Chapter 9 – THANE
Chapter
Nine
THANE
The first rays of dawn are already peeking through the curtains when my eyes snap open. For a moment, I lay still, listening to the quiet hum of the house around me. It's too early for most of the pack to be up, but I hear the faint sounds of movement downstairs.
Probably Plague, always the early riser.
I roll over, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Wraith still hasn't come home.
He never texts in the pack group chat, but he usually at least acknowledges the private texts I send him. Even if it's just an "ok" or a "yes" or a "no." Even signing, he's a man of few words.
Very few words.
But this time, he's just leaving me on read.
At least I know he's alive.
My eyes flick over the barrage of texts from Coach. He's making it clear in no uncertain terms that he wants Wraith back at practice today. We'll be introduced to the new winger, Valek, tonight. And we all need to show we're a cohesive team "or so help me God."
It'd be funny coming from anyone else, but Coach is a human volcano and my nerves are frayed enough without dealing with one of his nuclear meltdowns.
Frayed because I'm the closest pack member to Wraith by a mile, and for the first time, the bond we shared as brothers feels strained.
With a sigh, I push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Part of me wants to stay in bed. But that's not an option. Not when I have a team depending on me.
I stand, stretching out muscles still stiff from yesterday's practice. My shoulders pop, a reminder of the hits I took during our scrimmage. It wasn't our best showing. Too many missed passes, too many sloppy plays with Wraith's absence looming over us.
As I make my way to the bathroom to shave and run a comb through my shaggy hair, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes are standing out more than usual. I look... tired. Worn the fuck out. Not at all like the unflappable captain I'm supposed to be.
Get it together, Thane, I tell myself, splashing cold water on my face.
The cool water helps clear some of the fog from my mind, but not all of it. Where is Wraith? Is he okay? And how the hell are we going to handle Valek's arrival with everything so unsettled?
By the time I make my way downstairs, I've managed to school my features into something resembling calm confidence. It's a mask I've worn so often, it almost feels natural now.
The kitchen is exactly as I expected. Plague is at the stove, methodically flipping pancakes while a pot of coffee brews nearby.
"Morning," I grunt, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
Plague doesn't turn from his task, but I see his shoulders tense slightly at the sound of my voice. "Any word?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I pour myself a mug of coffee, taking a long sip before answering. The bitter liquid burns its way down my throat. "Nothing," I finally admit. "You?"
Plague shakes his head, sliding a perfectly golden pancake onto a growing stack. "Not a peep. Whiskey's been up half the night pacing. I could hear him through the walls. Thought breakfast might make him feel better."
I grimace. Whiskey's always been the most outwardly affected by team drama. He may act like a wild, unpredictable bull, but military background makes him crave structure and routine. When things get chaotic, he tends to spiral. It's something I'll need to keep an eye on today.
Especially since we'll be meeting Valek later.
"What about you?" I ask, leaning against the counter. "How are you holding up?"
Plague's hands still for just a moment, his back still to me. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled as usual. "I'm fine. It's not the first time Wraith's pulled a disappearing act."
No, it's not.
But it's the first time he's done it with a new player joining the team. The timing couldn't be worse, and we both know it.
I'm about to press further when the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupts us.
Moments later, Whiskey appears in the doorway, looking like he hasn't slept a wink.
His brown hair is a mess, his brown eyes look darker than their usual honey shade, and his t-shirt is rumpled like he's been tossing and turning all night.
"Any news?" he asks without preamble, scratching at the light stubble on his jaw as he looks between Plague and me.
I shake my head, and Whiskey's face falls. He slumps into one of the kitchen chairs, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
"This is bullshit," he mutters.
The frustration in Whiskey's voice mirrors the feelings churning in my own gut, but I can't let it show. As captain, it's my job to keep the team focused, to maintain morale even when things are falling apart.
Especially then.
"I'm sure he has his reasons," I say, trying to inject a confidence into my voice that I don't entirely feel. "Wraith's never let us down before. We have to trust him."
Whiskey snorts, clearly unconvinced. "Yeah, well, his timing sucks. Coach is gonna lose his shit when he finds out."
He's not wrong. Coach has been on edge ever since management announced Valek's addition to the team. He's been pushing us harder than ever in practice, determined to prove that we don't need some hotshot new player to improve our game. Wraith's absence is going to set him off like a powder keg.
"We'll deal with Coach," I say firmly. "Right now, we need to focus on getting through practice and making Valek feel welcome. We can't let this throw us off our game."
Plague turns from the stove, a plate of pancakes in hand. He sets it down in front of Whiskey with more force than necessary, the clatter of the plate against the table making us all jump a bit.
"Eat," Plague says, his tone flat. "Last thing we need is you passing out on the ice."
Whiskey looks like he wants to protest, but the smell of fresh pancakes seems to win out over his anxiety. He picks up his fork, digging in with a reluctance that quickly gives way to hunger.
I drain the last of my coffee, setting the mug in the sink. "I'm heading to the arena early."
"You don't want pancakes?" Whiskey asks like I've lost my mind. "They're good today." Plague shoots him a look and Whiskey cracks a nervous smile. "Not that they're ever not good…"
"I'll pick up a protein bar on the way," I reply. "I want to try to smooth things over before Coach gets a chance to work himself up."
"That's if Coach isn't already worked up," Plague points out, already turning back to the stove.
"He is," Whiskey says when he puts down the mug of coffee he just threw back like a shot. "He was blowing up my phone at the ass crack of dawn as usual."
"You too?" Plague asks him dryly.
"Same story here," I rumble, raking a hand through my hair. Hence why I need to get to the arena as early as possible. "See you guys later."
"See you," Whiskey says with a tired wave.
Whiskey and Plague are still talking about the Coach's texts as I step outside into the crisp morning air. It's the kind of weather that makes old injuries ache and puts everyone on edge.
Perfect.
I pull out my phone. No new messages. The knot in my stomach tightens as I type out and send just one more text. I’m not using the obnoxious pack group chat for this one.
THANE
Please just let me know you're okay.
I don't expect a response. Wraith has been radio silent for so long now, which isn't unusual for him, but...
Something feels different this time.
Even at this hour, there's activity at the arena. Maintenance crews arriving, cleaning staff finishing up their early shifts. A few eager fans already camping out by the players' entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of their heroes.
My phone buzzes.
A one-word text from Wraith.
WRAITH
yes
The tension in my shoulders and back eases slightly. It's not much, but it's something. More than what I usually get out of him, anyway.
To anyone else, it would seem dismissive. But I know my brother well. "Yes" means he's safe. "Yes" means he needs time but he's coming back. "Yes" means trust me. The way he trusted me when I taught him hockey could be therapy instead of a new, creative way to terrorize him.
The security guard at the entrance nods as I swipe my badge. "Early today, Captain."
"Big day," I grunt, shouldering my way through the door.
The familiar smell of ice and steel fills my lungs as I make my way into the arena. Despite everything, there's something comforting about being here. This is my domain. My territory. The place where I can control at least some of what happens.
Or so I thought.
What the hell are you up to, brother?
"BELMONT!"
Coach's voice booms down the hallway, shattering my contemplation. I turn to see him storming toward me, face already an alarming shade of red. Great. Just what I needed.
"Where's Wraith?" he demands without preamble, closing the distance between us in quick, angry strides. "That psycho better not be pulling another one of his stunts. Bad enough I have to make up shit about why he won't take off his mask—now I've got to explain why he's AWOL?"
Every muscle in my body tenses. The alpha in me roars to life, demanding I defend my pack, my family. My nails bite into my palms as I fight back the urge to grab Coach by his throat and slam him into the nearest wall.
But I can't.
I'm the captain. The leader. The one who has to keep it together when everything else is falling apart.
So I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. "He's taking a personal day."
Coach's face gets even redder, if that's possible. "A personal day? A personal day? This isn't some corporate nine-to-five bullshit, Belmont! This is professional hockey! We don't get personal days!"
"He cleared it with management," I lie smoothly. It's not entirely false—management has learned to give Wraith a wide berth when he needs space. They might not like it, but they've seen what happens when they push him too hard.