Plague
Ipivot with the puck on my stick, already three moves ahead. The Demons' left winger commits too early and his momentum carries him past me.
My pass goes to Whiskey, who's already crashing the net. He one-times it past the Demons' goalie before the poor bastard can even set his stance.
Horn blares.
Three-nothing, Ghosts.
Still in the first period.
Whiskey drops to his knees, slides across the ice with his arms spread wide, screaming, then pops back up and skates backward while pointing at me with both hands.
"THAT'S MY FUCKIN' ICE PRINCE!" he bellows.
I raise my hand in brief acknowledgment before skating off because anything less would invite hours of his wounded-puppy routine.
The bench welcomes me with unwanted back slaps and helmet taps. I settle into position, grabbing a water bottle and squirting it into my mouth.
Whiskey drops onto the bench beside me.
Great.
He's panting and his hair's soaked, but he's still grinning like an idiot. His shoulder brushes mine, on purpose I'm sure.
"Did you see Wade's stupid fuckin' face?" Whiskey asks.
"I was focused on the play."
"Sure you were." He bumps my shoulder again. "Sure you weren't watching me skate?"
"No. There's nothing to watch," I mutter. "You skate like a bear having a seizure."
"Agree to disagree." He throws an arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. "You know what we should do after we win? Matching tattoos. Pack bonding. Wait, can you get tattoos?"
"I'm an atheist."
"Speaking of bears, I'm thinking you could get a bear eating Wade's face off and I could get a plague doctor shoving a bonesaw up Wade's—"
"WHISKEY."
"See, that's the passion I'm talking about! Channel that energy, babe."
I shove him off. He slides away, laughing.
But I notice something as the play continues without us.
Wade is more aggressive when Whiskey isn't on the ice. Less guarded. The public narrative is that Wade fears Wraith, but I know better.
The public narrative is bullshit.
It was Whiskey who slammed Wade face-first into the boards from behind. Whiskey who skated victory laps while dry-humping the air and barking.
And not because Whiskey's an idiot.
But because Whiskey knew exactly what would hurt Wade most.
Humiliation.
Wade's worst moment replayed forever, set to circus music, turned into a meme that would outlive his career.
Whiskey plays dumb.
Whiskey is not dumb.
And now Wade Kelly is out for blood because an alpha with no impulse control made him look like a fucking joke on national television.
I get up off the bench and Whiskey joins me. "Hey. You think if Wraith kills someone, we still get the win?"
"That's not how hockey works."
"But do we keep the points?"
I don't dignify that with a response.
But I do wonder.
We head back out onto the ice and the second period begins with the Demons playing desperate.
They've abandoned any pretense of strategy in favor of raw aggression.
It doesn't work.
I intercept a sloppy pass at our blue line and transition into a breakaway that catches their defense flat-footed. The ice opens up ahead of me, nothing but clean white and the goal waiting at the other end. My legs pump, wind rushing past my ears.
Their goalie sets himself, trying to cut down the angle. I read his positioning in a glance. Weight slightly right, expecting me to go glove side.
Classic fucking mistake.
I deke left, pull back right, and roof the puck into the top corner before he can react.
Four-nothing.
Whiskey nearly tackles me as the arena erupts.
"HAT TRICK WATCH!"
He shakes me by the shoulders like I'm a vending machine that owes him money. I would know. I've seen it.
"You're never allowed espresso before a game again," I say flatly, extracting myself from his grip with what remains of my dignity.
It isn't much.
Wade's face is a thundercloud as play resumes. The golden boy is crumbling, and everyone can see it. His passes go wide. His positioning suffers. He snaps at teammates who make mistakes, then makes worse mistakes himself.
Whiskey takes the ice again, and I watch Wade's positioning immediately shift. He drifts toward the opposite wing, putting as much distance them as the play will allow. When Whiskey charges toward a puck battle in the corner, Wade suddenly finds urgent business near his own goal.
Of all the things I was expecting to feel today, amusement wasn't one of them.
Life is just full of fucking surprises.
Meanwhile, Wraith is battling for position in front of the net, stick locked with a Demons defenseman. I can physically see Wraith struggling to keep his feral nature at bay. Struggling enough to be distracted, his eyes flashing a dangerous blue.
The puck shoots loose and both players lunge for it.
The defenseman's elbow comes up.
Not by accident.
The hit catches Wraith square in the mouth.
Wraith's head snaps back. He staggers, one hand flying to his mask, and even from across the ice I see the dark bloom of blood spreading across the dark fabric. Part of it tore from the hit, the thin slice baring red and white I know is blood on his teeth.
The whistle blows.
I skate to my packmate with Whiskey right beside me. The Demons defenseman is already backing away, hands raised in that universal gesture of it was an accident, I didn't mean it, which is bullshit and everyone knows it. His arm is bleeding from where it struck Wraith's jaw.
Wraith straightens slowly.
Blood drips from his mask, spotting the ice. His breaths are wet and labored, like he's drowning in blood, as he reaches up and presses the side of his right hand to the left side of his lower face. His eyes burn with cold fury above his mask as the wet fabric sucks against his teeth.
I've never seen him look so afraid.
The trainer rushes out, medical bag in hand. "Let me see."
Wraith shakes his head emphatically.
The trainer looks to Thane. "Captain, he needs to—"
"I know." Thane's voice is tight. He turns to Wraith, switching to signing. Brother. You're hurt.
I'm fine, Wraith signs back sharply. I'm staying.
The trainer is still hovering, still trying to intervene. Wraith turns away with a slight motion of his hand, the final no.
"Brother."
Thane's using his captain voice.
Wraith ignores him.
He skates back into position, blood still dripping from his mask. The refs are conferring, and I overhear them discussing if they should force him off for injury protocol.
But the play hasn't officially stopped, and Wraith is very clearly indicating that he's not going anywhere.
"Fuck," Whiskey breathes beside me. "He's gonna kill someone."
And for once, I can't argue with him.