Chapter 37 Archangel
THIRTY-SEVEN
ARCHANGEL
Coach sits us down at the next practice to go over the brackets.
“If we make it to the final, we’ll be up against the Monsters again.”
“You think they’ll make it?” Wolfe has worked his way in behind Coach Hawke and is two inches from the board, studying it.
Hawke jumps. “When the fuck did you get back there?”
“I’m like nine feet tall. How did you miss me?”
“You’re fucking sneaky, and you know it,” Hawke mutters and moves away from Wolfe.
“It is part of my goalie powers.” Wolfe laughs but then returns his intense focus on the board. “You think they can beat Colorado?”
“If Ktytor keeps playing like he has been, I know they will. Who’s going to shut him down?”
“True.” Wolfe nods. “I think we can get to the finals. The first two games will be easy. It’s the semi-finals we’ll need to watch out for.”
“We need to take it all seriously. I don’t want Archangel putting in a ton of time until he has to.”
“I’m fine,” I say, annoyed.
“Good call. We can’t have him out for the final, and other teams will go after him,” Wolfe says, betraying me.
I just stare at him, but he won’t meet my eyes.
For the next week, Hawke works us to the bone.
We don’t even have the energy to fuck by the time we get home each night.
The schedule is grueling, and the stress eats everyone alive the closer we get to the first game.
A lot of this is going to change how the draft works, and it’s like an invisible weight tied to all of us.
Eligible or not, the rest of the guys know that how they play could make or break things for their teammates.
I hate it. I don’t remember it being this bad in years past, but maybe I just wasn’t paying close enough attention.
I’m just glad the first game is here.
Wolfe spends the day going through his rituals. Seaborn and I spend the entire day watching for any sign that one doesn’t go as planned, but they seem to go off without any issues.
“We have an hour before we need to head to the rink, and Seaborn isn’t here.” I lay sprawled out on the hotel bed.
He shakes his head. “Can’t be doing that.”
“Why not?” I frown, trying to remember if pre-game sex is one of the goalie no no’s.
“No sex during the playoffs! It’s no nut, no net.”
“Excuse me? There’s not a saying for that.” I don’t know if I should be annoyed or resigned.
“It’s a real thing. All goalies know. Ask Savage.”
“Wait, so we can’t have sex at all?”
He shakes his head. “Not during the tournament.”
“We had sex during the Myth League championship!” I argue because this is bullshit.
“It’s different. That’s conference, and this is the Frozen Four. But also, do I need to point out we lost?” He comes to the edge of the bed.
“We seriously can’t have sex until we win?” I sit up and wrap my arms around him, wanting to push it but also not wanting to fuck up his head space. “Being a hockey WAG sucks.”
He laughs and then tugs off his hoodie. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for what we want, sweetheart.” Before I realize what he’s doing he’s shoving the hoodie over my head. “And I’m going to need you to put this on because my bisexuality is at an eleven today, and you look too hot.”
“What?” I put my arms through the sleeves, not mad about being in his hoodie. It smells like him.
“My bisexuality is at an—”
“I heard you. What does that mean?”
“It means I’m turned up,” he says like I should understand.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is, and I need to save all the intensity for the game.”
“This is a glimpse into the rest of my life, isn’t it?”
“Only if you’re lucky,” he says like a threat.
We’re up two-zero with only five minutes left, like Wolfe predicted. It’s been a pretty easy game. The games are single elimination, so all we have to do is make it through the next five minutes, and we’re on to the next round.
The Guardians have great defense, but their goalie is a freshman and not at the level he needs to be. I feel bad for him, but Hawke prepped us this week to take as many shots on goal as we can get off, and the team is killing it.
On top of that, Wolfe is on fire. He’s not letting anything through. We all look much better than we did at the conference championships, which is good for the draft.
With two minutes left, Seaborn is thrown in the box.
Fuck.
It’s fine. I’m not getting in my head about it. We got this.
The clock ticks down, and I’m using every last bit of my reserve to cover while they work the puck around. Wolfe is smiling.
Don’t celebrate early.
They fake like they are going to move it to the middle, and Wolfe comes out to check the player, but they don’t pass inside, going outside instead. Solace goes after the puck but trips as he’s about to shoot and lands on the puck.
“No.” The word dies in my throat as the ref calls it.
It’s a penalty shot, and there’s still a minute left. If they score and then get the puck back—
I cut off the train of thought. I need to stay in the game. No need to get ahead of myself.
“It’s fine. I got it,” Wolfe says before I move back.
I force a smile. “You fucking better.”
He winks and gets into place.
Their best shooter lines up.
He skates in a zig zag, trying to fuck with Wolfe. The player pulls back, and Wolfe tilts his head up just a hair, and I know he’s got it. The player shoots left, and Wolfe is already moving, having read him perfectly.
I hold my breath as the puck flies.
But I don’t see where it went. My gaze flicks to the goal light, but it doesn’t go off. Both benches are standing assuming we’re going to face off, but Wolfe drops to one knee, pulling off his mask.
I’m off the bench before I can even consider if it’s going to cause a problem. He’s coughing, yanking off his gloves, hands going to his throat.
“We need the medic,” the ref calls.
Two of the guys are grabbing me before I get far, and I’m fighting them because I do not give a fuck. I need to see if Wolfe is okay.
Wolfe drops forward, hand on the ice. The trainers get to him, and I can’t see shit.
“Let me go.”
“Only if you’re going to keep your ass on the bench,” Savage says.
“Fuck you.”
“He’s going to be okay,” Seaborn says gently, keeping a hand on my arm.
“He got hit in the fucking throat. He might not be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Nothing takes him out. If he’s like that, what do you think happened?”
Seaborn is silent because he knows I’m right. He’s seen Wolfe’s scars. The whole team has. He once told me he doesn’t believe in pain anymore. Nothing fazes him.
Seconds feel like hours, and I can’t see a fucking thing.
A medic team goes out on the ice but waits because Wolfe gets to his feet. I’m thankful for his height because it lets me see him. He skates toward the bench, and I can breathe.
Fuck. Injuries happen but not to him.
He gets almost to the bench and then stumbles, grabbing his neck.
The medics surround him.
“What the fuck? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” Hawke says quietly.
I need to get to him.