Chapter 8
Riley
The air inside the Ironclad Arena was so thick with tension you could carve it with a skate blade. It was the semi-final of the Conference Championship. IMU Apex vs. The Thunder Bay Storm.
The Storm were giants. literal giants. Their roster was packed with Kodiak bear shifters and moose shifters—men who stood seven feet tall on skates and weighed three hundred pounds without pads. They played a style of hockey that was less about finesse and more about demolition.
I stood in my usual spot in the media box, gripping the ledge until my knuckles turned white. Below me, the ice was a pristine sheet of white, waiting to be scarred.
But I wasn't looking at the ice. I was looking at the tunnel.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, hiding it under my clipboard.
Spike: Are you wearing it?
My heart did a little flip. I glanced down at my chest. Beneath my oversized gray cardigan, tucked secretly against my skin, I was wearing a black t-shirt. Not just any shirt. His shirt. The one he had slept in at the cabin. The one that still smelled faintly of him—woodsmoke, ozone, and man.
I typed back: Yes. It’s warm. Good luck, 55.
Spike: Watch me.
The command sent a shiver down my spine. Watch me.
The buzzer sounded. The lights dimmed. The crowd roared—a deafening, guttural sound that vibrated in the floorboards.
The Apex skated out.
They moved like a pack of wolves. Fast. Fluid. Predatory. They wore their home blacks—matte black helmets, black jerseys with the snarling wolf logo in silver.
And leading the charge, skating backward during warmups with a terrifying grace, was Spike Thorne.
He looked bigger today. Maybe it was the armor of the pads, or maybe it was the aura of violence he projected. He slammed into the boards near the blue line, testing the give of the glass, and the sound was like a cannon shot.
He didn't look up at the media box. He didn't wave. He was in the Zone. The Butcher was present. The boy who had kissed me in his truck was gone, replaced by a weapon of mass destruction.
"They look angry tonight," Jacobs muttered into his headset next to me. "Thorne especially. Look at the way he’s holding his stick. White-knuckling it. He’s going to kill someone."
I swallowed hard. I knew why he was angry.
Midterms were over. He had passed. But the pressure hadn't let up. The scout from the NHL’s Seattle Krakens was in the building tonight.
He was sitting three rows behind the Apex bench, notebook in hand.
This was Spike’s audition. If he showed too much aggression, he was a liability. If he showed too little, he was soft.
He had to walk a razor's edge. And he had to do it against a team of bears who wanted to break his legs.
The puck dropped.
The violence started instantly.
Within ten seconds, there was a collision at center ice that sent a Storm winger flying. It was clean, but brutal. The crowd screamed for blood.
Spike was everywhere. He was a shadow on the ice. He anticipated plays before they happened, cutting off lanes, stealing pucks, using his body to shield Jax in the net. He was playing smart. Controlled.
Until the second period.
The Storm changed tactics. They stopped playing the puck and started playing the man. specifically, they started targeting Spike.
Every time he touched the puck, two bears would sandwich him. They slashed at his ankles. They cross-checked him in the kidneys when the refs weren't looking.
I watched through my binoculars, nausea rising in my throat.
"That was a slash!" I hissed, though no one could hear me. "Ref! Are you blind?"
Spike took a hit to the ribs that made him stumble. He stayed on his feet, but I saw the wince. I saw the way his hand went to his side.
He didn't retaliate. He skated back to the bench, head down, breathing hard.
"He's taking a beating," Henderson murmured, appearing beside me with a stats sheet. "They're trying to goad him into a fight. They want him to shift or throw a punch so he gets ejected."
"He knows that," I said, my voice tight. "He won't take the bait."
"Everyone has a breaking point, Riley. Even the Butcher."
The third period began. The score was tied 2-2.
The Storm’s captain—a massive grizzly named Volkov—skated past the Apex bench. He said something to Spike. I saw Spike’s helmet jerk up. I saw his shoulders stiffen.
Whatever Volkov said, it wasn't about hockey.
Spike vaulted over the boards for his shift. He wasn't skating smoothly anymore. He was charging.
"Oh no," I whispered. "Spike, don't."
The play moved into the Apex zone. Volkov had the puck. He was driving toward the net, looking to score the go-ahead goal.
Spike cut him off. He lined him up for a check.
But at the last second, Volkov dropped his shoulder and drove his elbow directly into Spike’s head.
It was a dirty hit. A headshot. Illegal in every league on earth.
Spike’s head snapped back. His helmet flew off, skittering across the ice. He crumpled.
He hit the ice hard. He didn't move.
The arena went silent.
My clipboard fell from my hands. My heart stopped.
"Spike!" I screamed, my voice lost in the sudden vacuum of sound.
For five agonizing seconds, he lay face down on the cold white surface. He looked so small without his helmet, so human.
Then, the movement started. Not a groan. A convulsion.
His back arched. A low, inhuman sound ripped through the arena, picked up by the parabolic mics. It was a growl. A deep, feral roar of pain and fury.
He pushed himself up.
His eyes were glowing. Not just flashing—they were beacons of solid red light.
He turned toward Volkov, who was laughing near the boards.
"He's going to kill him," Henderson said, his face pale. "Riley, he's going to shift."
If Spike shifted into his wolf form on the ice, in front of the scout, in front of the cameras... his career was over. He would be labeled an Unbound. A danger to society.
Spike took a step toward Volkov. He dropped his gloves.
The refs were blowing their whistles, trying to get in between them, but you don't get in between two Alphas.
Spike grabbed Volkov by the jersey. He lifted him—a three-hundred-pound bear—off his skates. He cocked his fist back.
Do it, the crowd seemed to whisper. Be the monster.
I couldn't breathe. I was watching his life implode in slow motion.
Then, Spike stopped.
He froze, his fist mid-air. He blinked.
He looked up.
Straight at the media box.
He couldn't see me. I knew he couldn't see me. I was in the shadows, behind glass, fifty feet up.
But he looked right at where I was standing.
I pressed my hand against the glass. Please, Spike. Don't.
He stared for a heartbeat. His chest was heaving. Blood was trickling from a cut on his forehead, running into his eye.
Slowly, agonizingly, the red in his eyes faded back to gold.
He dropped Volkov. The bear crumpled to the ice like a sack of potatoes.
Spike turned to the refs. He held his hands up. Surrender.
"Penalty!" the ref shouted, pointing to the penalty box. "Roughing. Two minutes. Number 55."
It was a weak call, a consolation prize for not witnessing a murder.
Spike skated to the box. He sat down. He didn't look at the Storm bench. He didn't look at the crowd. He put his head in his hands.
I slumped against the wall, my legs giving out. I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
"He stopped," Henderson whispered, sounding stunned. "How the hell did he stop?"
I touched the black t-shirt under my cardigan. I felt the steady beat of my own heart, echoing his.
"He has an anchor," I whispered.
The Apex won in overtime. Jax scored the winner while Spike was still in the box serving his penalty.
But nobody was celebrating the win. The mood in the tunnel was somber.
I waited outside the locker room door. Usually, I went in to collect the stats sheets, but tonight, the door was firmly shut. I could hear Coach Miller shouting inside.
"Undisciplined! Reckless! You almost cost us the season, Thorne!"
I flinched at every shout.
Finally, the door opened. The players filed out, looking exhausted and battered. They ignored me, heading straight for the showers or the bus.
Then came Spike.
He was still in half his gear—breezers and skates on, chest protector off. He was shirtless. His skin was slick with sweat and blood. The cut on his forehead was sluggishly healing, but it looked angry. A massive bruise was blossoming on his ribs where he had taken the earlier hit.
He walked with his head down, carrying his helmet by the cage. He looked defeated.
He walked right past me.
"Spike," I said softly.
He stopped. He didn't turn around. His back muscles bunched.
"Go home, Riley," he rasped.
"No."
I stepped in front of him. I put my hand on his bare, sweaty chest.
The contact sizzled.
He looked down at me. His eyes were haunted. The gold was dull, muddy.
"I almost did it," he whispered. "I almost ripped his head off. In front of everyone."
"But you didn't," I said fiercely. "You stopped."
"Barely. The Wolf... he was screaming, Riley. He wanted blood." Spike shuddered. "I’m dangerous. You saw it. The scout saw it."
"The scout saw restraint," I argued. "He saw a player take a cheap shot to the head and walk away. That takes more strength than fighting."
"Does it?" Spike laughed bitterly. "Or does it just look like weakness?"
He tried to step around me. "I need to go. I need to be alone."
"You need to be grounded," I corrected.
I grabbed his hand—the bandaged one. I pulled him toward the janitor's closet down the hall.
"Riley, stop," he warned, but he let me pull him. "What are you doing?"
"Saving you from yourself."
I shoved him into the closet and clicked the lock. It was dark, smelling of bleach and mop water.
"This is becoming a habit," he muttered, leaning back against the sink. But his hands came up to rest on my waist instantly. He needed the touch. He needed the anchor.
"Look at me," I commanded.
He looked.
"You are here," I said, placing my hands on his face. "You are Spike. You are not your father. You played a hell of a game."
"I got a penalty," he said stupidly.
"You got a penalty for existing," I dismissed. "Volkov deserved worse."
I ran my thumbs over his cheekbones. I traced the scar on his jaw.
"You scared me," I admitted. "When you went down... I thought you were dead."
"Takes more than a bear to kill me," he grunted.
"Don't joke." My voice cracked. "I was terrified."
Spike's expression softened. The wall crumbled.
"I looked for you," he whispered. "When I was standing over him... all I could think was she's watching. I couldn't let you see me turn into a monster."
"I saw you choose to be a man," I said.
He let out a ragged breath. He pulled me closer, burying his face in my neck. He was heavy, hot, and smelled of violence, but he was shaking.
"I need you," he groaned against my skin. "God, Riley, I need you so bad it hurts."
"I'm here."
He kissed me. It was desperate, salty with sweat and tears. He lifted me up, pressing me against the door. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, on my back, gripping my ass.
"Touch me," he begged. " everywhere. Remind me I'm real."
I put my hands on his shoulders, digging my fingers into the hard muscle. I kissed his jaw, his throat, the pulse point that was hammering like a drum.
"You're real," I whispered against his skin. "You're alive."
We stood there in the dark, clinging to each other as the adrenaline crashed. It wasn't about sex. It was about survival. It was about two people finding the only safe harbor in a storm.
"Well, that was... interesting."
The voice came from the hallway outside.
We froze.
Spike put a finger to his lips.
"Did you see Thorne?" a man's voice asked. It was unfamiliar. Smooth. Professional.
"He went that way," a janitor replied.
"Shame," the man said. "I wanted to talk to him. Though honestly, after that display? I'm not sure he has the temperament for the Krakens. Too volatile. We need players, not ticking time bombs."
Footsteps faded down the hall.
Spike went rigid against me.
The scout.
He had heard it. Too volatile. Ticking time bomb.
Spike pulled back from me. His face was a mask of stone. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by a cold, dead certainty.
"He's right," Spike whispered.
"No," I said, grabbing his arm. "He doesn't know you."
"He knows enough." Spike unlocked the door. He didn't look at me. "I have to go."
"Spike, wait!"
He didn't wait. He pushed the door open and walked out, leaving me alone in the dark, smelling of bleach and heartbreak.
He was retreating. He was locking the Wolf away. And this time, I wasn't sure I could coax him back out.