Chapter 17
Spike
Seattle was gray.
It was a city of rain, steel, and concrete. It matched my mood perfectly.
I sat in the penthouse apartment of the Emerald Tower, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Space Needle piercing the clouds.
The apartment was sleek, modern, and expensive.
It came with the contract. So did the Audi in the garage, the personal chef, and the endorsement deals that were piling up on my coffee table.
I had everything I was supposed to want.
I was the third overall pick. I was starting for the Krakens. My bank account had more zeros than I knew what to do with. The suppressants—the high-grade, custom-synthesized ones—were delivered weekly by a discreet courier.
The madness was caged. The Wolf was sedated.
And I was dead inside.
I took a sip of the green smoothie my chef had left for me. It tasted like grass and obligation.
My phone buzzed on the glass table.
Jax: Saw the game last night. Two assists and a fight? You're a machine, Butcher. The fans love you.
I stared at the message. I didn't reply. I hadn't replied to Jax in weeks. I hadn't replied to anyone.
I stood up and walked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass.
Three months.
It had been three months since the snow. Since the security guards. Since she looked me in the eye and told me our love was a transaction.
You love winning.
The words still echoed in the empty apartment.
I hated winning. I hated hockey. Every time I stepped on the ice, I felt sick. The sound of the crowd wasn't exhilarating anymore; it was noise. The physical contact wasn't a release; it was a chore.
I played because I had to. Because the contract was signed. Because if I stopped, the money stopped, and the suppressants stopped, and the madness came back.
But sometimes, late at night, when the silence was too loud, I wondered if the madness would be better than this.
At least in the madness, I felt something.
Here, in this glass tower, I felt nothing but the cold.
My days were a loop. A perfectly calibrated, highly paid loop.
6:00 AM: Wake up. No alarm needed. The nightmares usually woke me up by 4:00. Nightmares of her leaving. Nightmares of my father laughing. Nightmares of Riley in a cage.
7:00 AM: Gym. I lifted heavy. I lifted until my muscles failed, until the physical pain drowned out the emotional hollow in my chest. My trainer said I was the most disciplined rookie he’d ever seen. He didn't know I was just trying to exhaust myself into a coma.
10:00 AM: Practice. The team was good. The guys were decent. They tried to include me. "Hey, rookie, coming to the bar?" "Hey, Thorne, poker night at the Captain's?" I always said no. I was the enigma. The silent, brooding defenseman who hit like a freight train and never smiled.
2:00 PM: Media. Interviews. "How does it feel to be in the NHL?" "It's a job," I would say. They called me focused. They called me intense.
6:00 PM: Home. The apartment. The silence.
I walked into my bedroom. It was sterile. White sheets. Beige walls. Nothing on the nightstand except a lamp and my pill bottle.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the drawer.
Inside, buried under a stack of socks, was a small, tattered object.
A flashcard.
Question: Who was the signatory for the Northern Packs?
Answer: Elder Blackwood.
It was the only thing I had kept. I had found it in the pocket of my jeans when I was packing for Seattle. She must have slipped it in there during the drive to the cabin.
I ran my thumb over the edge of the card. It was soft, worn.
I hated her. I told myself that every day. She had lied. She had used me. She had broken me down just to sell me out to the Dean.
But my thumb didn't stop rubbing the card.
And at night, when the sedatives wore off, I didn't dream about hating her.
I dreamed about the smell of vanilla. I dreamed about brown curls and glasses. I dreamed about a girl who dug iron out of my hand and told me I wasn't my father.
"Get out of my head," I whispered to the empty room.
I threw the card back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
The team was on a road trip. Chicago.
The hotel was luxury. The bus was luxury. Everything was soft and easy.
I sat in the back of the bus, headphones on, ignoring the card game happening up front.
"Thorne."
I looked up. It was the Captain, a veteran named Davis. He was a bear shifter, massive and calm.
"Yeah?" I pulled one headphone off.
"You good?" Davis asked. He sat in the empty seat across the aisle.
"I'm fine."
"You're playing great," Davis said. "But you look like you're about to walk into traffic. We're worried about you, kid."
"Don't be. I do my job."
"It's not just a job, Spike. We're a pack. You're part of it. But you act like you're a mercenary passing through."
"Maybe I am."
Davis sighed. "Look. I know the transition is hard. The pressure. The money. But you gotta find something to enjoy. A hobby. A girl. Something."
A girl.
The word was a knife.
"Not interested," I said, putting my headphone back on.
Davis shook his head and walked away.
I turned up the volume. The heavy metal blasted in my ears, drowning out the world.
But it couldn't drown out the memory of her laugh.
The game against Chicago was brutal.
They were a physical team. They knew I was the Krakens' enforcer, and they tested me early.
In the first period, a winger slashed my hand. The same hand. The left one.
Pain shot up my arm, sharp and familiar. I looked down. The glove was cut. Blood was welling up.
I didn't feel anger. I felt... relief.
Pain was real. Pain was focusing.
I dropped my gloves.
The winger looked surprised. He hadn't expected the rookie to engage so fast.
I grabbed his jersey. I pulled him in.
I didn't punch him immediately. I just held him there, staring into his eyes. I let the Wolf come to the surface. Not the sedated, medicated Wolf, but the primal one that lived in the blood.
The winger’s eyes widened. He smelled the madness. He smelled the death wish.
He went limp. He turtled.
I hit him once. Hard. Then I let the refs pull me off.
I skated to the penalty box. The crowd was booing. I didn't care.
I sat in the box, breathing hard. The blood dripped from my hand onto the ice.
A memory flashed.
The equipment room. The stool. Her small hands cleaning the wound.
You have gentle hands.
I looked at my hand. It was just blood. No one was coming to clean it. No one was coming to tell me I was good.
The medic came over to stitch me up between periods. He was efficient, silent. He used a numbing spray.
I wished he hadn't. I wanted to feel the needle.
After the game, I declined the invitation to the bar. I went back to the hotel room.
I ordered room service. A steak. I didn't eat it.
I sat by the window, watching the lights of Chicago.
My phone rang.
It wasn't Jax. It wasn't the team.
Caller ID: Vera.
I stared at the screen. Vera. The Cheer Captain. The girl who had smiled when Riley was taken away.
I hadn't spoken to her since that day. I had blocked her number, deleted her socials.
Why was she calling? And from a new number?
Curiosity—or maybe just a desire to hear a voice from the past—made me answer.
"What?" I said.
"Hello to you too, Spike," Vera’s voice was smooth, polished. "Congratulations on the win. You looked... violent tonight."
"What do you want, Vera?"
"I'm in Seattle," she said. "For a cheer competition. I thought maybe we could grab a drink. Catch up. For old times' sake."
"I don't have old times with you."
"Ouch. Still bitter? Look, Spike. You're lonely. I'm bored. We're both high-status Alphas in a city full of humans. It makes sense."
"Nothing about you makes sense to me."
"Don't be like that. I did you a favor, you know."
I froze. "What favor?"
"Getting rid of the mouse," she said casually. "Riley. The charity case. If I hadn't stepped in, you’d still be dragging that anchor around. You wouldn't be in the NHL. You'd be... I don't know, teaching history?"
She laughed.
"Stepped in?" I asked, my grip on the phone tightening. "What do you mean, stepped in?"
"Oh, come on, Spike. You're smarter than that. You really think a girl like Riley Bennett—a prude, a virgin, a nobody—would suddenly develop the guts to blackmail the Captain of the football team? Please."
My heart started to hammer. A cold, sick feeling spread through my veins.
"Explain," I commanded. My voice dropped to the Alpha growl that made people obey.
Vera hesitated. She heard the tone.
"It wasn't blackmail," she said, sounding annoyed that I didn't get it. "It was a rescue mission. Henderson Senior and the Dean... they had the photos. The ones I took. They were going to expel you, Spike. They were going to institutionalize you. They said you were unstable."
I stopped breathing.
Institutionalize me.
"Riley didn't blackmail you," Vera continued, unaware that she was digging her own grave. "She took the fall. We gave her a choice: Confess to coercing you and leave campus, or watch you get locked up in a padded room with your daddy."
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
"She chose you," Vera said, sounding bored. "Obviously. She played the villain so you could keep your eligibility. It was actually kind of tragic. Very Romeo and Juliet."
"She... she lied?" I whispered.
"Of course she lied. She loved you, you idiot. That was the problem. Love makes people stupid."
Vera paused.
"So," she said brightly. "Drinks? I'm at the W Hotel."
I hung up.
I threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered.
I stood there, staring at the broken pieces, my chest heaving.
She loved you.
She took the fall.
The memories flooded back. The scene in the snow. Her coldness. Her cruelty.
You love winning.
She had said the one thing she knew would make me let her go. She had used my own insecurity against me, not to hurt me, but to save me.
She had sacrificed everything—her degree, her reputation, her home—so I could play hockey.
And I had let her.
I had believed the lie because it was easier than believing she loved a monster. I had believed it because I was a coward.
"No," I roared.