Chapter 1 #2
But he didn't look away. He stared, unblinking, his chest heaving with exertion.
"Oh my god," Chloe squeaked. "Is he looking at us? He's looking at us!"
"He's looking at the exit," I said, my voice trembling. "I have to go. My shift starts in ten minutes."
"What? No! Stay! Maybe he'll wave."
"He doesn't look like the waving type, Chloe."
He looked like the type who tore things apart to see how they worked.
I scrambled out of my seat, nearly tripping over the feet of the person behind me. I needed to get away from that gaze. It felt physical, like a heat lamp turned on high against the back of my neck.
I hurried up the concrete stairs and ducked into the tunnel that led to the locker room areas. The noise of the crowd muffled instantly, replaced by the hum of industrial fans and the smell of rubber mats and cleaning chemicals.
My heart was beating so fast I felt dizzy.
Get it together, Rachel, I scolded myself. You're a professional. He's just a jock with an aggression problem. You deal with torn ACLs and rotator cuffs. You don't deal with... whatever that was.
I walked down the long, sterile hallway toward the training room. The game was in the third period. It would be over soon, and then the hallway would be flooded with massive, sweaty men. I needed to prep the ice baths and get the taping tables ready.
I reached the door to the training room, my hand hovering over the handle.
Thud.
A heavy sound came from around the corner, near the home team locker room entrance. It sounded like a body hitting the wall.
I hesitated. My job description technically included "emergency response," but my survival instincts screamed run.
I crept forward, peering around the corner.
Stan Kowalski was there.
He must have been ejected from the game, or released from the box early. He was alone. He was standing with his forehead pressed against the concrete block wall, his massive gloved hands braced on either side of his head. He was still in his full gear, looking like a gladiator armored for war.
He was breathing in ragged, harsh gasps.
"Stop," he hissed. He was talking to the wall. Or himself. "Stop it."
The sound of his voice—deep, raw, like rocks tumbling down a mountainside—sent a shiver down my spine.
I should have turned around. I should have walked away on the balls of my feet and pretended I never saw the team captain having a breakdown in the hallway.
But I was a healer. It was the one thing that overrode my cowardice.
"Um," I said.
The word was barely a squeak.
Stan froze. His breathing stopped instantly. The silence that slammed into the hallway was heavier than the noise had been.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he pushed himself off the wall and turned to face me.
Up close, he was impossibly big. On the ice, surrounded by other giants, he looked large. Here, in the narrow hallway, he blocked out the light. He towered over me by more than a foot. The skates added three inches to his height, making him a looming tower of black padding and menace.
He looked down.
His eyes were amber. Not brown, not hazel. Amber. Like liquid gold hardened into stone. And the pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris.
"You," he rumbled.
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
I clutched my clipboard to my chest, my knuckles turning white. "I... I'm the student trainer. Rachel. Miller. I was just... are you okay? You sounded..."
He took a step toward me. The sound of his skate blade on the rubber mat was a sharp shhhk.
I took a step back, my heel hitting the wall behind me. I was trapped.
"You smell," he said.
My face flamed. I had showered this morning. I wore deodorant. "Excuse me?"
He leaned in. He didn't respect my personal space; he annihilated it. He placed one gloved hand on the wall next to my head, boxing me in. The smell of him washed over me—winter air, cedar, and something sharp and metallic that made my mouth water in a confusing, terrifying way.
He lowered his head until his nose was inches from my neck. I stopped breathing. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for... I didn't know what. A bite? A yell?
He inhaled. A long, deep drag of air that rustled the loose strands of hair by my ear.
"Vanilla," he murmured. The vibration of his voice traveled through my skin. "Why do you smell like that?"
"It's... it's just my body wash," I stammered, my eyes flying open. I was staring at the pulse point in his neck. It was hammering. "Look, I think you should go to the locker room. You seem... agitated."
He pulled back slightly, looking at my face. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. He looked like he was in pain. Physical, excruciating pain.
"Agitated," he repeated, tasting the word. He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was a dark, jagged sound. "That's one word for it."
He leaned closer again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, rough with a subtext I couldn't parse. "I'm not agitated, Rachel Miller. I'm hungry."
My stomach dropped. "There's... there are protein bars in the training room."
He stared at me for a beat, and then he blinked. The amber fire in his eyes seemed to dim slightly, replaced by a weary, human exhaustion. He looked at me like I was a math problem he couldn't solve, or a present he wasn't allowed to open.
He pushed off the wall, removing the cage of his body. The loss of his heat was immediate, leaving me shivering in the cold hallway air.
"Stay away from me," he said. His voice was flat now. Cold. "Do your job, wrap the ankles, fill the water bottles. But don't come near me. And don't..." He trailed off, his nostrils flaring again. "Don't wear that scent."
"I can't change how I smell," I argued, a tiny spark of indignation breaking through my fear.
He looked over his shoulder as he walked toward the locker room door. The look he gave me was chilling. It wasn't hatred. It was warning. It was the look a man gives the edge of a cliff before he steps back.
"Then stay out of my way, Little Bit," he growled. "Because I'm not the kind of dog that plays nice."
He shoved the locker room door open and disappeared into the darkness, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I stood there for a full minute, my heart trying to bruise its way out of my ribs. My legs felt like jelly. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.
I should request a transfer. I should go to Coach Wolfowitz right now and tell him I couldn't work with the hockey team. There were openings with the swim team. Swimmers were nice. Swimmers didn't look at you like they were deciding which limb to tear off first.
But as I stood there, inhaling the lingering scent of cedar and ozone he had left behind, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want to transfer.
My body was humming. Every nerve ending was awake. For the first time in three years of college, I didn't feel invisible. I felt seen. I felt marked.
I touched the spot on my neck where his breath had hit my skin. It still felt hot.
"Bad idea, Rachel," I whispered to the empty hallway. "Very, very bad idea."
But I adjusted my grip on my clipboard, stood up straighter, and walked toward the training room. The game was ending. The buzzer sounded in the distance. The herd was coming.
And the wolf was waiting.