PUCKED BY MY BEST FRIEND’S HOCKEY ALPHA BROTHER

MELISSA'S POV

“Miss Melissa Walton?” the principal’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts, and I quickly nodded, straightening where I stood.

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a brief nod and began typing something into his computer. The clicking of the keyboard filled the quiet office, making the atmosphere feel even more stiff than it already was.

I shifted slightly, clasping my hands together, my eyes wandering around the room in an attempt to ease the awkwardness crawling up my spine.

This was unnecessary.

I didn’t even need to be here. Everything had already been handled—Dad; Mr Houston— had made sure of that. All I had to do was show up and sign.

Still, standing here like this felt… uncomfortable.

I exhaled softly, glancing toward the door. Brittany was waiting outside for me, probably pacing or complaining about something random. I just wanted to be done with this and get out.

“Alright,” the principal finally said, looking up at me. “Welcome to Rayville High, Miss Walton. You’ll be joining the eleventh grade.”

“These are some important details and a map of the school.” He slid a file and a folded paper across the desk.

“Thank you,” I replied quickly, grabbing the items and making it to the door.

The moment I stepped out of the office, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“Finally!” Brittany rushed toward me, eyes bright. “How was it?”

I nodded. “Fine.”

“See? Not so hard.” She nudged my shoulder playfully.

“What class were you put in?” she asked immediately.

“Eleventh grade. Same as you.”

Her face lit up instantly. “Yes!” she squealed, throwing her arms around me and jumping slightly. “This is perfect!”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re acting like a child.”

“And you love it,” she shot back with a grin.

Before I could reply, the sharp sound of the bell rang through the hallway. Brittany froze, her eyes widening as she checked the time.

“Wait—what? It’s already 10:30?” she panicked, then snapped toward me.

I frowned. “What's happening by 10:30? Lunch time?" I asked, and almost palm faced myself at the dumb question.

“The hockey competition, you idiot! How could you forget?!” Brittany shrieked.

“I…” I didn’t even get to finish before she grabbed my hand and bolted.

Students were already rushing in the same direction, and no matter how much I tried to pull back, it was useless—her werewolf strength dragged me along like I weighed nothing.

By the time she finally stopped, I was clutching my chest, gasping for air while she waved excitedly at someone ahead.

My gaze followed hers, landing first on the guy she was smiling at—her mate, apparently. I wouldn’t lie, he was hot….

My breath hitched. Standing right beside him, was… Clinton.

His hair was damp, falling slightly over his face, his hockey uniform hugging his body in a way that made it impossible not to stare.

And those eyes—those piercing blue eyes—God. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.

“Let’s go, they’re starting,” Brittany said, already pulling me again. I muttered a weak “okay” and followed, even though every instinct in me screamed to run the other way.

Of course, she dragged me to the front row. I bit my lip, already regretting my life choices of coming over as the referee blew the whistle.

The match started fast and aggressively.

Lockwood team moved like a well-oiled machine, their coordination sharp and precise, while Iron Claw pushed back with equal force, their players slamming into each other with sheer intensity.

The sound of skates cutting across the ice, sticks clashing, bodies colliding keep echoing but Clinton… he was on another level.

He moved like he owned the ice—swift, controlled, untouchable. He dodged players effortlessly, his grip on the stick firm as he maneuvered the puck with insane precision, passing, retrieving, scoring.

At one point, he slammed his stick against the puck so hard it flew straight into the goal, the net shaking as the crowd erupted.

But I barely heard them. My eyes were locked on him.

Every movement.

Every shift of his body.

The way his muscles flexed, the way his focus narrowed—it consumed me.

My mind betrayed me, drifting into dangerous thoughts, imagining his hands on me, gripping me just as firmly as he held that stick, controlling me, ruining me slowly.

Heat pooled low in my stomach and I swallowed hard, pressing my thighs together slightly.

Suddenly roars engulfed me, snapping me out of my imagination. Everyone was cheering.

I blinked, looking around before my eyes landed on the scoreboard.

Lockwood: 200. Iron Claw: 80.

They won. Of course they did. It was Clinton’s team anyways and he wasn’t someone who lost.

“Come on!” Brittany grabbed my hand again, dragging me toward the exit where the players were already coming out and the moment she saw her mate, she jumped on him.

“You won! Oh my god, you were so good out there!” she gushed, burying her face in his neck.

I stood there awkwardly, watching them. I didn't even catch the guy's name, but I knew Brittany was exaggerating—half the time he had been on the bench.

That was the mate bond for you; it turned even the most rational person into a fangirl.

Then, without even a glance back at me, her mate began to lead her away toward the parking lot, and Britt went willingly, totally lost in his presence.

Unbelievable! The girl who sworn she’d never let me go just ditched me for a guy in a jersey.

I wanted to yell after her, but I kept my mouth shut, feeling like a third wheel in my own life.

I turned to leave, wanting to get as far away from the locker rooms as possible before Clinton walked out. I didn't want him to see me standing there like a lost puppy.

Thud!

A heavy sound echoed behind me, followed by someone screaming, “Clinton!”

​I whirled around, my heart dropping into my stomach. There, lying flat on the concrete floor just outside the rink doors, was Clinton.

He was gasping, his chest heaving violently as he struggled for air. His face was turning a terrifying shade of pale, and a crowd was already starting to swarm him.

​“Move! Get back!” I yelled, my legs moving before my brain could catch up. I shoved through the gathering students, dropping to my knees beside him.

​I pulled his head onto my lap, my hands trembling. “Give him space! Everyone back up! He needs air!” The crowd recoiled slightly at the authority in my voice.

I pressed my palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing at a frantic, irregular rhythm. His eyes were starting to roll back in his head, his body beginning to go limp.

​“Clinton? Clinton, look at me!”

​He didn't respond. He was passing out!

Panic flared in my chest, and without a second thought, I tilted his head back, pinched his nose, and dove down.

​I pressed my lips to his, forcing air into his lungs.

​The entire world went silent. The screams of the students, the humming of the ice machines, the thumping of my own heart—it all vanished. There was only the taste of him and the desperate need to bring him back.

Suddenly, he gasped! Jerking upward.

He let out a sharp, ragged gasp, and his eyes flung open. They weren't just blue anymore; they were a glowing, deepest shade of electric sapphire.

A thick, heavy aura exploded from him, making the air around us feel heavy and charged with electricity.

​I quickly pulled away, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I tried to untangle myself.

He sat up abruptly, his movements jerky and powerful. His gaze locked onto mine, burning with an intensity so fierce it felt like it was branding my soul.

​A deep, guttural growl vibrated in his chest, a sound that wasn't entirely human.

​“Mate,” he rasped.