Knot On Your Pucking Life

  A SNOWVALE HOWLERS OMEGAVERSE NOVEL

  HEATHER LONG

  Copyright © 2026 by Heather Long

  Cover by Smoking Hot Covers

  Editing: Leavens Editing

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/ use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Knot On Your Pucking Life

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Afterword

  About Heather Long

  Also by Heather Long

  Knot On Your Pucking Life

  A Snowvale Howlers Omegaverse Novel

  Wren Foster plays by her own rules. As the PR manager for the Snowvale Howlers—the league’s most brutal pro hockey team—she’s the only omega in a den of alphas… and no one is supposed to know. Her secret is held together with black-market suppressants and sheer willpower.

  But suppressants fail.

  Instinct doesn’t.

  When a dangerous heat hits, Wren escapes to a remote cabin to ride it out alone. No bonds. No witnesses.

  Except three already know her scent.

  Her stoic captain.

  A dangerously charming goalie.

  And an ice-cold beta with secrets of his own.

  They’ll follow her into the storm—masked, feral, and primal.

  What begins as a heat becomes a hunt.

  And survival means choosing more than just herself.

  Because being claimed by three isn’t about surrender.

  It’s about choice—and the fiercest kind of love.

  A standalone slow-to-medium burn Omegaverse with primal chase, winter isolation, and a scorching polyam endgame.

  For you⁠—

  for finding laughter when there were only tears,

  for making art in the dark,

  for choosing to be yourself in a world that tried to reduce you to a diagnosis.

  You’ve shown me what it means to make every word count, to tell entire stories in a single image, and to stay feral and luminous even when things are heavy.

  You are one of my biggest cheerleaders, one of my constant inspirations, and even when I don’t say the story out loud, I can still hear you whispering, Do it.

  So this book is for you, my beautiful, chaotic, Mayhem.

  Foreword

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome to my very first Omegaverse.

  Wren Foster and the Snowvale Howlers showed up rather impertinently while I was in the middle of another series, teasing me with a chase through the snow involving hockey masks. Yeah… that’s where it started. They refused to leave me alone after that, and once the idea lodged itself in my brain, it became clear I wasn’t getting any peace until I wrote their story.

  I’ve never been one to write to a trend. I prefer to wait for the stories to grab me first, to let the characters settle in and start making noise. This is my first time stepping into the Omegaverse, but Wren and the boys moved in, went completely rent-free, and wouldn’t go away—so here we are.

  Now, the rules of Omegaverse can vary wildly from series to series, and I didn’t lean into any established handbook for this one. These are the rules of this world. Suppressants exist, but they aren’t especially legal the way Wren uses them. She also doesn’t want to be limited by her designation—whether alpha, beta, or omega—when it comes to the work she’s good at or the life she loves. And yes, she’s surrounded by alphas all day long. So what does that look like? How does instinct collide with ambition, control, and choice? Those were the questions that kept circling in my head as I wrote.

  As the story took over, a few core themes floated to the surface and refused to let go: autonomy versus instinct, found family, gender role reversal, the wildness of winter reflecting internal chaos, and mating as a chosen connection rather than destiny. Along the way, I gleefully embraced some of my favorite tropes—forced proximity, heat and chase scenes, fiercely protective alphas, a beta with dark horse emotional depth, hurt/comfort, a little mask kink, and primal energy. There’s even a “not like other omegas” angle in here, but I did my best to approach it without tearing down anyone else to make Wren shine.

  If you’ve read my books before, you already know this, but it bears repeating: consent has always been non-negotiable for me, and it’s no different here. No matter how feral things get, choice remains at the heart of this story.

  This is a complete standalone, so you can dive in with no prior knowledge of anything I’ve written before. I hope you enjoy Wren, the Howlers, the snow, the chaos, and all the wild, messy feelings that come with them.

  And who knows… maybe there will be more tales from the Howlers someday.

  I’ll see you on the flip side.

  xoxo

  Heather

  Chapter

  One

  WREN

  There were three unspoken rules in the Snowvale Howlers’ locker room.

  One: Don’t touch the gear if you don’t want to lose a hand.

  Two: Don’t mention the 2019 playoff choke. Ever.

  Three: Don’t flirt with the PR manager unless you're ready to get roasted in front of your teammates.

  Guess which rule they broke the most.

  “Foster,” Rhett called out from where he was slouched on a bench, sweat-damp hair curling at the ends, pads half-off like he was auditioning for a thirst trap. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t wanna climb me like a tree?”

  I didn’t even pause my stride. “Only on days ending in ‘never,’ Navarro.”

  The guys hollered. Rhett clutched his chest like I’d mortally wounded him. "Cold. Ice-cold."

  “That’s the brand,” I shot back, tossing a stack of media schedules onto the table by the fridge. “Try reading sometime, it builds character.”

  Across the room, Jay Kim didn’t even look up from where he was taping his stick with surgical precision. “Navarro doesn’t have character. He’s just noise in a nice jawline.”

  “As opposed to all your jealousy in a pair of too-tight compression shorts,” Rhett countered.

  “Jealous of what?” Jay asked dryly. “Your save percentage or your IQ?”

  “Both,” Rhett grinned. “You wish you could make a crowd scream the way I do.”

  Roan Whitaker snorted from where he was stretching out on the floor, foam roller under his back. “They’re screaming because you can’t stop dropping your stick mid-game.”

  Rhett flipped him off. Roan didn’t flinch—he just looked at me. Quiet, steady.

  “You okay?” he asked, voice low and private despite the chaos around us.

  I gave him the same answer I always did. “Always.”

  And it was always a lie.

  Because here’s the thing about working this job as an omega: no one’s supposed to know.

  Suppressants made it easier—at least, they used to. My scent stayed muted, my cycle flatlined, and my body mine. No glowing skin, no come-hither hormones, no pheromones curling through the air like invisible snares. I was just Wren. Smart mouth. Sharp boots. Full control.

  But keeping up that illusion meant knowing how to read the room.

  And the Howlers locker room was a jungle. Sweaty pads, damp towels, leather tape, pine-scented body wash and alpha musk all stewing in a low-grade haze. I’d learned to walk through it like a minefield: don’t linger too close, don’t lock eyes too long, and never—never—breathe too deep.

  Especially not around Roan.

  Or Rhett, when he was laughing.

  Or Jay, when he got that look in his eyes like he saw something you didn’t even know you were hiding.

  “Team meeting in five!” Coach Morrissey
’s voice boomed from the hallway. “If you’re late, you run.”

  A chorus of groans followed. Helmets thunked back into cubbies. Sticks got propped up. Someone cursed about missing their protein shake.

  I didn’t even make it a step before the Coach eyed me with a nod and asked, “You joining us, Foster?”

  “I’ll brief you after,” I said. “Owner’s upstairs. Wants to talk playoff strategy—media coverage, not defensive lines. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Don’t be,” he said, already distracted as he barked at Apa to tuck in his damn jersey. “You do your job better than half my rookies do theirs.”

  “That’s because I don’t get concussed weekly.”

  He chuckled as he walked off, and I headed toward the elevator, smoothing the front of my blazer. As much as the guys joked around, the real pressure came from up top. I didn’t even make it another step before Roan stepped into my path.

  Roan rolled his shoulders as he rose, the motion smooth and measured like everything he did—controlled. Deliberate. He stepped closer, eyes briefly scanning my face, then the small tension in my hands I didn’t know I’d been clenching.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, voice lower this time. Closer. Something warmer flickered underneath the usual stoicism.

  I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Just tired.”

  His gaze lingered on me, too perceptive for comfort.

  “Then maybe take your own advice for once and rest,” he said, dry as ever but softer now. “You’re always on. Even wolves sleep.”

  I huffed out a quiet laugh, surprised. “Was that a poetic metaphor, Whitaker?”

  “It was a threat to make you nap, actually.”

  He turned to leave, but paused mid-step. “We notice when you don’t take care of yourself, you know.”

  Then he was gone, following Coach down the hallway with that long, steady stride.

  I stood there for a second too long, but when I turned, Jay was watching me.

  He was leaning against the locker just to the side, stick still in hand, tape dangling from his fingers. Calm. Unreadable. But his eyes—dark and sharp and cutting right through me—locked with mine. Not challenging. Not accusing.

  Just knowing.

  I maintained my professional mask, a faint smile with a hint of certainty that refused to be dislodged even by his silent, if intense, accusation. Didn’t matter in the long run, though, I looked away before I strode out of the locker room.

  Strode.

  Not fled.

  Yes, I was very good at lying to myself.

  The Howlers’ owner, Adrien Marchand, was exactly the kind of wealthy, sharp-eyed alpha who made people instinctively nervous—and he liked it that way. His suits were always immaculate, his words sparse, and his presence unsettling in that power-play, boardroom-heat sort of way.

  “I hope they’re not giving you too much trouble,” he said as I stepped into his office. The view of the snow-drenched rink below looked like something out of a postcard, if the postcard came with a scent warning and bloodstains on the ice.

  “They’re puppies in pads,” I replied, cool and crisp. “Loud, slightly untrainable, but manageable.”

  His mouth twitched. “Good. Keep them focused. This playoff run could make or break the franchise.”

  I nodded, did the PR dance, promised press coverage, coordinated talking points, and got out of there before his scent started digging claws into the back of my throat.

  Because lately?

  Everything was getting harder to ignore.

  My skin had started to buzz in crowds.

  A heavy-bass hum just beneath the surface of my bones, like I was a radio tuned half a frequency off. I’d found myself leaning in when Roan spoke, breathing slower when Rhett laughed near me, reacting—viscerally—to things that shouldn’t have touched me.

  Certain voices made my stomach twist. My balance slipped around stronger scents. I was waking up flushed and aching, mouth dry, sheets tangled like I’d been chasing something in my sleep and never caught it.

  The worst part? I couldn’t even tell if it was them, or me.

  The locker room—don’t even get me started on that place—used to be just sweat, banter, and chaos. But now it felt like a live wire. A sauna of unwashed gear, testosterone, and temptation I couldn’t afford to want. Like my instincts were starting to hear a frequency I’d spent over a decade pretending didn’t exist.

  I was slipping. The act was fraying at the edges.

  That was before I ended up sitting in a too-white, too-bright medical office, arms crossed, stomach knotted, while my doctor gave me news I hadn’t wanted to hear three weeks earlier.

  Dr. Maida clicked her pen. “Your readings are unstable. The suppressants aren’t binding the way they used to.”

  I stared at her. “Then increase the dosage.”

  “We’ve already pushed past the safe threshold, Wren.” Her tone softened, but it didn’t help. “Your liver enzymes are elevated. You’ve developed a tolerance, maybe even a dependency. Your body’s trying to override the meds.”

  My throat dried. “There’s got to be something else.”

  “There is. Stop taking them.” She leaned forward, gentle but firm. “Let your system reset. Let your body regulate.”

  “No,” I said flatly. “You don’t get it. I can’t⁠—”

  “You don’t have a choice. If you keep going like this, you could trigger a crash. Organ damage. Full burnout. You’d be hospitalized.”

  I looked away, jaw tight. Through the window, snow was starting to fall again—soft, quiet flakes spiraling against the glass. First storm of the season. I used to love snow.

  Now it just made everything feel like it was closing in.

  “Wren,” she said, voice low. “Who are you hiding from?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Because I wasn’t hiding from someone.

  I was hiding from everyone.

  From two alphas whose scents were starting to pull something dangerous out of me.

  From one beta who noticed too much.

  From a life I didn’t want—no matter how badly my body was starting to whisper otherwise.

  I’d done the math, then waited another few days to stop taking the suppressants. It would take time to let them cycle out of my system. They had a half-life. The doctor had walked me through all of it. She even had brochures and recommendations for services that could help me once they were out of my system and my first heat in over a decade hit.

  That wasn’t today, though. I still had time. Time to get everything ready for the playoffs before I took a few days off. I only hoped it would be enough.

  A message buzzed on my phone. Marchand’s assistant asking for another thirty before I came up. Fine. I’d get other work done until then.

  The lobby was empty, the ice behind the glass rink walls freshly resurfaced, gleaming like a frozen promise. Upstairs, the media suite was quiet, mercifully. I didn’t think I could handle small talk or caffeine-laced gossip from the junior marketing assistant who was perpetually tracking the team’s Instagram engagement like it was the stock market.

  I pushed open the door to my office and froze.

  Rhett was already inside.

  Well—had been inside. The room was empty now except for the faint trace of his scent hanging in the air—cool eucalyptus, warm spice, and just a hint of something wild that didn’t belong in a business setting. Of course he wasn’t in here, he was with the team. I shook off the visceral reaction that had my skin pebbling.

  There was a folded note on my desk, held down by a puck he'd swiped from media day. My name scrawled across it in a messy black sharpie.

  Wren.

  If you’re not okay, you know you can tell me, right?

  —R

  No joke. No flirt. Just… that.

  I stared at it longer than I should have.

  For someone who made everything a performance, Rhett had a nasty habit of slipping sincerity in when I least expected. It was a side of him he didn’t show on purpose. And that? That was harder to shake off than the usual locker room crap.

  I folded the note in half and tucked it into the drawer with my backup comms and a handful of granola bars I hadn’t eaten since the preseason road trip.

  Then I sat down, powered up my monitor, and braced myself.