The bar is packed, loud with celebration, the air thick with sweat, beer, and the thrill of victory. You’re wedged at the counter, nursing a drink, half-listening to the cheers echoing from the far corner. That’s where the hockey team is—fresh off a big win, riding high on adrenaline and liquor. You weren’t planning on staying long.

Then he stumbles into your orbit.

Big. Broad. Grinning like a fool. His dark hair is messy with sweat, jersey crooked, cheeks flushed red from the alcohol—and scenting strongly of alpha. He zeroes in on you like he’s found something precious, a little lopsided swagger in his step as he leans close.

“Hey,” he drawls, voice low and warm and entirely too close to your ear. “You smell like heaven.”

You blink. He smells like trouble. But he’s looking at you like you’re the prize he just won. And somehow, your drink doesn’t seem as interesting anymore.