Chapter 7 #2
The waitress, a pretty blonde who smelled like lavender perfume, blinked at him. Then she smiled—a predatory, interested smile.
"Anything else for the big guy?" she purred, ignoring me entirely.
Mikey didn't even look at her. He was busy buttering a roll and placing it on my bread plate.
"Three burgers. No bun. Side of fries. Coke."
"Coming right up," she winked, lingering for a second too long before walking away.
"She likes you," I whispered, nudging his arm.
"She likes the size," Mikey dismissed, ripping a piece of bread. "She doesn't know the baggage."
"Maybe she likes baggage."
"Nobody likes baggage, Lydia." He looked at me, his eyes serious. "Except maybe you."
"I love baggage," I joked, trying to lighten the mood. "It gives me something to organize."
He laughed, and the sound was genuine. He relaxed, leaning his shoulder against mine.
"So," he said, lowering his voice under the roar of the team. "I've been thinking about the debt."
"Yeah?"
"I have a classic '69 Camaro in storage back home. It was my dad's before... before. It needs work, but the chassis is clean. I could probably get eight grand for it."
"You'd sell his car?"
"I'd sell a kidney if it kept him out of the Cage," he said simply. "But that still leaves four grand. And the monthly increase."
"What about a GoFundMe?" I suggested. "Anonymously? 'Help a former NHL player get care'?"
"Too risky," he shook his head. "If the scouts find out my dad has Feral Madness, my draft stock tanks. They'll think I'm a genetic ticking time bomb. Which I am, but... I need them to not know that until after I sign the contract."
"You're not a time bomb," I said firmly, putting my hand on his knee under the table.
He froze, then covered my hand with his own, interlacing our fingers.
"We'll figure it out," I said. "Maybe I can talk to Uncle Mac. The Alumni fund has emergency grants."
"No," Mikey said sharply. "Mac can't know. He'll bench me for being distracted."
"He won't—"
"Well, well, well."
A shadow fell over our table.
I looked up. Standing there were three guys wearing red and gold letterman jackets. Northern Michigan University. The rival team we were playing tomorrow. Bear shifters.
They were massive. Wider than the wolves, with thick necks and cruel eyes.
The leader, a guy with a buzz cut and a scar across his nose, grinned down at us.
"If it isn't the North Ridge puppies," he sneered. "And look, they brought a snack."
His eyes landed on me. It wasn't a friendly look. It was a look that made my skin crawl. It was a look that stripped me naked and assessed the meat.
"You lost, sweetheart?" the Bear asked, leaning over the table. "This is a predator table. Humans usually sit at the kiddie table."
The entire North Ridge team went silent. Forks stopped moving. Conversations died.
Beside me, I felt Mikey change.
It wasn't a shift in posture. It was a shift in atmospheric pressure. The air around him dropped ten degrees. His hand, which had been holding mine, tightened until it was painful—then instantly relaxed as he realized he might hurt me.
"Walk away, Erickson," Mikey said. He didn't stand up. He didn't raise his voice. He just spoke with the absolute, terrifying certainty of a executioner.
"Or what, Holt?" Erickson laughed. "You gonna bark at me? I heard your dad is locked up in the loony bin. Guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
The room seemed to vibrate.
Jagger started to stand up, a growl ripping from his throat.
But Mikey moved faster.
He didn't punch him. He didn't shift.
He simply stood up. Slowly. Unfolding his six-foot-five frame until he was looming over the Bear. He stepped around the chair, placing himself directly between me and the threat.
He leaned in close to Erickson’s face.
"You talk about my father again, and I'll put you through a wall," Mikey whispered.
The silence in the restaurant was so deep I could hear every syllable.
"But you look at her again... you look at her like she's anything other than the queen of this goddamn table...
and I won't wait for the game tomorrow. I'll end your season right here in the pasta aisle. "
He let his eyes flare. The Gold. The Wolf.
"She's mine," Mikey growled. "Do you understand? Mine."
Erickson blinked. He looked at Mikey. He looked at the thirty other Direwolves who were now standing up, silent and menacing.
He swallowed.
"Whatever," Erickson muttered. "Just saying hello."
He turned and walked away, his friends trailing behind him.
Mikey didn't move until they were out the door. Then, he let out a long breath and turned back to me.
The gold faded from his eyes, leaving only worry.
"You okay?" he asked, reaching out to cup my face.
"I'm fine," I breathed, my heart hammering. "You didn't have to..."
"Yes," he said. "I did."
He looked around the table. "Show's over. Eat your food."
The team sat back down, the chatter resuming, but the dynamic had shifted. They looked at me differently now. Not as the intern. Not as the niece.
I was the Alpha's mate.
And as Mikey sat back down and squeezed my thigh, keeping his hand there for the rest of the meal, I realized I didn't want to correct them.
The walk back to the hotel was freezing. The wind off Lake Superior was brutal, cutting through my layers like knives.
But I was burning up.
Mikey held my hand the entire way. He didn't wear gloves. His skin was hot against mine. He walked on the windward side, shielding me with his body.