Chapter 2
Chapter Two
What’s Up With All These Wolves
ELI
“What the hell is up with all this fog?”
I leaned forward against my steering wheel as if I’d just aged up by forty years and had left my bifocals at home.
The bright lights of the arena’s parking lot had been keeping this fog at bay, but now that I was out on the tree-lined roads, the fog had fallen on me like a thick gray curtain.
I slowed down. These roads were unfamiliar to me, and I already wasn’t the world’s greatest driver.
The last thing I needed was another insurance rate bump.
From my early research, Burlington appeared to be the perfect city.
It sat on the shores of Lake Champlain, tucked between beautifully scenic mountain ranges and bordering the birthplace of modern hockey: Canada.
It had a small-town, community-focused feel while having all the amenities and draw of a much larger city.
But nowhere in my research did it mention the ethereal brick wall of fog that was set on killing you.
And if not killing you, then at least raising your premiums by five percent.
The house I rented (thank God for a family friend who had a last-minute rental available) wasn’t too far from the arena. Typically, it was a straight shot and a quick ten-minute drive, except that I had gone the opposite way today in hopes of exploring my new hometown.
I slowed to a stop at a red light. I grabbed my phone and set the destination back to my house.
I just had to make a U-turn and head straight, except that according to my map, I was currently walking distance away from Church Street Marketplace.
That was the downtown area and likely to have some good places to eat.
Maybe I could wait out this fog with a juicy burger and a cool beer.
Parking wasn’t too difficult to find, even with the visual impairment.
I got out of the car, stuffed my hands in the warm pockets of my coat, and walked in the direction of Church Street.
Soon, the dense fog was fought back by bright streetlamps and Christmas lights.
The sound of laughter and conversation mingled with the jingles of a holiday carol playing through invisible speakers.
I turned down a narrow street that opened up directly into the center of Church Street.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected to find, but I certainly wasn’t disappointed by the bright energy and busy night that greeted me.
Even though it was pushing into bedtime territory for many, there were still tons of people out.
Christmas lights were strung up between lampposts, bushes and trees were decorated with glittering ornaments, and fake icicles hung above the entrances to the different stores and restaurants, a good handful of them still open.
No cars were allowed to drive through here, so the entire road had been bricked over and turned into a walking path.
The fog that had been so dense on the way here all but vanished as I strolled down the street.
The scent of oven-baked pizza drifted in my direction.
My mouth watered, and my stomach growled. I could use a cheesy cheat meal.
I tried to follow the scent but couldn’t find the pizza place. I grabbed my phone and opened up the map, typing in “pizza” and seeing what popped up.
“Okay…” I muttered to myself. “I think it’s this way—”
“Need help?”
The deep voice from behind me nearly made me jump out of my skin. I pocketed my phone and turned, expecting to offer a polite smile and a shake of the head.
Instead, I was turned to solid stone, as if I’d just volunteered for a staring contest with none other than Medusa herself.
Well, at least that’s how it felt when I locked eyes with one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen in my entire twenty-seven years of existence.
He was tall—a couple of inches taller than me—with shoulders that were broad enough to serve as a dinner table at a family gathering.
He had a strong jaw and short, cropped, raven-black hair.
A scar ran across the center of his left eyebrow, and his nose was just crooked enough to add an interesting edge to his otherwise perfect face.
He had big lips, big ears, big… what else?
And also, why the hell did he look so familiar—oh shit. Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhh shit.
Realization hit me as hard as this man’s chiseled jaw did.
I’d seen him before. I’d watched videos of this man before. I’d practically studied this guy before ever seeing him in person.
Gabriel Ricardo Sanderson, the team’s front-line force of nature, a terror on the ice and a mystery off it.
“Don’t worry, newbie. After a few weeks here, you’ll know where everything is.”
Oh shit, so he recognized me. Had he been looking me up the same way I’d done to him?
He held his hand out. “Gabe. Good to finally meet you.”
“Eli,” I said, although I figured he already knew. I returned the shake. His hand closed around mine. I wasn’t a small guy by any means, but his grip still completely eclipsed my hand. Heat from where his skin met mine spread outward like a brush fire being kicked up by a dry and angry wind.
The warmth drew a sharp contrast to the chill in the air. There was a flicker of that same heat somewhere down in my gut, a tendril of flame inching toward a part of me that had been completely frozen over. I licked my lips—only because they were chapped, no other reason, none at all.
His nostrils flared. His eyes narrowed to near slits. The grip around my fingers tightened to a near painful degree.
Fucking hell. Was he trying to “out-man” me on this handshake?
Was this some sort of dominance thing? I didn’t like to play along with all those toxic masculinity games.
I’d put up with—and shut down—plenty of stupid, overly masculine men who said some dumb shit in the locker rooms over my years playing as an out gay man.
It took a couple of pointed and angry “what the fuck, bro?” whenever a shitty f-bomb was dropped to stop them from saying it at all, or at least to stop them from saying it around me.
I liked to think that my teammates had all loved and respected me enough to just completely eradicate that trash word from their vocabulary.
I looked down at our still-joined hands. This skin on the back of my hand turned paper pale from the sudden pressure being applied. “Uh…”
He let go, but his gaze remained locked on mine. His nose twitched, same as a muscle in his jaw. Did I smell bad? I showered after practice, so it couldn’t have been me.
“I, um, was looking for a pizza place around here,” I said, his stare starting to make me feel awkward. This wasn’t how I pictured introducing myself to the last member of the team.
“Gino’s Yard. It’s down that way,” Gabe said, pointing over my shoulder. “Best pizza in all of Vermont.”
“Awesome. Do you… want to join?”
Gabe’s nostrils flared again. He shut his eyes in a brief wince. Was he injured from practice or something? “I can’t,” he replied and took a small step backward. “I have something.”
Riiiiight. Gabe must have had some hookup he was on his way to meet with, or maybe he just didn’t want to hang out with the “newbie.” That was fair enough. He wasn’t required to break me in, to keep me company.
“Okay,” I said, figuring I should put this odd introduction to rest already. “Well, thank you for the help. And it was good meeting you. I’m excited about the season.” I held a hand out, hoping he wouldn’t try to turn my knuckles into pulp this time.
He grabbed my hand, tensed again, shook it, and then—surprisingly—pulled me into an equally tight hug.
Damn, he even smelled great. Nothing like the basic Dove soap they stocked the locker room showers with. He smelled like pine trees and leather and… and sex.
Certain switches in my brain flipped. My core tightened, and I suddenly became hyperaware of how pressed together our bodies were and how perfect a fit it felt.
I could feel the rise of his chest, the cage of his biceps around mine, his large hand resting between my shoulder blades.
His body heat was delicious, radiating through the jacket he wore, a jacket I suddenly, and very much irrationally, felt like was in the way.
I was big on scents. A bad one could easily turn me off, even just a tiny whiff of one, but a good scent could turn me into a drooling and feral mess in an instant.
Case in point.
Shit. I had to break this hug before Gabe could feel just how into it I was becoming.
How awkward would that fucking be?
I cleared my throat. Gabe stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jeans. His pupils looked blown, the light from a streetlamp glinting off them. “Right, well, I’ll see you tomorrow for the morning skate.”
“See you then,” I said.
Gabe continued walking, returning a few waves from excited fans who recognized him. He disappeared around a corner, but I felt like I could still smell him on me.
Alright, don’t be a fucking weirdo.
He was my teammate, someone I would have to work very closely with for the foreseeable future and whose chemistry I had to align with perfectly out on the ice.
I couldn’t fuck that up by secretly fantasizing about him.
Sure, I could admit he was hot and possibly also jerk off to the memory of his touch and smell later tonight, but it had to stop there.
I’d have to get my post-nut clarity and wipe any kind of want or lust for Gabriel Sanderson from my mind.
I turned back toward the pizza place and told myself this was nothing.
Just proximity. Just a good-looking man in a cold city.
I'd felt chemistry before. Chemistry was just dopamine and bad decisions wearing each other's jacket. A bunch of lies bundled up together in a trench coat waiting to jump out and strangle you.
I wouldn’t be so foolish the second time around though.
No matter how strong that chemical reaction could be.
Gabe was right. That pizza had been really damn good.
My sample size was a meager “one,” so I couldn’t compare it to any other pizza places in Vermont, but I could easily take Gabe’s word for it and believe it was one of the best pizzas in the state.
With my belly full and my muscles beginning to ache, I headed home.
The fog had lifted, which made the short drive a very scenic one.
It felt peaceful, driving through the curving roads, surrounded by lush trees broken up by beautiful homes with their holiday decorations lighting up their front yards.
I turned onto the driveway for the house I was renting. Finding it so soon and getting out of a hotel within days was a damn miracle.
It was dark compared to the homes I’d passed on the way here.
I’d have to pick up lights or something at Walmart.
It wasn’t a large house or property, so it wasn’t like I had to break the bank to decorate it.
Just a simple one-story home with a small yard (perfect for less maintenance) and a short drive to the arena.
Easy to care for and perfect for a lone bachelor who traveled all the time and needed a comfortable place to call his home base.
I’d never been the type to need the biggest and the best of things.
My parents worked hard to give us a good life—both of them upper middle class, my mom a pediatrician and my dad a psychologist—and they spoiled me whenever they could, but I just never got a taste for excess.
I enjoyed having comfort more than luxury, and that’s exactly what this home represented.
Besides, I was on an AHL salary, not an NHL contract.
Not like I was going penthouse shopping in the first place.
Thankfully the AHL union had fought tooth and nail over the last decade to up our salaries and make it so we didn’t need second jobs or off-season gigs, and there were a good number of sponsorship opportunities I’d taken part in, but I still drove my Toyota and wore my beat-up Nikes and flew coach like most everyone else.
I got out of my car, sneakers crunching on gravel and dirt. My breath rose in wispy puffs of steam. I stretched my hands over my head and yawned, the exhaustion from today creeping up on me. More gravel crunched.
Except.
I hadn’t moved.
My body turned rigid as I looked around. It was a residential street with rows of similar homes up and down the road, although there were large spaces between them. And in those spaces were hedges and flower beds and…
Holy fucking shit.
There was a wolf. An actual goddamned wolf standing just to the side of one of the hedges, half its body cloaked by shadow.
Still, I could tell it was big, had to be the size of a Rottweiler, with snowy white fur and tawny brown markings.
It had amber-gold eyes that were fixated on me, but it wasn’t in a posture that made it seem like it was going to lunge at me. The wolf seemed almost relaxed.
Unlike me. Very fucking much unlike me. I was as far away from relaxed as I could get. On a scale from lounging on a beach in Fiji to being forced to tap-dance on the edge of an active volcano, I was definitely tap-dancing, and I didn’t even know how.
A dozen different survival strategies hit me at once, most of them provided by TV shows and movies. Did I make myself bigger by shouting and puffing my chest? Did I slowly move backward and get in my car? Did I make a run for it toward the house?
Did I move closer to it?
That last thought hit out of nowhere, with no basis on any kind of Discovery Channel show I’d seen in my life.
But for some reason I couldn’t explain, it was also the loudest. It was a thought that felt correct in that moment.
Like an instinct tugging a newly hatched sea turtle toward the light of the moon, toward the ocean.
That I had seen on a Discovery Channel show.
I stepped forward. The wolf didn’t move. It didn’t snarl, didn’t twitch, just continued to stand there, eyes pinned on mine. Its ears were up and its tail down, all signs that it was seemingly not going to attack.
Another step. What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t a stray puppy; this was a wild animal. I should just leave it alone.
One more step.
The wolf reacted at that. It took a step forward, raising its lips and showing a sinister set of teeth.
Before I could even consider the fatal mistake I’d just made, the wolf turned around and bolted.
It ran with the swiftness and grace of a shooting star.
It disappeared into the dense wall of trees behind my house.
I dropped my head and let out a relieved breath. That was dumb on my part, but thankfully, my lack of survival instincts didn’t get me mauled.
I would have to research what to do around wolves, though. They weren’t exactly an issue in Florida, but maybe they were a bigger problem up here in Vermont.