Thane
Plague stands to my left, calm despite the pre-game chaos. Valek hovers at the edge of our group.
No Wraith.
Again.
But this time, Whiskey's missing, too.
"Where the hell are they?" I sigh, checking my phone again.
"Wraith should have been here ten minutes ago," Plague mutters.
"Yeah. I noticed."
The Demons are already spilling onto the ice for warm-ups, their red-and-black jerseys standing out like blood on snow. Wade Kelly leads the charge, perfect smile plastered on his face for the cameras.
My hands curl into fists inside my gloves.
Valek materializes beside me, moving with that unsettling silence that makes me want to check for weapons. His silver eyes catch mine.
"Your brother," he says without preamble. "He was in the tunnels with the omega and the loud one."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean was?"
"I escorted Ivy to find them. She was in a hurry." Valek's expression gives nothing away. "Wraith was having some kind of episode. Panic attack, I believe." His lip curls slightly. "Someone leaked his driver's license."
Fuck.
Oh, FUCK.
I've seen it exactly once when it fell out of Wraith's wallet. He lunged for it like it was a fucking bomb. He couldn't look me in the eyes for three days.
"How bad is the leak?" I manage to grit out.
"It's everywhere." Valek pulls out his phone, scrolls briefly, then holds it up.
The image socks me in the gut.
My brother's face, frozen in digital purgatory. His normally expressive blue eyes are hollow from dissociation, and it makes the rest of his face look so much worse. Everything the camera captured and nothing of who he actually is.
The comments below are a cesspool.
I don't read them. Can't read them. The few words I spotted make me want to put my fist through something. Or someone. Actually, a certain someone across the ice would be a beautiful fucking target right now.
The crowd noise swells as more players take the ice. I hear the announcer's voice echoing through the arena, building hype for the matchup everyone's been waiting for.
Ghosts versus Demons.
Biggest rivalry in the league.
None of it registers.
All I can think about is my brother.
"Heavy footsteps," Valek observes, his head tilting toward the tunnel entrance. "Two sets. One heavier than the other."
He's right. The distinct thump-thump-thump of Whiskey's eager stride mixed in with slower, more deliberate steps.
Whiskey rounds the corner first, his usual manic energy dimmed but not extinguished. His eyes find mine immediately.
"Is Wraith—" I start.
Wraith appears behind him, looming, his shoulders are hunched despite his massive height and his eyes are on the ground, dark with misery.
But he's here.
"He okay?" I ask Whiskey under my breath.
Whiskey winks, but there's none of his usual humor there. "Got some wildcat magic. Ivy worked her omega voodoo and pulled him back from the edge."
I manage to breathe again.
"I got some too," Whiskey adds, and despite everything, a genuine grin cracks across his face.
Plague's eyes narrow. "Surely you weren't fucking before the game."
"Shit, Plague, no!" Whiskey holds up both hands. "It wasn't like that. She was just thanking me for texting her."
"With what?" Plague demands.
"A kiss, dude!"
I don't have time to mediate their eternal pissing contest. The Demons are already warming up on their side of the ice, and we're falling behind schedule.
Coach is going to have an aneurysm.
I step closer to Wraith.
You good? I sign, silently, so no one overhears.
He hesitates, still not looking at me. Then he gives a single, brief nod. Not a convincing nod at all, but I'll take it. It's clear he isn't in the mood for a conversation.
During warmups, our side of the rink stays ours. That's the rule. Teams don't interact. No trash talk, no alphahole posturing, no "accidental" collisions. We stay in our half, they stay in theirs, and the refs patrol the neutral zone.
The entire time, I can't fucking help but glance into the crowd, searching for those ocean eyes that saw right through me the moment we met.
And Wraith is doing the same thing. I catch him mid-search, his head turning toward a section of lower bowl seats, and I nudge his arm before anyone notices.
Subtle, I sign. Stay subtle.
His blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see all the fear and hope and desperate longing fighting behind them. Then he nods, his shoulders sinking, and returns to his warm-up routine, sending pucks at the practice net with enough force to dent steel.
I watch Whiskey glide up beside him, bumping shoulders and rattling off a steady stream of commentary I'm pretty sure is designed more for distraction than actual communication. Like he's Wraith's emotional support alpha.
An exhausted smile tugs at my lips.
More drills. More shots. I try to let myself get lost in it all while keeping an eye on the team across the ice.
Wade is the center of it all. His teammates orbit around him, drawn in by whatever charisma makes people overlook the rot underneath.
All except for Nikolai and Raven, two players who are notoriously vicious on the ice even though the latter is the most pretty-boy alpha I've ever seen in my life. The only thing that differentiates Raven from an omega is his height.
They're avoiding each other, but they're also avoiding Wade as if they despise him as much as they despise each other.
Interesting.
Wade catches me watching and his smile widens.
I don't give him the satisfaction of looking away. Instead, I hold his gaze until he's the one who breaks, turning back to his teammates with a laugh that carries across the rink.
That's right, I think. I see you, fucking asshole.
My eyes drift to the crowd again.
The arena is nearly full now, a sea of black and gray Ghosts jerseys mixed with pockets of Demons red. And somewhere in that chaos, Ivy is watching. I'm sure she's worried about Wraith. Maybe even wishing she could be down here with us instead of up there in the crowd.
Fuck, would it really be so risky to text her?
The horn sounds.
Warm-up is over.
We file back through the tunnel, skates clicking against rubber matting. The locker room is controlled chaos. Last-minute equipment checks, tape jobs, the low murmur of players getting their heads right. Coach paces near the whiteboard, barking final instructions that blur into background noise.
I find the pack clustered near our lockers, away from the rookies who are still giving Wraith too much space.
"Everyone good?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
Whiskey nods, bouncing slightly on his skates. "Born ready, bro."
Plague leans against his locker, arms crossed. "The Demons are agitated. During warm-up, Wade kept losing his temper. We can exploit that."
"Do it." I look at each of them in turn. My pack. My brothers. "Play smart. Stay focused. Don't give anyone a reason to throw flags."
My eyes land on Wraith last.
He meets my gaze steadily, and for a moment, I see past the mask, past the feral glint, past all the walls he's built to survive. I see my brother who I love with my whole fucking heart, in tremendous pain, and I hope to gods isn't going to lose himself to ferality when he's face-to-face with Wade.
You've got this, brother, I sign.
His eyes soften slightly. He still looks fucking devastated, but he doesn't look like he's about to come completely unglued, either.
He can do this. I know he can.
And I have to trust him.
"Two minutes!" someone shouts.
We move as one toward the tunnel entrance. The fog machines have kicked on, artificial mist swirling in the darkness ahead.
Lights strobe. Music pounds.
Our names echo through the speakers as we take the ice one by one.
When Wraith emerges from the fog like his namesake, the crowd reaction splits. Cheers from our faithful, louder jeers and taunts and yells from the assholes.
More aggressive and ugly than usual.
The feral edge in Wraith's eyes hardens, and I have to watch him breathing to steel himself without being able to actually go to his side.
Then Whiskey coasts through the fog in a full Herculean flex, not even moving his feet, and almost flattens Plague.
The crowd goes wild, and forgets about Wraith.
The Demons emerge from their tunnel next to a wall of angry roars from our fans, Wade leading them out with swagger. His eyes drift toward us and his lip curls.
Something is different with him tonight.
He knows something's up.
He just doesn't know what.
I settle into my familiar crouch, stick planted, eyes tracking the puck as the centers prepare for face-off.
The puck drops.
And the war begins.