Asha's Pov
"It's a win!" I shouted, my voice swallowed by the roar of the crowd as the display board lit up 3-2 in bright red.
The buzzer screamed through the arena like a gunshot, sealing Crestwood’s victory over Corvus University in overtime. My heart slammed against my ribs—not just from the game, but from the sheer, dizzying rush of it all.
Around me, students in orange and white jerseys exploded out of their seats. High-fives slapped through the air. Someone’s popcorn bucket tipped, sending kernels raining down like confetti. The whole place smelled of hot dogs, spilled beer, and that sharp, electric smell of triumph. People were screaming our fight song, off-key and perfect.
I pressed both hands to my cheeks, grinning so hard it hurt. This was exactly what we needed after finals hell—a massive, stupid, glorious distraction. Crestwood might not have Corvus’s old-money shine or their reputation for turning out future kings, but tonight we fought dirty and smart and won. We had taken something from the untouchable.
Out on the ice, Miles yanked his helmet off. His sandy hair was plastered with sweat, sticking up in every direction. He pumped his fist, laughing with the rest of the team in that loose, boyish way that always made my chest feel too small. My boyfriend. My maybe-forever. I waved like an idiot, hoping he’d look up and see me in the sea of faces, but he was too busy getting slapped on the back and shouting with the guys.
A soft flutter moved low in my belly—not nerves, not the exam kind anyway. Something warmer. Something hopeful.
In our world, relationships weren’t simple. Not for omegas. We didn’t get to claim mates until after the Awakening Ceremony—the big, formal rite at twenty-one when our wolves finally woke up and the suppressants came off for good. Mine was only a month away, right after my birthday. Until then I was stuck in this weird gray zone: dating, wanting, but never fully allowed to promise anything.
Miles had been patient. Steady. He wasn’t loud or flashy like the alphas who strutted around campus like they already owned the world. He was just… Miles. The guy who remembered I liked oat milk in my coffee, who sent me dumb memes at 2 a.m. when I was panicking over organic chemistry, who held my hand under the table during movie nights and never made me feel small for being late to bloom.
We talked about it quietly, late at night, tangled in my dorm sheets. “When your wolf wakes up,” he murmur against my neck, “it’s gonna be us. I can feel it.” His voice always sounded so sure. I clung to that certainty like a life raft.
Tonight felt like proof. Crestwood beating Corvus—the school everyone said couldn’t be touched. Maybe the impossible could happen for me too.
The announcer called for the post-game ceremony. Players lined up on the ice. Corvus looked like squards in their blue and white jerseys, helmets off now. I caught sight of the Blackthorne twins everyone always whispered about—Damon and Kai. Even from up here they were impossible to miss. Tall, broad, dark-haired, gray eyes that seemed to cut through the crowd. They didn’t smile. They didn’t clap. They just stood there, radiating cold fury.
A shiver slid down my spine, sharp and unrelated to the arena’s chill. Corvus wasn’t just a rival school. It was a different world of old families, old money, old rules. Places where alphas settled scores with fists and whispers, where omegas learned early to keep their heads down. Crestwood felt safe by comparison. Cozy. Normal.
I checked my phone again. No text from Miles yet, but he’d be swamped with teammates. I pictured surprising him in the locker hallway, throwing my arms around him, laughing against his mouth, stealing a kiss that tasted like victory and sweat.
The ceremony finally wrapped. Trophy. Handshakes. Fake sportsmanship speeches. The crowd started to thin. I grabbed my bag, heart kicking faster now, and wove through the exiting fans toward the players’ area.
The hallway under the stands was a concrete maze—echoing cheers, flickering fluorescents, the faint smell of rubber and ice. Laughter spilled from the Crestwood side. Music blasted from someone’s speaker. I smiled to myself, already imagining Miles’s face when he saw me.
The door to the players lounge was cracked open. Voices, laughter, the clatter of gear.
I pushed it wider, stepping inside.
“Hey, champ....”
The words died in my throat.
Miles was there. But not alone.
Sarah—the cheerleader with the glossy ponytail and perfect smile—was pressed against the lockers. Her legs were wrapped around his waist. His pants were shoved down just enough. He was buried inside her, thrusting hard, focused, the same way he skated tonight.
Her head was thrown back. Little breathy moans escaped her lips.
They didn’t notice me at first.
My bag slipped from my shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. She saw me over his shoulder.
She smirked.
Actually smirked.
Miles turned, still moving inside her, his face flushing—not with shame, but irritation.
“Asha? What the hell?”
What the hell.
Like I walked in on him tying his skates.
Like this was my fault.
Sarah unwrapped her legs, sliding down with casual grace, smoothing her skirt like she just finished stretching. Miles yanked his pants up, muttering something about “blowing off steam.”
Blowing off steam.
After our biggest win.
After months of promises.
After every late-night whisper about forever.
My chest caved in. Something sharp and cold lodged behind my ribs.
All of it, a lie.