Chapter 9
Mikey
I was a ghost at my own funeral.
That's what the victory party felt like. A wake for a version of myself that had died in that hallway an hour ago.
The team had taken over the hotel bar. It was a rustic, wood-paneled space that usually catered to tourists looking for local craft beer and tranquility. Tonight, it was catering to thirty adrenaline-junkie shifters who had just won a rivalry game on enemy ice.
Tables were pushed together. Pitchers of beer were being drained faster than the bartenders could fill them. Jagger was standing on a chair, reenacting his "near-death experience" with dramatic flair, clutching his knee and wailing while Miller poured vodka into his mouth.
"And then!" Jagger shouted, spraying beer foam. "The Mauler looked at him! He looked into his soul! And the Bear pissed himself! I saw it! A puddle! On the ice!"
The team roared with laughter. They clapped me on the back. They toasted my name.
"To the Mauler! The Wall! The Psycho!"
I sat in the corner booth, nursing a glass of club soda. I forced a tight smile. I nodded. I played the part.
But inside, I was hollow.
I'm loving you.
The words were echoing in my skull, louder than the music, louder than Jagger.
She had screamed it. Lydia Cross, the smart, sensible, organized human who counted heartbeats and labeled tape rolls... she loved me.
Me. The ticking time bomb. The liability. The genetic dead end.
And I had pushed her away. I had panicked. Because Reynolds—that suit-wearing vulture from Detroit—had confirmed my worst fear: My love for her made me weak. It made me hesitate. And in my world, hesitation got you killed, or worse, it got you cut.
I looked around the room. I saw faces, but they were blurry. My vision was tunneling.
Where was she?
She hadn't come to the party. She had run to her room. I knew, because I had stood in the hallway for ten minutes, staring at her door, listening to the muffled sounds of crying, too cowardly to knock.
I swirled the ice in my glass.
I should leave. I should go to my room, lock the door, and start memorizing the origin points of the rotator cuff muscles until my brain shut down.
"Hey, big guy."
A hand slid onto my shoulder. A warm, manicured hand with red nails.
I looked up. It was the waitress from the steakhouse last night. She wasn't wearing her uniform. She was wearing a tight black dress and a lot of perfume that smelled like artificial vanilla.
"Heard you had a big game," she purred, sliding into the booth next to me without asking. She pressed her thigh against mine.
"Yeah," I grunted, shifting away. "We won."
"I like winners," she said, trailing a finger down my bicep. "And I like guys who stand up for their girls. That was hot last night."
She leaned in, her voice dropping. "But I didn't see your girl here tonight. Trouble in paradise?"
I stiffened. "She's tired."
"Or maybe she realized she can't handle a wolf," the waitress suggested, her eyes gleaming. She was a shifter too—a fox, maybe. Sly. Hungry. "Maybe you need someone with a little more... bite."
She put her hand on my thigh, high up. Near the groin.
I didn't feel arousal. I felt nausea.
Her touch was wrong. It was too light. Too sharp. It wasn't the firm, grounding pressure of Lydia’s hands. It didn't make the noise in my head stop; it made it louder.
"Don't," I said, grabbing her wrist and removing her hand.
"Ouch," she pouted, rubbing her wrist. "You're tense. I could help with that. My shift ended ten minutes ago. I have a car out back."
She winked.
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was beautiful, objectively. She was willing. She was safe—no feelings, just friction. A year ago, I might have said yes. I might have taken her to the car, fucked the adrenaline out of my system, and never thought about her again.
But now? The thought of touching anyone who wasn't Lydia felt like infidelity. It felt like betrayal.
"I'm not interested," I said, standing up.
"Your loss," she shrugged, already scanning the room for the next target.
I grabbed my jacket. I needed air. I needed to get out of this suffocating room before I shifted and destroyed the furniture.
I walked toward the exit, ignoring the calls from the team.
"Leaving already, Mauler?"
"Night still young!"
"Go get her, tiger!"
I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped out into the night.
The cold hit me like a slap. It was snowing again—big, heavy flakes drifting down in the orange glow of the streetlights. The wind coming off Lake Superior had teeth.
I took a deep breath, letting the freezing air sear my lungs.
I'm loving you.
The echo wouldn't stop.
I started walking. Not toward the hotel entrance, but around the back, toward the harbor. I needed to walk until my legs hurt.
But as I rounded the corner of the building, I saw a figure sitting on a bench near the seawall.
She was huddled inside a massive parka, her hood pulled up. She was staring out at the black water, shivering.
Lydia.
My heart slammed against my ribs. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
I should keep walking. I should leave her alone. I had already hurt her enough tonight.
But my feet didn't listen to my brain. They listened to the Wolf. And the Wolf said: Pack. Mate. Cold. Protect.
I walked over to the bench.
She didn't look up. "Go away, Jagger. I don't want a breakfast burrito."
"It's not Jagger," I said.
She froze. Her shoulders tensed. She kept her gaze fixed on the water.
"Go away, Mikey. Please. I've cried enough for one night. I'm dehydrated. Uncle Mac would be disappointed."
"You're freezing," I said, ignoring her request. I sat down on the bench next to her. Not touching, but close enough to block the wind.
"I'm fine," she sniffled.
"You're shaking."
"It's called thermogenesis," she muttered, wiping her nose with a gloved hand. "Shivering produces heat."
"Lydia," I sighed. "Look at me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because if I look at you," she whispered, her voice cracking, "I'm going to remember that you think I'm a handler. A distraction. And then I'm going to get angry again. And I don't have the energy to be angry. I just want to go home."
"We are home," I said gently. "Or at least, we're at the hotel."
"I mean home home. Away from the scouts. Away from the pressure. Away from... this." She waved a hand vaguely at the space between us.
I looked at her profile. Her nose was red from the cold. Her eyelashes were clumped with frozen tears.
She looked small. Defeated.
And it was my fault.
"I didn't mean it," I said. The words felt inadequate, clumsy. "What I said in the hallway. About the training."
"You said it," she countered. "People say what they mean when they're scared."
"I am scared," I admitted. "I'm terrified, Lydia. Reynolds... he looked at me like I was broken goods. He talked about the Cage like it was inevitable. And for a second, I believed him. And when I believe him... I panic. And when I panic, I push."
I reached out, my hand hovering over her knee. I waited. She didn't pull away. I rested my hand there, squeezing gently.
"But you're not a handler," I said fiercely. "You're the only reason I'm still standing. You're the anchor. And I... I'm sorry."
She finally turned to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, searching my face.
"You're an idiot, Michael Holt," she whispered.
"I know."
"And you have terrible emotional regulation skills."
"Working on it."
"And you owe me a sweatshirt. Because I threw yours in the corner and now it's covered in dust bunnies."
A small smile tugged at my lips. "I'll buy you ten sweatshirts."
She let out a shaky sigh, leaning into my touch. "One is fine. As long as it smells like you."
The admission hung in the cold air.
"Come on," I said, standing up and pulling her with me. "You're turning into an icicle. Let's get you inside."
"My room key is in my other jacket," she realized, patting her pockets. "Which is in my room. I locked myself out."
"Of course you did," I shook my head. "Come to my room. Jagger is still at the bar. He won't be back for hours."
She hesitated. "Mikey..."
"Just to warm up," I promised. "I have tea. I have blankets. I won't... I won't push."
She looked at me, studying my eyes for the lie. She didn't find one.
"Okay," she whispered. "Just to warm up."
My room—Room 204—was dark and warm.
It smelled like Jagger’s cheap body spray and my own cedar scent, but mostly it was quiet. The thick curtains blocked out the streetlights. The heater hummed in the corner.
Lydia walked in and immediately kicked off her boots. She shed the massive parka, revealing the hoodie she had worn to the game—my hoodie. She had retrieved it from the floor before running out, apparently.
Seeing her in my clothes, in my room, did something to my chest. It felt domestic. It felt right.
"Tea?" I offered, moving to the small kitchenette area.
"Please."
I busied myself with the electric kettle, trying to keep my hands from shaking. The adrenaline from the game was starting to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. My muscles ached. The cut on my cheek throbbed. The bruise on my bicep was tightening up.
I made two cups of herbal tea—chamomile for her, peppermint for me.
When I turned around, Lydia was sitting on the edge of my bed. Not Jagger's bed—mine. She was curled up, knees to her chest, pulling the sleeves of the hoodie down over her hands.
She looked at me. "You're limping."
"Stiff," I said, walking over. "Adrenaline dump."
"Sit," she commanded, patting the mattress beside her.
I sat. The mattress dipped under my weight.
She took the tea from me, placing both cups on the nightstand. Then she turned to me.
"Take off your shirt," she said.
I froze. "Lydia."
"I'm not hitting on you, Holt," she rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed pink. "I'm the trainer. You took a hit in the second period that rattled your teeth. I saw you rubbing your shoulder on the bus. Let me see it."
I hesitated. Stripping in front of her felt dangerous. My control was fraying. Being half-naked with her in a hotel room felt like playing with matches in a gas station.