Chapter nineteen #2
He was right. I knew he was right. But standing here doing nothing while Dante was somewhere scared and alone was killing me.
By the time morning came, I was barely holding it together. I’d spent the night in my office, alternating between staring at my phone and pacing like a caged animal. Every hour or so, another message would come through—sometimes a photo, sometimes just a text reminding me that Odin was in control.
Another message came through an hour before puck drop. I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking.
A video this time. Longer than the last one. I stepped away from the ice, my heart hammering as I pressed play.
Dante was awake. His eyes were open, though unfocused, and there was a fresh bruise on his jaw that made my vision go red. He was still tied to the chair, his wrists raw where the ropes had chafed against his skin.
“Say hello to your coach,” Odin’s voice said off-camera.
Dante’s eyes moved, trying to focus on something I couldn’t see. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
“He’s been asking for you,” Odin continued, his tone conversational. “Quite touching, really. The devotion. Makes this whole thing much more effective. Don’t forget. I want to see you behind that bench.”
The video cut off.
I stood there in the tunnel, my entire body shaking with the effort of not shifting right there in the arena. He was hurt. Dante was hurt, and I couldn’t get to him, couldn’t protect him, couldn’t do anything except stand here and wait for Odin to make his demands.
“Theron.” Ignatius appeared beside me, his hand on my shoulder. “You need to hold it together. Just a few more hours. Get through the game, and then—”
“I don’t give a fuck about the game,” I snarled, my eyes burning copper. “He’s hurt. Did you see that bruise? That bastard hit him, and I’m supposed to just stand here and coach hockey like nothing’s wrong?”
“Yes,” Ignatius said firmly. “Because that’s what keeps him alive. Odin wants you desperate, wants you broken, wants you so far gone that you’ll agree to anything. Just hang in there.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that nothing mattered except getting Dante back. But the rational part of my brain—the part that had survived a hundred years by being smart rather than reckless—knew he was right.
The puck dropped, and for the first time in a lot of years, I didn’t care.
I stood behind the bench as I’d been told, my hands gripping the boards so hard I was surprised the they didn’t buckle. The crowd was deafening—eighteen thousand people screaming for a playoff game that would decide whether we advanced or went to a game seven. I couldn’t hear any of it.
All I could see was Dante’s face in that video. The bruise. The unfocused eyes. The way his lips had moved but no sound came out.
“Coach?” Dmitri Zarov was beside me, concern evident in his voice. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lied, my eyes tracking the play without really seeing it. Chicago had possession. They were circling in our zone. Taz made a save I barely registered.
My phone was in my pocket, a constant weight that I checked every thirty seconds. No new messages. No demands. Just silence that was somehow worse than Odin’s taunting texts.
Cole was on the ice, and I watched him lose the puck in the neutral zone—a mistake he never would have made if his mind was on the game. He skated back to the bench, his jaw tight, his eyes flickering red for just a moment before he controlled it.
The play-by-play announcer’s voice filtered through my headset: “Interesting lineup decision from Coach Kincaid tonight. Dante Russo, who scored the game-winner in game five, is not dressed for this crucial game six.”
“Has to be injury-related,” the color analyst replied. “That hit he took in the last game was nasty, and he played through it. Maybe they’re being cautious.”
If only it were that simple.
Chicago scored six minutes into the first period. A deflection that Taz had no chance on. The building deflated around us, and I felt it like a physical blow. I should have called timeout. Should have rallied the team, given them something to fight for. But I couldn’t find the words.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out so fast that Zarov gave me a strange look. Another message from Odin: Your team seems distracted tonight. Wonder why that is?
I wanted to throw my phone onto the ice. Wanted to climb into the stands and tear apart every person until I found him. But I couldn’t. I was trapped here, coaching a game I didn’t care about while my mate was somewhere hurt and scared.
The first period ended 2-0 Chicago. We’d been outshot twenty to seven. It was a massacre.
I gave them the intermission speech on autopilot, saying all the right things about effort and focus and believing in each other. The words felt like ash in my mouth. I saw Max and Cole exchange glances, saw the concern on their faces, but they knew every second I stood here was torture.
The second period was worse. Chicago scored twice more in the first eight minutes, and I watched our season slipping away with a detachment that scared me.
This team—these players I’d worked with for months, who’d trusted me to lead them—deserved better than a coach who couldn’t focus because his mate was in danger.
But I couldn’t give them better. Not right now. Not while Dante was out there somewhere, tied to a chair, asking for me.
Another message: He keeps saying your name. It’s quite pathetic, really. Makes me wonder what you did to inspire such devotion.
My vision went copper-edged. I felt my control slipping, felt my dragon surging forward with murderous intent. Cinder’s hand landed on my shoulder, and I realized I’d been growling—actually growling, low enough that only supernatural hearing would catch it but still too obvious.
“Coach,” he said quietly. “You need to step back for a minute.”
I did, moving away from the bench into the tunnel where the cameras couldn’t see me. Pressed my forehead against the cool concrete wall and tried to remember how to breathe.
Ignatius appeared beside me. “Any word?”
“He’s saying my name,” I managed to get out. “Dante’s asking for me, and I can’t—I can’t get to him.”
“I know. But you need to hold on just a little longer. We’re close to tracking the signal. Doryu thinks he’s narrowed it down to an industrial area near the airport.”
“Thinks isn’t good enough.” My hands were shaking. “He’s hurt, and scared, and I promised him I’d keep him safe.”
“And you will. But not if you shift in the middle of a playoff game and expose what you are to thousands of people.” Ignatius’s voice was firm. “Get through this game. Then we’ll get him back.”
I forced myself to return to the bench. Watched the rest of the second period through a haze of barely controlled rage. Chicago scored again. 5-0. The crowd had gone quiet, the sort of disappointed silence that came when your team was getting demolished.
The third period was a formality. We scored once—Keegan, on a power play—but it was too little, too late. The final buzzer sounded with the score 5-1, and I stood there behind the bench feeling absolutely nothing.
We’d lost. The series was tied 3-3. We were going to a game seven on the road.
And I couldn’t bring myself to care about any of it.
I went through the motions of the post-game.
Spoke to the media about effort and execution and how we’d regroup for game seven.
Answered questions about Dante’s absence with vague references to “day-to-day injuries.” Watched the reporters exchange knowing glances, saw them filing away the story for later.
When I finally made it back to my office, Ignatius was waiting with Cole, Max, and Taz. Taz moved closer, his eyes assessing me because he’d lived long enough to recognize when another dragon was on the edge. “You look like hell.”
“I feel worse.” I sank into my desk chair, every muscle in my body screaming with tension, and glanced at Ignatius. “Tell me you found something.”
“Doryu’s been tracking the signal from Odin’s messages,” Ignatius said. “He’s narrowed it down to a warehouse district near the airport. Three possible locations.”
“So we go to all three—”
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it immediately, my heart stopping when I saw it was another video file from Dante’s number.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t press play. The others crowded around me, all of us staring at the small screen.
Dante appeared, and my dragon howled. He was sitting in that same chair, but he looked more alert now. The bruise on his jaw had darkened to a deep purple, and there were shadows under his eyes that made him look younger and more vulnerable than I’d ever seen him.
“Theron.” His voice was rough, like he’d been shouting. Or crying. “They want me to give you instructions. You’re supposed to come alone to—” He rattled off an address in the warehouse district, and I saw Cole immediately typing it into his phone.
“No backup, no police, no other dragons. Then they will take you to where I am, but it won’t be at the first place.
You’ll be escorted after that. Just you.
If you don’t show up alone, they’ll—” He stopped, his jaw tightening.
Then he looked directly at the camera, and something in his expression shifted. “It’s a trap.”
The words came out fast and clear, and I saw the moment someone off-camera realized what he’d said. There was a shout, the sound of impact, and Dante’s head snapped to the side. The video cut off abruptly.
“Fuck,” Max breathed.
I was already moving, grabbing my jacket, my keys, my phone. “I’m going.”
“Theron, wait—" Ignatius started.
“He warned me it was a trap. That means he’s still thinking clearly, still trying to protect me even when he’s the one tied to a chair.” My voice cracked. “I’m not leaving him there another minute.”
“We know it’s a trap,” Taz said calmly. “We also know Dante won’t be there. Odin isn’t stupid, and he won’t give you an address to where he is. This is just the first instruction.”