK. The plate shatters in my grip. Pieces sink into the soapy water and silence drops over the whole kitchen. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. *Seriously? Another plate?* My wolf’s voice cuts through my head immediately, sharp and annoyed. *You’re supposed to be hiding, not showing off how strong you are.* I roll my eyes internally and answer her the same way. *It wasn’t on purpose this time. These stupid plates are cheap as hell. I’ve been careful.* *Sure you have,* she mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement under the complaint. *Keep telling yourself that Hannah* Mario storms over like I just burned the entire restaurant down. His face turns red, that vein in his forehead popping out like it always does. “Hannah! Third plate today! That’s coming out of your paycheck. At this rate, I might as well keep your whole month’s salary!” I pull my hands out of the water and shake them off, meeting his glare head-on. “These plates are fragile as hell. Maybe buy better ones instead of yelling at me every shift.” A couple of the line cooks pause what they’re doing and exchange looks. Mario steps closer, jabbing a finger at the mess. “You break it, you pay. That’s the rule. Keep running your mouth and I’ll dock you extra.” One of the older dishwashers, Rosa, finally snaps from her station. She’s been here longer than anyone, quiet most days but sharp when it counts. “Oh come on, Mario. You’ve been pulling that on all of us for months. Half the deductions you claim never even happen. We all know it.” I turn to her, water still dripping from my fingers. “Wait. What?” Rosa wipes her hands on her apron and levels Mario with a hard stare. “You tell the new girls their pay gets cut for every little thing, but half of it goes straight to your pocket. We’ve been talking. Enough is enough.” The pieces click together fast. Every short paycheck. Every time he waved off my questions with “that’s just how it works here.” This whole time, he’s been scamming me. Scamming all of us. Anger flares hot in my chest. I rip off my apron and toss it on the counter. “You know what? Keep your stupid job.” I reach over, grab a fresh bag of the good bread they serve with meals, and hold it up. “This counts as payment for the last thirty days of me busting my ass in your grease pit. We’re even.” Mario’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. “You can’t just—” I meet his eyes directly and let a little of my wolf show through—just for a second. My gaze sharpens, the natural dominance slipping out before I can stop it. Mario freezes mid-step. His face pales and he actually takes a half-step back, like some instinct deep down knows he shouldn’t push me. I pull it back in fast, shoving my wolf down again. I’m supposed to be hiding. “Watch me.” I tuck the bread under my arm and head for the door, ignoring the shouts behind me. Rosa gives me a small nod as I pass. For the first time in weeks, I feel a real spark of satisfaction. Outside, the city air hits me—car exhaust, street food vendors, and the constant buzz of people rushing somewhere. New York in June still feels strange. Too loud, too crowded, too everything. I wander the sidewalks with the bread bag swinging at my side. My stomach growls but my pride feels intact. How am I supposed to make actual money out here? Rent’s due in a week for that tiny room I share with two other girls who barely speak to me. I need something steady. Something that pays enough to stop me from wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life by running. I turn a corner onto a busier street lined with posters and digital billboards. Most advertise new tech gadgets or streaming shows I still don’t fully understand. Then one catches my eye. Bright colors, action shots of guys flying across the ice. Big bold letters: **HOCKEY CLUB RECRUITING NEW PLAYERS. COMPETITIVE PAY. TRAINING PROVIDED. TRYOUTS TODAY.** The listed monthly stipend makes my eyes widen. That’s more than I’ve seen in any of these dead-end jobs combined. Benefits. Housing in the club dorm if you make the cut. I stare at the poster for a long minute. Hockey. I’ve watched a few games on the tiny TV in my shared room—fast, physical, full of controlled chaos. My wolf stirs at the thought of competition, of using my strength for something real instead of hiding it while I scrub plates. *This could be fun,* she says quietly in my head. It’s risky. I’m supposed to stay hidden. But standing here broke with a bag of stolen bread isn’t exactly keeping a low profile either. I pull out my cracked phone and check the address. Tryouts are at a rink not far from here. Decision made. I adjust the bread bag and start walking, shoulders squared. If I can handle thirty days of Mario’s crap, I can handle a tryout. Worst case, I don’t make it and I’m back to square one. Best case? Money. A place to sleep. And maybe, just maybe, something that feels like freedom instead of survival. **** The rink comes into view sooner than I expect—a massive building with glass doors and the sound of blades cutting ice already drifting out. My pulse kicks up. I’ve got no gear, no real experience on skates, but I’ve got speed and power most humans can’t touch. I just need to hold back enough not to break anyone. I push through the doors. The cool air wraps around me. Guys mill around in the lobby, some stretching, some checking in at a table with a couple of serious-looking coaches. A few heads turn my way when I walk in. Oops. I’m the only girl here. One of the coaches, a stocky guy with a clipboard, looks me up and down. “Tryouts are for the men’s squad, sweetheart. No girls’ team here.” I lift my chin and give him a tight smile. “Good thing I’m not here for a girls’ team. Sign me up.”