Falling For The Hot Alpha Hockey Star

　　Skylar's POV

　　Hey y'all welcome to my world of drama, buckle up cuz shit's messy and loud as hell .

　　"Skylar! What the hell do you think you're doing with him?"

　　That's not how you want to end a school day. That's not how you want to start any day. Unless, of course, you enjoy the entire schoolyard turning into your personal audience while your mom screams like she's headlining some reality TV show.

　　Heads swiveled, jaws dropped, and I considered throwing myself into the nearest trash can just to get it over with.

　　Beside me, Mila was already wheezing with laughter. "Your mom really knows how to make an entrance," she whispered.

　　"Don't encourage her," I hissed, forcing a smile like maybe, just maybe, this wasn't happening.

　　And Ryder? He just stood there, hands in his pockets, expression as blank as always. Like being called out by the scariest mom alive was just another Tuesday. Typical.

　　But okay, let's rewind before I start sounding like some tragic soap opera victim.

　　My name's Skylar . I belong to a werewolf pack, but here's the fun part: I can't shift. Never have. Never will. Everyone else in my family got the fur, the claws, the dramatic moonlight transformations. Me? Nothing. Nada. Zero. Just plain old me in plain old skin.

　　When I was four, all the other kids were out in the woods, running around in half-wolf form while their parents clapped like it was graduation day. I stood there, staring at the moon, waiting for something anything to happen. Spoiler: nothing did.

　　People started calling me "the lost pup." Cute, right? Like I was a misplaced sock. My sister Elena took it a step further and called me "failure." Honestly, points for creativity.

　　My parents didn't even bother naming my condition. They just sighed. Constantly. You'd think sighing was a competitive sport the way they did it. Long sighs, short sighs, disappointed sighs you get the picture.

　　School wasn't much better. Being the wolf who couldn't wolf made me the perfect punching bag. Kids shoved me into lockers, called me "human girl," whispered about me being cursed. You'd think it would toughen me up, but nope I mostly survived by keeping my head down and my comebacks sharper than my claws (oh wait, I don't have any).

　　The only reason I didn't combust by age ten was Mila Donovan. Mila was my best friend and possibly a future bodyguard if her temper ever got put on payroll. She didn't care that I couldn't shift. She didn't care that the entire pack looked at me like I was defective. She was just...Mila. Fierce, funny, completely insane in the best way.

　　Like one afternoon, we were walking across campus when some jerk from a rival pack sneered, "Hey, human girl. Lost pup wandering again?"

　　I was ready to pretend I hadn't heard him classic survival move but Mila stepped in front of me like a five-foot shield. "Back off," she snapped, eyes blazing.

　　They laughed, but they left. Mila turned to me, grinning. "See? You don't have to face them alone."

　　That was Mila. She saved me from drowning in my own freak label more times than I can count.

　　At home, though? Different story. Elena was relentless.

　　"Still can't shift?" she'd ask, barging into my room uninvited.

　　"Nope," I'd reply, eyes glued to my homework.

　　"You'll never be anything but a disappointment," she'd sigh dramatically before stealing my hoodie.

　　I wish I could say her words didn't hurt, but they did. Every time. And yet, I still wanted her approval. Call it masochism, call it sibling trauma whatever.

　　My parents weren't cruel, just...quietly crushing. Their disappointment filled the house like wallpaper. They were too busy with pack politics to deal with me anyway. Maybe they thought if they ignored my condition long enough, it would just magically fix itself. Or maybe they didn't know what to do with me. Either way, it left me stuck.

　　Nights were the hardest. When the pack howled under the full moon, I sat on my window ledge, staring up at the sky, begging for something to happen. For my bones to crack, for fur to sprout, for a howl to tear out of my throat. Nothing ever came. Just silence.

　　But here's the thing nobody realizes: being the "broken" one doesn't make you weak. It makes you observant. When you're the outcast, you notice things others miss. And while they're busy laughing at me, I'm busy surviving.

　　Because useless? No. I'm many things awkward, stubborn, hoodie thief victim but useless isn't one of them.

　　Besides, you don't have to be a wolf to bite.