Chapter 8
Maya
The noise was a physical thing. It was a wall of sound—a cacophony of screaming students, thumping bass, the blare of air horns, and the rhythmic stomping of three thousand boots on metal bleachers—that hit me the moment I walked through the turnstiles.
The Blackwood Arena was less of a sports facility and more of a gladiator pit.
The air smelled of ozone, burnt popcorn, spilled beer, and the distinct, crisp bite of the massive sheet of ice waiting in the center of the bowl. It was freezing in here, a perpetual winter that seeped into your bones, but I was sweating.
"This is insane," I shouted over the roar of the pre-game playlist. "Is it always this loud?"
Harper, walking beside me with a press pass dangling from her neck and a maniacal grin on her face, grabbed my arm.
"Welcome to Friday Night worship, Maya! The Timber Wolves aren't a team; they're a cult. And tonight? Tonight is the rivalry game against Granite State. There’s going to be blood on the ice before the first period is over. "
"That’s comforting," I muttered, clutching the railing as we descended the concrete stairs toward the ice.
I looked down at myself. I wasn't wearing my usual cashmere sweater or my performance blacks. I was wearing a jersey.
Specifically, I was wearing a black hockey jersey that was four sizes too big for me. It swallowed my frame, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, the hem hitting mid-thigh over my leggings. On the back, in stark white letters, was the name VANCE and the number 19.
Leo had left it on my bed this morning before I woke up, with a note that simply said: Wear this. I play better when I can see you.
It felt heavy. It felt like a target. It felt like a claim.
As we walked down the aisle, I felt eyes on me.
I saw the whispers. The girls in the student section—the "puck bunnies" Silas had joked about—were staring daggers at me.
They saw the number. They knew what it meant.
Wearing the Captain's jersey wasn't a fashion statement; it was a declaration of territory.
A week ago, I would have curled in on myself. I would have wanted to disappear.
Tonight, I pulled the sleeves down over my hands and lifted my chin. Let them stare. They didn't know what his hands felt like. They didn't know the sound of his breathing in a quiet room. They didn't know the monster he kept on a leash, or the man who had held me while I cried about my parents.
"VIP section is right behind the penalty box," Harper directed, flashing her pass at a security guard who looked like he wrestled bears for a living. "Best view in the house. Also the loudest. You're going to feel the hits in your teeth."
We squeezed into our seats just as the lights in the arena went black.
The crowd roared, a primal, deafening sound that vibrated in my chest. spotlights swept across the ice, cutting through the darkness. The announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system like the voice of God.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... WELCOME TO THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE!"
Techno music exploded. Smoke machines hissed near the tunnel entrance.
And then, they came out.
They didn't skate; they erupted onto the ice.
The Blackwood Timber Wolves. They moved with a speed that didn't make sense. It was too fast, too fluid. They were a blur of black and white, cutting edges so deep I could hear the ice tearing from fifty feet away.
And then I saw him.
Leo.
He was the last one out of the tunnel. He didn't sprint like the others.
He glided. He looked massive in his pads, his shoulders broad enough to block out the sun.
He took a lap around the ice, his strides long and powerful, eating up the distance with terrifying efficiency.
He wasn't wearing a cage on his helmet, just a visor, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the scowl that seemed permanently etched onto his face.
He looked lethal. He looked like a weapon of war wrapped in Kevlar and carbon fiber.
My breath hitched. A hot, confusing coil of arousal tightened low in my belly. This was the man who had fed me cheeseburgers last night? This was the man who had wiped my tears?
He circled the net, tapping his goalie on the pads, and then skated toward center ice for the warm-up.
As he passed the penalty box, he stopped.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't look at the cheerleaders.
He turned his head and looked directly at me.
Through the glass, through the chaos, his eyes locked onto mine. I couldn't see the color from here, but I felt the weight of the gaze. He saw the jersey. He saw me sitting there, wrapped in his name.
He didn't smile. He just nodded—once, sharp and decisive.
I see you.
Then he turned and fired a puck into the empty net with a sound like a gunshot.
"Oh my god," Harper whispered, fanning herself with her notebook. "I need a cigarette, and I don't even smoke. That eye contact could have impregnated a statue."
"Shut up," I said, but my face was burning. I pressed my hand against the glass, feeling the cold radiate through my palm.
The game began, and the world dissolved into violence.
I had never watched hockey closely before. I thought it was just men chasing a piece of rubber.
I was wrong. It was organized chaos. It was physics and brutality and ballet all smashed together at thirty miles per hour.
And tonight, it felt personal.
The Granite State team—the Grizzlies—were huge.
They played dirty. Within the first five minutes, I saw three elbows thrown that the referees missed.
They were targeting Leo. Every time he touched the puck, two of them were on him, slamming him into the boards, hacking at his ankles with their sticks.
Leo took it. He absorbed the hits with a stoic, terrifying calm. He would bounce off the boards, spin away from a check, and thread a pass to Silas that defied geometry.
But I could see the tension in him. I knew him now. I could see the way his shoulders hunched slightly after a particularly hard hit. I could see the way he flexed his right hand on his stick, the knuckles white.
The Wolf was close to the surface.
"Get off him!" I screamed, jumping to my feet as a Grizzly defenseman shoved Leo after the whistle.
Harper laughed, scribbling furiously. "Go get 'em, tiger! I didn't know you had a lung capacity."
"They're playing dirty," I seethed, sitting back down. "Why aren't the refs calling it?"
"Because it's hockey," Harper said. "And because Leo is the Alpha. You don't call fouls on the king of the jungle. You expect him to handle it."
"He's going to get hurt," I whispered, chewing on my thumbnail.
The first period ended 1-0, Blackwood. Leo had the assist.
The second period was worse. The hits got harder. The crowd got louder. The smell of aggression in the arena was so thick I could almost taste it—metallic and sour.
Halfway through the second period, Leo got the puck on a breakaway.
He was flying. The wind of his passage seemed to ripple the air. He crossed the blue line, deked the defenseman out of his jockstrap, and moved in on the goalie.
He pulled his stick back to shoot.
From his blind side, a Granite State player—number 55, a giant of a man with a distinct lack of neck—launched himself.
He didn't play the puck. He played the man.
He hit Leo high. His shoulder drove directly into Leo's head, sending his helmet flying. Leo’s body spun in the air, disjointed, before crashing violently onto the ice. He slid, lifeless, into the end boards with a sickening thud.
The arena went silent.
The breath was punched out of my lungs. My heart stopped. My vision tunneled until the only thing I could see was Leo, lying face down on the ice, not moving.
"Leo!"
The scream tore out of my throat, raw and terrified.
I was standing again. I was gripping the glass so hard my nails were threatening to snap.
Get up. Please, get up.
The players on the ice froze. Silas was the first one there. He dropped to his knees beside Leo, shielding him. I saw Silas shouting something, his face pale.
For ten seconds—ten agonizing, eternal seconds—Leo didn't move.
Then, his glove twitched.
He pushed himself up. He was shaky. He rolled onto his back, then to his knees. He shook his head like a wet dog trying to clear water from its ears.
Silas tried to grab him, to hold him down for the trainer.
Leo shoved Silas away.
He stood up.
He wasn't steady. He swayed slightly on his skates. But when he lifted his head, I gasped.
He wasn't looking at the trainer. He was looking at Number 55, who was smirking near the penalty box.
Leo’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Even from here, I could see it. The human mask had cracked.
He didn't skate toward the bench. He skated toward Number 55.
"Oh no," Harper whispered. "Here we go."
Leo dropped his gloves. They hit the ice with a soft slap.
Number 55 dropped his.
They collided at center ice.
It wasn't a hockey fight. It was a mauling. Leo ducked a right hook and drove his fist into the guy's face. Crack. The sound of the visor shattering echoed through the silent arena.
Leo didn't stop. He grabbed the guy's jersey with his left hand and hammered him with his right. Again. Again. Again.
It was violent. It was terrifying. It was the "Feral" gene he had told me about.
The guy went down to his knees. Leo didn't stop. He wound up for another hit, a hit that would break a jaw, maybe kill him.
"Leo, stop!" I screamed against the glass, uselessly.
But he heard me. Or he felt me.
His fist froze in mid-air.
He was panting, his chest heaving, his hair wild and wet with sweat. He looked up. His eyes searched the stands. They found me instantly.
I was pressed against the glass, tears streaming down my face, shaking my head.
Don't do it. Don't lose yourself.
We stared at each other. He was a monster in that moment. Blood—his or the other guy's—smeared his cheek. His eyes were burning gold.
Slowly, agonizingly, the gold faded. The fist lowered.
He shoved Number 55 backward onto the ice with a sneer of disgust.