Chapter 11 #2
It was Coach Cross.
Pure, unadulterated adrenaline flooded my system. It wasn't the good kind. It was the 'fight or flight' kind.
Lydia’s eyes went wide with panic. She scrambled backward on the bench, nearly knocking over a stack of pucks.
"Fix your shirt," I hissed, stepping back and fumbling with my belt.
"The grinder," she whispered. "Turn it on."
I lunged for the switch, flipping it. The machine roared to life, the high-pitched whine filling the space.
I grabbed a skate—any skate—and pressed it to the wheel. Sparks flew.
Lydia jumped off the bench, grabbed her clipboard, and stood near the shelves, pretending to count rolls of tape. Her chest was heaving. Her hair was a mess.
I waited five seconds, then turned the machine off.
"Yeah, Coach?" I called out, trying to keep my voice steady.
The door handle turned. It was locked.
"Open up," Mac ordered.
I walked to the door, took a deep breath, and unlocked it.
Mac stood there. He looked massive, filling the frame. He looked past me, scanning the room. His eyes landed on Lydia in the corner.
He sniffed the air.
My heart stopped. The room smelled of ozone and rubber, but underneath it... sex. Arousal. Vanilla and Musk.
"Lydia?" Mac said, his brow furrowing. "What are you doing in here?"
Lydia turned, holding a roll of pink tape like a shield. "Inventory, Uncle Mac. We're low on pre-wrap. And Mikey... Mikey needed his skates done for practice."
"Inventory is supposed to be done on Mondays," Mac said slowly. He walked into the room. The space suddenly felt very, very small.
He looked at me. Then he looked at Lydia. He looked at her flushed cheeks. He looked at my belt, which was buckled, but maybe a notch looser than usual.
"Why was the door locked?" Mac asked.
The question hung there. Dangerous.
I stepped forward. "Safety, Coach. Sparks. Metal shards. Didn't want anyone walking in without eye protection."
It was a weak lie. A flimsy shield.
Mac stared at me. His pale bear eyes bore into mine. He was putting the pieces together. The "study sessions." The hoodie she wore. The way I had defended her at the restaurant.
But he didn't want to believe it. He needed his Enforcer. He needed his niece to be safe. The cognitive dissonance was my only ally.
"Right," Mac said finally. But his voice was cold. "Safety."
He turned to Lydia. "Go to the office, Lydie. I need the hydration logs filed."
"Yes, Coach," she squeaked.
She hurried past him, not looking at me. She slipped out the door like a shadow.
Mac stayed.
He walked over to the workbench. He ran a finger along the edge where Lydia had been sitting seconds ago.
"You're walking a fine line, Holt," Mac said quietly. He didn't look at me. "I'm not blind. And I'm not stupid."
"I'm just sharpening skates, Coach," I said, my voice flat.
"Make sure that's all you're doing," Mac warned. He turned to face me. "Because if you hurt her... if you distract her... the draft will be the least of your problems. I will bury you. Do you understand?"
"I would never hurt her," I said. It was the only honest thing I had said in five minutes.
"You might not mean to," Mac said. "But you're a Holt. Chaos follows you."
He turned and walked out, leaving the door open.
I leaned back against the workbench, my legs shaking.
Too close. That was way too close.
I ran a hand down my face, smelling her scent on my fingers.
I was addicted. And like any addict, I was starting to take risks that were going to get me killed.
I didn't see Lydia for the rest of the day. We texted—short, panicked messages.
Lydia: That was a heart attack. I think I died.
Me: He suspects. We have to be careful. No more equipment room.
Lydia: No more anywhere. We have to cool it, Mikey. At least in public.
I agreed, but the thought of cooling it made my skin itch.
I went back to the Hive that night, threw myself into my bed, and tried to study.
Friday.
Tomorrow was Friday.
The deadline.
I checked my bank account on my phone.
Balance: $6,420.00
I needed twelve thousand. Plus the monthly four.
I had listed the Camaro online. I had a few bites, but nobody with cash in hand.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen, expecting Lydia.
It wasn't.
It was The Pines Sanctuary.
I stared at the phone. It rang and rang in the silent, soundproof room.
I knew what they were going to say. Mr. Holt, the deadline is tomorrow. Do you have the funds? Or should we prepare the transfer papers to the State Ward?
I let it go to voicemail.
I couldn't talk to them. Not yet. I had twenty-four hours to produce a miracle.
I stood up and started pacing. The Wolf was back, snarling in the corner of my mind. The peace Lydia had given me was fraying under the weight of the reality.
I needed money. Fast.
There were ways. Dark ways. Underground fights. Shifter pits in Detroit where rich humans bet on wolves tearing each other apart. My dad used to do them when the money got tight. It was illegal. It was dangerous. If the NCAA found out, I was banned for life.
But if I didn't do it... my dad went to the Cage.
I stopped pacing. I looked at the picture of my mom and dad on my desk—taken before the madness, before she died. He looked happy.
I grabbed my keys.
I wasn't going to Lydia’s. I couldn't tell her. She would stop me. She would try to fix it.
This was my burden. My blood.
I walked out of the room, past Jagger who was playing video games in the living room.
"Going out?" Jagger asked.
"Yeah," I said, pulling my hood up. "Just for a drive."
"Cool. Say hi to Mouse for me."
I didn't answer.
I walked out into the snow, got into my truck, and turned south. Toward Detroit. Toward the underground.
I was going to save my father. Even if I had to bleed for it.
And if I lost everything else in the process... well, at least Lydia wouldn't be dragged down with me.