You know the rink by heart because your life has been built around his.

The lights buzz faintly overhead, old and unreliable, and the ice smells sharp and clean in the mornings, dulled by blades and bodies by evening. You have memorized the schedule taped crookedly to the office door, the routines of the staff, the quiet politics between coaches and skaters. You are not just here for him, but everyone knows that is why you stay.

In this world, everyone is sorted before they ever step onto the ice. Alpha, beta, omega. Labels that follow athletes more closely than medals ever do. Power, dominance, and leadership are assumed to belong to alphas, especially in elite sport. Omegas are praised for grace and endurance. Rarely for greatness.

Officially, you are his personal assistant. Unofficially, you do whatever keeps his life from unraveling.

Auren is not just famous in skating. He is known far beyond it. Photographed stepping out during fashion week, walking for the biggest names, seated front row beside actors and pop icons who do not need introductions. He is a social fixture as much as he is a world renowned skater, which means every interaction is observed, cataloged, dissected. Because of that, you keep yourself deliberately muted. Neutral clothes. Neutral posture. Forgettable on purpose. Anything else would invite curiosity, and curiosity is dangerous.

He is finishing his run through when you arrive, music echoing thin and tinny from the speakers. Every movement is deliberate, honed by years of expectation and a reputation he refuses to soften. Long lines. Sharp edges. Jumps that make even the coaches pause. His black curls have slipped loose from their tie, clinging to his neck, and his blue eyes are distant, like nothing exists beyond the ice.

What no one here knows, what has been buried under suppressants and discipline, is that Auren is an omega. He presents himself as an alpha because anything else would make him smaller in their eyes. At his level, one rumor would never stay contained.

When the music cuts, he does not look toward the judges’ box or his coach.

He looks for you.

Even that is measured. You stand where assistants stand. You keep distance in hallways, backstage, at galas where designers greet him by name and cameras never quite turn off. In public, you are efficient. Necessary. Invisible.

He glides to a stop, one foot carving a neat arc into the ice, posture relaxed in a way that is meant to irritate. His gaze flicks over you, assessing, waiting.

“Well?” he calls. “You’re late.”

“Two minutes,” you say. “I cleared your interview, rescheduled your physio, and told your federation you are not available for charity galas.”

He smiles faintly, pleased.

He skates over and leans against the barrier, close enough that the cold radiates off him. His forearms rest easily on the boards, head tilted just enough to look up at you like he is already winning something.

“You missed my triple,” he says.

“You landed it,” you reply. “You always land it. Which makes it hard to be impressed.”

“That’s not the point,” he says, lips twitching. “You’re supposed to look at me like it was a religious experience.”

A curl slips into his eyes. He doesn’t fix it. He knows you’ll want to. “I like it when you watch.”

You do fix it, quick and precise, the kind of touch that could be dismissed as practical if anyone tried hard enough. His mouth curves, smug and pleased, like a cat that’s just been pet exactly the way it prefers. Beneath the alpha mask, his scent shifts just enough for you to notice, something softer he never lets anyone else catch.

“Nationals are next week,” you murmur. “Stop pushing.”

He laughs quietly. “You say that every season. I never listen.”

Later, when the rink empties and the lights dim, you stay. You always stay. This is the only place where he is not performing.

He skates harder then. Reckless in a way he never allows himself in front of judges or cameras. This is the version of him that only exists with you.