Page 19 of Take All of Me

Brogan’s there in a flash, stepping up to me with his hand raised for a high five. I give him a timid one, all of the other guys following, no questions asked. I mumble, “Thanks,” to Brogan, wondering how I stumbled into men that actually care about my wellbeing.

I lean toward the glass, clipboard tucked under my arm, watching the players skate into position for the scrimmage. Their laughter echoes across the rink, a warm tangle of jokes and jabs—Brogan shoving Ethan, Sam chirping something that makes them all crack up. It’s easy, this camaraderie, and it tugs at me, a reminder of what this team could be, of what I used to see with my father. I glance at Holt beside me, his whistle dangling from his neck. “How’s Dakota?”

Holt’s eyes flick to the goalie box, where Dakota’s adjusting his pads, then back to me. “He’s faring as best he can.I’m sure you know how stubborn he is. You should talk to him.”

I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the clipboard. “But he’s your…” I trail off, unsure how to finish—mate? Omega? Pack?

“Yeah, but he’s also yours, Maya. I’d be stupid to keep you from him. You’re the only consistent person he’s ever wanted, and that isn’t gonna stop just because his designation’s changed. In fact, it might be more prominent.” He pauses, choosinghis words carefully. “The doctor mentioned he’s gonna need people like he hasn’t before. Might not be in that overly sweet, cuddly way, but he’ll attach himself, use them as comfort. Late presenting can be terrifying—shifts everything you know on a dime.”

I sigh, shoulders sagging as his words sink in. My gaze drifts to Dakota, hulking in the goalie box, all pads and focus. He catches me looking and throws a sloppy smile, brown eyes glinting before he tugs his helmet on. The implications of what Holt’s offering hit me hard—an open door to Dakota, no strings, no claim on me. Part of me wants to feel disappointed, to wish he’d staked some kind of place for himself, but the bigger part’s grateful. He’s not pushing, not forcing his way in like Nox did. Holt’s softer and I realize that I’ve been comparing him to a monster this whole time, never giving him a chance. Dakota chose him—chosethem—and that’s got to mean something, right?

I shake it off, forcing my focus back to the ice. Hockey’s my anchor, always has been, and I need it now. Holt blows the whistle, the scrimmage kicking off. I watch my play unfold in real time—Brogan weaving through defenders, Ethan’s quick pass, Sam holding the line. It’s surreal, like a dream I never thought I’d live. They’re good,reallygood, moving with a precision that makes my chest swell with a mixture of excitement and pride.

Holt’s side counters, his signals subtle but sharp—head tilt, hand flick—and I catch every one, my eyes darting between players. He shouts an order to his half and I lean forward, shouting back, “Switch it, Brogan! Second option!”

They pivot seamlessly, Ethan cutting left, Sam screening the goal. It’s like I’m transported back to being a little girl, standing on the bench while Dad coached, mimicking his calls in a soft whisper, pretending I was him. But now, this is mine—my play,my team, my voice ringing out. Brogan fakes a shot, passes back, and Ethan buries it, the puck slamming past Dakota’s glove. The guys whoop, sticks raised, and I grin, turning to Holt with a pride I haven’t known in years.

“Damn, that was a good play. We’re keeping that one.”

The guys skate off the ice, helmets tucked under arms, their laughter bouncing through the rink as they throw me high fives, palms slapping mine with enough force to sting. Ethan grins, sweat dripping down his temple, and says, “Fuck, Holt, you’ve got competition!”

The others hoot in agreement, my cheeks warming, caught off guard by their enthusiasm. Holt joins in, throwing me a wild smile. “No, this means I get to do my job and she gets to do hers.”

Roman skids to a stop beside me, peeling off his gloves. “So, we got a real coach now? Because, Mason’s a whole…” He cuts himself off. “Glad to have you, Maya. Holt, she’s coming to dinner, right?”

I frown, looking up at Holt for answers, my clipboard suddenly feeling like a flimsy shield. He sighs, nodding to one of the Alphas—Logan, I think—and says, “Would you help set up the cones?” The team groans, a collective whine, but Holt’s unfazed. “We had our fun, but we’ve got a game this weekend, and we gotta be on our best. Maya needs to see what she’s got to work with, and you all need to be breathing a little harder so everyone thinks we actually do something at practice.”

Laughter ripples through them as they skate off to grab cones, sticks clacking against the ice. I turn to Holt, brow raised. “What’s this about dinner?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, but my nerves betray me, a slight wobble creeping in.

“It’s more of a tradition than anything,” he explains. “Anyone new to the team, we go out to that sloppy joe diner a few streets over. Pig out, tell some stories, have a few drinks, then haul ass back to campus to grab enough sleep for classestomorrow. They’re asking because we wouldn’t have practice in the morning.”

“Yeah, I could do dinner,” I say, then wrinkle my nose. “But sloppy joes?”

Holt grins, a rare flash of teeth that softens his gruff edges. “It became a tradition, and we don’t mess with those,” he says. “I’ve tried and got booted from one of the last dinners, so I let it be.”

I smile, liking how easy it is to talk to him, his calm cutting through my usual guardedness. My gaze drifts back to the ice, cataloging the players but then Dakota catches my eye, hunched slightly in the goalie box, movements slower than usual, and worry gnaws at me. “Are you sure he’s okay?”

Holt follows my gaze, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s holding something back. He turns to face me, his expression turning more serious. “I just need you to be straight with me, Maya. Does he have a chance?” I nod without hesitation, my heart answering before my brain catches up—Dakota’s always had a chance, always will. “Roman?” he asks, and I pause, unsure. “Brogan?” Another pause, longer this time, because Brogan’s rain-soaked warmth lingers too vividly. “How about Ethan?” Holt adds, a teasing lilt creeping in.

I wrinkle my nose, and he laughs, a low rumble that eases the tension. “Good to know there’s a baseline,” he says, then sobers. “There are no rules when it comes to relationships here. We’re all adults. I might be Dakota and Roman’s Alpha, but I’m not stopping you from exploring anything. Brogan too.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Why do you keep mentioning him?”

“Because you’ve been watching him all practice, and you’ve been on edge for days—except for a small moment after you left the coach’s office, where Brogan was with you.” My mouth opens to protest, but he cuts me off. “Don’t apologize. I don’t need it. I’m just saying I know how irresistible the pull of a mate is.”

I frown, confused. “You didn’t even see him with me!”

I point out, and he shrugs, a smile playing at his lips. “But I sent him. Your scent softened. He’s a balm for you, and I’m ecstatic, because he needs someone to soften his edges. He can be a little rough.”

“Brogan?” I ask, skeptical, because the guy I know is all charm and easy grins.

Holt’s brow lifts, amusement flickering in his expression. “All three of them are different with you, Maya. Brogan’s not sweet, Roman’s kind of an asshole, and Dakota tends to be a grump.”

“They’ve never been like that with me,” I say, and Holt just raises an eyebrow, that smile lingering as he turns back to the ice, where the guys are setting up cones, joking again.

Turning my attention back to the ice, I watch as Holt runs drills, occasionally explaining things to me. I have him rerun a few of them, jotting down notes about strengths and weaknesses, trying to keep up and at the same time falling seamlessly into something I know like the back of my hand. All those games I attended over the years weren’t just for fun. I was creating my own plays, jotting down ideas, things that could be improved. This is just in real time, more action, a little colder and a whole lot louder but it’s everything I was missing.

By the time practice is over, Holt telling me there’s a shower in the coach’s office, I know that this is exactly where I want to be. Even when the dean’s number pops up on my phone. I’m not at all surprised when Mason is still in the main office, leaning back in his chair as if he’s doing something. I kind of want to march in there and cuss him out but instead, I head into my father’s old office and into the lavish bathroom attached to it.

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