Break Me If You Can

Hudson's POV:

The thing about being Hudson Harrington was that people moved out of your way.

Not because you asked them to, not because you were particularly scary or mean or whatever. They just... did it. They saw the name on my jersey, or they recognized my face from College Sports Weekly's "Top College Athletes to Watch" feature from last spring, or maybe they just smelled the pureblood alpha on me and their hindbrain did the rest. Either way, doors opened before I reached them, crowds parted, and nobody, NOBODY, was ever on my ice when I showed up to skate.

Except today, apparently.

"Who the hell is that?" Connor asked, stopping so abruptly that Derek almost crashed into him.

I didn't answer. I was too busy watching.

The guy was alone on the rink, and he moved like... no, I wasn't going to finish that thought because it sounded stupid even in my own head. The point was, the guy was fast. Really fast. The kind of fast that came from years of obsessive practice layered on top of raw, infuriating talent. I recognized it because, well. Because I had it too, and I'd spent my entire life being told I was special for having it.

The stranger executed a crossover that made something twist uncomfortably in my chest. Jealousy, maybe. Or gas. I'd skipped breakfast this morning.

"Yo, Hudson. You good?"

"Fine." I dropped my gear bag by the bench. The sound echoed through the empty arena, but the guy on the ice didn't even glance over. Just kept skating, kept practicing some drill that involved weaving between invisible obstacles with the puck glued to his stick like it was magnetized there.

My jaw tightened. "Wait here."

"Dude, maybe we should just—"

But I was already walking toward the rink entrance, my sneakers squeaking against the rubber floor in a way that made my teeth itch. I hated that sound. I hated a lot of things this morning, actually, starting with the text from my father at 6 AM reminding me that "the season is approaching and Harringtons don't coast" and ending with this random asshole who apparently thought my ice belonged to him.

I pushed through the gate and stepped onto the rink without skates, which was dumb and also kind of dangerous because the surface was slick and I was wearing ridiculously expensive Jordans. But the dramatic effect was worth it. Probably.

"Hey."

The guy kept skating.

"HEY."

Finally, FINALLY, the stranger slowed, carved a lazy arc, and came to a stop about fifteen feet away. Up close, I could see him better: dark hair, eyes with some weird greenish-yellow thing happening in them, and a face that looked like it had been assembled from spare parts that somehow worked together. Attractive in an aggressive sort of way, like a knife or a car crash.

And he was looking at me like I was nothing. Less than nothing. An obstacle, maybe. A minor inconvenience.

I wasn't used to that.

"This ice is reserved," I said, and my voice came out exactly how I wanted it to: cold and controlled, the voice of someone who had never in his life been told no. "Team practice. So you need to leave."

The stranger tilted his head. He was breathing hard from the skating, sweat darkening the collar of his ratty practice jersey with no logo, I noticed, just plain black like he'd bought it at a thrift store or something. His scent hit me a second later: alpha. Strong, too, almost aggressive in its intensity, with an undertone I couldn't identify. Pine, maybe. Or cheap soap. Or—

"Do I," he said. Not a question.

"Yeah. You do."

"Hm." The guy glanced around the empty arena, then back at me, and something that might have been a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a friendly smile. "I don't see anyone else here. Just me. Practicing. On a rink that's been empty for three hours."

"Well, now we're here. So move."

"Okay... Make me."

The words hung in the air between us, and I felt something crack inside my chest. Actually crack, like ice under pressure, like the careful structure I'd spent twenty-one years building was suddenly developing fault lines. Nobody talked to me like that. Nobody had talked to me like that since, when? Grade school? Before everyone learned what my last name meant and started treating me accordingly?

"Look," I said, and I took a step closer, which made my feet slide slightly because, again, Jordans on ice, terrible idea. "I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but this rink belongs to the Northbrook hockey team. I'm the captain. And I'm telling you to get the fuck off my ice."

The stranger laughed. Actually laughed, this sharp surprised sound that bounced off the arena walls and made my hands curl into fists inside my jacket pockets.

"Your ice," he repeated. "Right. Because your daddy bought it for you?"

I moved before I could think about it. One second I was standing there trying to look intimidating, and the next my hand was fisted in the front of his jersey and we were close enough that I could count the individual flecks of gold in those weird yellow-green eyes.

His scent was everywhere now, overwhelming, and my wolf, the part of me I kept locked away, always, because Harringtons don't lose control, Hudson, we are better than that, stirred restlessly in my chest.

"You don't know anything about me," I said, low and dangerous.

"I know enough." His voice was just as low, but he wasn't backing down, wasn't looking away, wasn't doing any of the things he was supposed to do when confronted by a pureblood alpha with three inches and twenty pounds on him. "Rich kid playing hockey because it's the family sport. Probably got a silver stick as a baby gift. Never had to fight for anything in your entire goddamn life."

"You don't know SHIT—"

"Hudson!"

Connor's voice cut through the red haze that was starting to creep into my vision. I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me back, and I let go of the stranger's jersey so abruptly that he stumbled.

"Jesus Christ, man, what's wrong with you?" Derek was saying, and Connor was positioning himself between me and the stranger like some kind of referee, and the stranger, the asshole, the nobody, the piece of shit who thought he could just waltz in here and—

He was smiling...

Actually smiling, like this was FUNNY to him, like getting into a fight with Hudson Harrington on his first day at Northbrook was some kind of joke. His scent had shifted, I noticed distantly. Less confrontational now, more... amused? Satisfied? Like he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.

"Tell your attack dog to get a leash," he said to Connor, skating backward toward the far bench where his gear bag sat. "Before he bites someone who bites back."

"Who the FUCK do you think—"

"Hudson. HUDSON." Connor's grip on my arm was tight enough to bruise. "Let it go, man. He's leaving."

He was leaving. Gathering his stuff with infuriating slowness, pulling the guards onto his blades, slinging his bag over one shoulder. And the whole time he kept looking at me with that same expression, that same fucking smile, like he knew something I didn't.

At the doorway, he paused.

"I'm Jaden, by the way," he said. "Jaden Williams. See you around, Captain."

And then he was gone, and I was standing in the middle of my own rink with my heart hammering against my ribs and my wolf howling somewhere deep inside me and my hands shaking so badly I had to shove them back into my pockets to hide it.

"Dude," Derek said after a long silence. "What the hell was that?"

I didn't answer. Couldn't answer, actually, because I didn't know. I'd been in a thousand confrontations on the ice, had faced down opponents twice my size, had weathered hits that should have broken bones and insults that should have broken spirits. None of it had ever made me feel like this. Like I was standing on the edge of something, about to fall.

Like the ground under my feet wasn't as solid as I'd always believed.

"Let's practice," I said finally, and my voice was almost normal, almost controlled. "We've wasted enough time."

Yes, but I wouldn’t let that go. It was far from being fucking over.