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Summary
“No skating today,” the alpha stated after Ilya’s eye stayed on the rink for a moment too long.
“Skating?”
“I know we're hockey players, but we have to beat some stereotypes.”
Ilya wasn’t really sure what that meant, but he caught one part of it that he did care about, “I play hockey?”
The man’s brows furrowed again, “Ilya, are you sure you—”
“I play hockey?” he interrupted, even though he knew it was a bad thing to do. One did not interrupt an alpha and he would pay for it later, but he needed to know.
“Yes, Ilya—”
“I am good?”
“Yes—”
“The best?”
Now the man laughed, “fuck off.”
Or
Ilya knew that admitting confusion, showing weakness only lead to worse things. The strange alpha he slept next to or the men he played hockey with might be sweet, but they were just as capable of cruelty as anyone else who Ilya had ever met. He knew better than to give any of them an opening. So when Ilya Rozanov woke up in a house with no memory of how he got there, he refused to admit it. Instead, he tried his best to piece his life together without drawing too much attention to himself.