Chapter 2 – THANE
Chapter
Two
THANE
The Warriors' center takes the face-off like he's got something to prove.
Poor bastard.
I settle into my crease, watching the puck drop through the cage of my mask. My legs are loose, my glove hand ready, my mind already three plays ahead.
Whiskey easily wins the face-off—his bulky six-five frame makes him look like a grizzly bear on ice—and they’re off.
A shot comes from the point. I track it easily, catching it in my glove with a satisfying thwap.
The whistle blows. My defensemen tap my pads as they skate past. It’s routine, automatic, the small rituals that keep us connected even though they're not part of the pack core.
Not all teams are lucky enough to have a bonded pack of alphas serving as the beating heart, but the Ghosts are.
"Nice save, Cap," Whiskey calls from center ice, already lining up for the next face-off, his honey-brown eyes bright with adrenaline.
I don't respond. Don't need to. He knows I heard him.
The puck drops again, and this time the Warriors win possession. Their right winger carries it into our zone with decent speed, but he makes the mistake of cutting toward the boards.
Where Wraith is waiting.
I see the moment the winger realizes his error.
His head comes up, eyes going wide behind his visor as over seven feet of silent menace materializes in his path.
My brother's massive frame blocks out the arena lights like an eclipse.
The Warriors' winger tries to pull up, to change direction, but it's too late.
Wraith doesn't hit him. Doesn't need to. Just angles his body to cut off the lane, forcing the winger to dump the puck into the corner and retreat like his skates are on fire.
Wraith retrieves the puck, agile despite his insane size.
Before he passes it off, I catch his gloved fingers brushing the edge of his half-balaclava where it slipped down a fraction of an inch.
Quick. Automatic. Making sure it hasn't shifted to expose more of the scarring than the one that cuts through his right eye.
The play moves up ice, and I let myself breathe for a moment. Watch. Assess.
Plague has the puck now, skating through the neutral zone with that effortless glide that makes other players look like they're trudging through mud.
He more than makes up for his lean, elegant build with lethal agility, his long black hair streaming behind him.
His pale blue eyes read the ice like a chess board.
Two Warriors converge on him—bad idea—and he splits them without breaking stride, leaving them tangled up in each other.
He doesn't celebrate. Doesn't even change expression. Just keeps skating, eyes flicking over the ring.
Whiskey, on the other hand, is a one-man highlight reel of chaos. He barrels toward the net like a freight train, drawing defenders with his sheer mass and unpredictability. The Warriors' goalie is already cheating toward Whiskey's side, expecting the shot.
Whiskey doesn't shoot.
Instead, he drops the puck back to Plague, who one-times it into the top corner before the goalie can react.
The horn blares. The crowd erupts.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M FUCKIN' TALKING ABOUT!" Whiskey roars, throwing his arms up as he crashes into Plague for a celebratory hug that Plague clearly does not want.
"Get off me," Plague says flatly, shoving at Whiskey's chest with one gloved hand, his sophisticated demeanor cracking just enough to show genuine irritation.
"Come on, bro, bring it in! That was beautiful!"
The second period starts with the Warriors playing desperate. Bodies crash into the boards. Sticks hack at ankles. Their enforcer—Berthold, a thick-necked alpha who thinks he's tough shit—has been running his mouth all period.
"Hey, freak!" Berthold calls toward Wraith during a stoppage. "What's under the mask? You hiding something ugly under there?"
My grip tightens on my stick. I'm too far away to intervene without leaving my crease, but I'm already calculating how long it will take me to get there if things go south.
Wraith doesn't react. Just stands there, still as a statue, those burning blue eyes fixed on Berthold with an intensity that should be setting off every survival instinct the guy has.
"I'm talking to you, mute." Berthold skates closer, puffing up his chest. "Everyone wants to know. You got a fucked-up face? That why you hide like a little bitch?"
I can hear Wraith's low growl from across the fucking rink. I start skating over to keep him from turning Berthold inside out.
Whiskey gets there first. "Hey, Berthold," he says in a mocking sing-song, his voice carrying across the ice as he skates up. "You know what they call it when you pick a fight with someone twice your size who could literally rip your arms off?"
Berthold's bravado wavers. "What?"
"Natural selection, bro!"
The ref drops the puck.
Wraith wins the face-off.
Midway through the third period, one of the Warriors decides to be a hero.
Their left winger—a kid barely out of juniors with more balls than brains—catches Plague with his head down along the boards.
Plague goes down hard, his long black hair whipping across his face as his head snaps back and he crumples to the ice.
The whistle blows.
Time stops.
Plague isn't moving.
Shit. I'm already pushing off my crease when I see Wraith change direction. He was nowhere near the play, but now he's cutting across the rink at breakneck speed.
The kid who threw the hit is celebrating. Pumping his fist. Grinning at his teammates like he just won the fucking Stanley Cup.
He doesn't see Wraith coming.
The force of the slam sends the winger airborne. He flies backward, helmet bouncing off the ice when he lands, and slides into the boards with a crash that echoes through the roaring arena.
The winger doesn't get up.
Neither did Plague, but I at least see him stirring now, pushing himself onto his hands and knees while Whiskey hovers nearby, apparently thinking verbally harassing Plague is going to get him up faster.
To be fair, it does.
The refs swarm, whistles shrieking. Wraith just stands there, staring down at the crumpled Warrior like he's not sure if he's done yet. His chest heaves beneath his jersey. His gloved hand twitches toward his face—checking the mask, always checking—but he catches himself and forces it back down.
"Misconduct!" one of the refs is screaming. "You're out of here!"
Wraith doesn't acknowledge him. Just turns and skates toward the bench, not looking at anyone. The crowd is going insane. Some fans are cheering, some are booing, and all of them are losing their minds with excitement at the display of violence on the ice.
Plague is on his feet now, waving off the trainer who's trying to examine him. His face is a few shades paler than its usual bronze beneath his curtain of long black hair, but his eyes are sharp and wary as he watches Wraith disappear down the tunnel.
"I'm fine," he snaps when Whiskey tries to support him. "It was just a bell-ringer."
Whiskey opens his mouth to argue, but catches my eye instead. I shake my head slightly. Not now. Later. Get back in the game.
He gets it. Nods once. Skates back to position.
We're down a man and a half for the rest of the game. I’m sure Wraith's destroying something inanimate to burn off the feral energy I could practically see simmering beneath his skin. And Plague is playing through what's obviously a mild concussion no matter what he claims.
But we win.
And that's what matters.
In spite of that, in the locker room, the mood is.
.. complicated. Wraith changed out of his game uniform before any of us got off the ice.
Now he's in gray sweats and a black hoodie, hood pulled up to shadow his face even though he’s wearing the half-balaclava as usual.
Even hunched over, trying to make himself smaller, he still dwarfs the bench he's sitting on.
His right knuckles are bleeding through his fingerless gloves—he definitely punched something, probably multiple somethings—and he won't let the trainer near him.
"Hell of a game, boys," Whiskey says with a low chuckle as he strips off his pads, revealing the mass of bruises already forming on his ribs and shoulders across his thick, muscled frame.
"Wraith, bro, I think that kid's still in orbit.
Isn't that the second winger you've destroyed in two weeks? First Daniels, now this poor fucker."
Wraith doesn't react.
"It wasn't necessary, either," Plague mutters, stripped down to his boxers and the undershirt he doesn't like to take off. He's wearing one of his usual disposable surgical masks, too. Says he hates the way locker rooms smell, but I know it's really because he hates germs.
"I dunno, man. You were on your ass for a solid minute."
"I'm fine, Whiskey," Plague grits out.
I decide to leave them to their usual bickering and check on my brother, who's still just sitting there on the bench, tense enough he isn't moving a muscle. He's been off since Berthold harassed him about his mask. Getting kicked off the ice is just part of why he's stressed out.
"You good?" I ask Wraith, settling onto the bench across from him. I push my shaggy dark hair out of my face and take a swig from my water.
Wraith's blue eyes flick to mine, then away, and he nods once. His hands move, signing slowly like he's exhausted.
He hurt Plague.
"I know," I say, signing along with my speech.
Couldn't let it stand.
"I know," I say again, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "But Wraith…" I pause, making sure he's really hearing me. "You need to be careful. The league's already watching you. Another incident like this and they could suspend you."
I don’t need to remind Wraith they’re wary of him because of his latent feral nature.
He knows. It isn’t common for alphas with a history of ferality to be capable of playing professional hockey in the first place without losing their shit every time there’s a confrontation.
There are higher-ups who would rather see him off the ice for good.
Wraith’s jaw tightens beneath the mask. I can tell by the way the fabric shifts and pulls.
Don't care.
"I care." I stand, reaching out to grip his massive shoulder. He tenses hard under my touch. "We're a pack. We protect each other. But we do it in a way that keeps us all on the ice, yeah?"
He nods.
I'll take it.
"Alright," I say, pushing to my feet and using every inch of my frame to command the room. "Plague, you need to get your head checked. Whiskey, stop antagonizing him before you end up with a concussion yourself. Wraith, ice your hand."
Grumbling. Muttering. A few creative insults I pretend not to hear.
But I'm not just the captain, and we're not just the core of the Ghosts team.
We're the Ghosts pack.
A family.
And as the pack leader, keeping these psychos alive is just as much my job as winning games.
Fuck, I need this break.