Icy Nights: Mated to The Three Alphas

Jessie

Lemon cleaner bites the laminate, and fryer grease sits so thick I can taste it. My boots stick to dried syrup on the floor, and a cup of coffee wobbles on my tray beside a mound of red sauce pasta.

Fourteen dollars for this. Fourteen dollars, and the coffee tastes like a boot. If I blow this much on lunch, Friday dinner is whatever's left in the dorm kitchen.

The line wrapped to the doors. I waited twenty minutes for a cold plate.

I spot my roommates four tables in. Tinsley waves a silver fork mid-story, clean cotton and chamomile drifting off her bright blue hoodie.

"Jess! Over here!" Tinsley yells across the chairs. "Did you get the pasta?"

"I got the pasta."

"Is it edible?" Brooke asks, eyes on her propped phone.

"It tastes cold and rubbery."

"Fourteen dollars well spent," Tinsley says.

"Come look at this video. Brooke has a hilarious clip."

"It is not hilarious," Brooke says. "It's a golden retriever wearing blue knitwear."

"That's top tier content." Tinsley shoves a chair with her foot. "Sit down before your pasta gets cold."

I smile at their loud argument. They make this frozen campus feel manageable. Tinsley always makes room for my tray.

My path cuts past the center table. The Golden Wolves own that space. Red and gold jackets crowd the benches, and two players arm-wrestle over plastic cups.

Martins Heller sits in the middle, dark charcoal wool over a crisp white shirt. He isn't wearing team gear. The suit is tailored and expensive.

"Look at that suit," Tinsley whispers.

"Who wears tailored wool to lunch?" I ask.

"Hockey captains with rich families," Brooke says.

One sleeve cuff hangs unbuttoned at his wrist. He scrolls his phone while two teammates argue beside him. He doesn't look up.

Players leave room around him without being asked.

Cody Jenner sits near the bench edge, legs spread wide. "Check this pass out," he says, to nobody.

"Don't stare," Tinsley calls. "Lila made a girl cry last semester for sitting in his booth."

"I'm not staring. I'm walking."

"Lila thinks she owns the aisle too," Brooke says.

I keep walking, tray steady in both hands, the way I'd walk past any table. Cody stretches his leg into the aisle.

"Watch this rookie move," Cody calls to the player beside him.

I could step wide. I don't. I figure he'll pull his foot back, the way guys do when a girl with a tray is coming through.

He doesn't.

My left boot catches his sneaker ankle. "Oh, sh..."

The tray tilts. Hot black coffee launches into open air. The ceramic pasta plate flips upside down, and there's a wet slap.

Marinara hits the charcoal wool. Coffee runs down his dark silk tie. A single noodle sticks to his lapel.

The cafeteria goes quiet. Forks stop. Chairs scrape. Faces turn.

"Oh man," a student says.

"Is that Heller?" someone asks.

"She's done," another voice adds.

"My fault!" Cody laughs to his table. "She walked right into my foot." His grin flickers when Tinsley calls him out, then comes back.

"You stuck your leg out!" Tinsley shouts.

"Keep it down, Tinsley," Brooke says.

I'm on my knees. The linoleum is cold through my jeans. I don't remember falling.

Marinara drips off the table edge onto the floor. The sauce pools around my palms. Thin brown napkins tear before they can lift anything.

"Did she just do that?" someone whispers.

"She's dead," another whispers back.

Heat crawls up my neck. I stare at my sticky palms.

Martins sets his phone on the wood, slow. He looks straight into my eyes.

"Do you have a death wish," he asks, "or is this a special talent?"

"I didn't see his sneaker. I can clean your suit. I can pay for dry cleaning. I..."

"Don't."

Nobody at the table laughs now.

The apology catches behind my teeth.

A whistle shrieks. Coach Dale Rorvik shoulders through the crowd in gray sweats.

"What is this circus?" Rorvik barks. "Heller. Sit."

He looks at the sauce, then at my scholarship badge.

"Eight hundred dollar suit. You don't have eight hundred dollars."

"I can work campus shifts. I'll pay every dollar back."

"You're the Golden Wolves mascot Saturday. Duluth." He points a gloved finger. "Marlon Gibbs fits the costume after your last class. Don't be late."

I picture the mascot head, the mesh eyes, students filming from the bleachers. I can't see anything through that thing.

"Yes, Coach."

"Don't disappoint me, Marlowe."

He marches off.

Tinsley stands up at her table. "Coach, Cody tripped her!"

"I didn't do anything!" Cody yells.

"Accidents have consequences," Rorvik says without turning. "Make sure she shows up."

I push up off the linoleum and grab more napkins. They dissolve in my wet hands. The brown smear spreads instead of lifting.

I step toward Martins with shaking fingers and reach for his lapel.

"I'm really sorry. I can take it to professional cleaners. I can pay the full bill."

"Stop touching me."

"I'm trying to fix the stain."

"I said stop."

His hand clamps around my right wrist. Pine resin cuts through the fryer grease. His skin burns against mine, and his thumb lands square over my pulse.

"Let go of my wrist."

His grip doesn't give. I pull back, and his fingers stay put. My hoodie sleeve brushes his wool.

Martins goes still.

His nostrils flare. His grip locks on my wrist, and his free hand flattens against his sternum, fingers digging into the stained wool.

"...What," he whispers.

"That's impossible," he says.

He doesn't seem to hear me.

Lila Beaumont glides to his side. Her dark hair falls in perfect waves. Gardenia hits first, then dark amber underneath, reaching me before she does.

"Martins. What's happening here?"

"Nothing," Martins says.

"Clean this mess up," Lila tells a worker, not looking at the worker.

"Leave her alone, Lila," Tinsley calls.

"Mind your business."

Lila's eyes drop to me. "She doesn't belong in this building."

My wrist throbs where his fingers pressed. I forget to answer her. My attention stays on him.

Martins releases my wrist. His hand jerks back. His palm presses his sternum again, chest heaving. He grabs his phone and walks.

"Martins! Where are you going?" Lila calls.

"I need air."

The doors swing and close behind him. The cafeteria watches him go.

I stand in the spilled coffee with my wrist still stinging.

•••

The doors close behind him. Martins slams both palms against the cinderblock, and the rough surface scrapes his skin raw.

His breath saws loud against the wall.

Behind his ribs, his wolf paces. Claws scratch bone. Something pulls him back toward the doors, a pressure under his sternum he can't name.

Under the sauce and the lemon cleaner, winter frost and crushed leaves linger faint. Something old. Something his body had no reason to recognize.

He takes one breath of it. He turns his face away.

Then he turns back toward the cafeteria doors, jaw working. His pupils stay wide and dark.

He whispers to the empty hallway.

"Again."