Thane
I'm in the tunnel outside the locker room, helmet tucked under one arm, tape still half-wrapped around my left hand because I stepped out mid-prep like an idiot when I saw the caller ID.
Even out in the hall, I can still hear Whiskey yelling about stick tape and Plague telling him to shut up before he tapes him.
I shove my finger into my free ear to try to make out what my father is saying. He never calls at a convenient time. Never.
"The decision's final," Dad says. Unless I missed it with Whiskey's bellowing, he didn't even bother to ask how I am. He's all business today.
So it's probably bad news.
"And?" I manage to croak.
"You can all keep playing. The whole pack. The instinct defense holds."
My lungs empty in a rush. I sag against the wall, pressing the heel of my taped hand against my forehead.
"But there's a condition," he adds.
Of course there is.
"The pack bond has to be verified as complete.
All five alpha marks on your omega, confirmed by medical examination.
That's non-negotiable, Thane. The league's position is that incomplete bonds don't qualify for full instinct defense protection.
If she's only marked by four of five, the claim is legally fragile and Wade's lawyers will eat it alive. "
My jaw locks.
"You hear me?" Dad presses.
"I hear you."
"How many marks does she have?"
"Four."
My father goes silent long enough I'm starting to sweat. "Who's missing, Thane?"
"Wraith."
The silence stretches longer.
"Is it because Wraith can't safely—"
"I know what he can't do, Dad."
My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. I pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe. Through the concrete wall, I hear the muffled thump of sticks hitting the floor and the excited buzz of the crowd filtering down from above.
"How long do we have?" I ask.
"End of the month. That's when the formal review closes. If the bond isn't complete by then, the instinct defense gets downgraded to individual claims. Which means Valek's assault charge goes back on the table, and Wraith's bite becomes aggravated battery instead of protective instinct."
Fuck.
"Get it done, Thane."
"Yeah." I swallow. "I'll figure it out."
"I know you will." He pauses. "Is Wraith in any condition to play?" he adds, his voice softening slightly. Not much, but… a little.
The truth is, he isn't. He's suffering. And wearing masks is making it worse, which is why he's hiding up in a VIP box with Ivy right now with the hood of his sweatshirt up and the loosest face gaiter he has.
"No," I answer honestly. "He's going to the doctor tomorrow."
"Alright." He pauses again, and I hear Mom's voice in the distance. He sighs and adds, "Your mother says hi. And to give Wraith a hug from her. She wants you to bring Ivy to dinner with the rest of the pack. Don’t forget."
He hangs up.
I stand in the tunnel, staring at the phone in my hand. Then I shove it into the pocket of my warmup jacket and press my knuckles against the concrete wall until the sting in my skin overrides the sting in my chest.
End of the month.
Two weeks to convince a seven-foot-three feral alpha with deteriorating nerve damage and teeth that can shear through bone to bite the woman he loves without maiming her.
I push off the wall and head for the locker room.
Plague is already dressed from the waist down, sitting on the bench with his legs crossed, lacing his skates and muttering something under his breath that sounds a hell of a lot like "going to kill you and I'm going to make it hurt Whiskey.
" There's a white bandage on his neck peeking out from his curtain of dark hair, covering the bite scar Whiskey gave him.
Valek is at his stall, fully suited except for his gloves, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and his silver eyes half-closed. He looks like he's sleeping standing up, like a horse.
He very well could be. He's been uncharacteristically relaxed since marking Ivy the other night. Against all odds, he's quickly becoming my favorite alpha in the pack other than my brother.
My least favorite right now is blaring Take On Me from his newest toy, a portable speaker held in the wings of a rubber duck with sunglasses, and—
"THANE! brO! Watch this!"
Whiskey is standing shirtless in the middle of the locker room with a roll of stick tape in each hand, oiled up for some reason, bite scar on full display, struggling to dual-wield wrap two sticks simultaneously.
It's not going well.
"Whiskey."
"Hold on, I almost—"
The tape on the left stick catches on itself and the whole roll unspools onto the floor in a tangled mess. Whiskey stares blankly at it.
"That doesn't count," he announces.
"Whiskey…"
"I'm telling you, it was working two seconds ago. Plague, you saw it working."
"I saw nothing," Plague says without looking up from his skates.
This is what they were arguing about?
"For fuck's sake, Whiskey," I say, louder.
Something in my voice makes him stop. He drops both sticks on the bench and turns to face me, the goofy grin replaced by a devil-may-give-a-fuck smirk.
"Why the stick up your ass, Cap'n Crunchy?"
I'm going to kill him before the Wasps can.
Valek opens one silver eye, watching me. Guess he wasn't asleep after all.
I roll my eyes and pull my stall door open, stripping off my warmup jacket. "Just got off the phone with my dad. League's ruling stands. Instinct defense holds for all of us. We keep playing."
Whiskey's fist pumps straight into the air. "FUCK yeah!"
"There's a condition."
His fist stays up. "Oh no."
I yank my base layer over my head and reach for my chest protector. "The pack bond has to be verified as complete. All five marks on Ivy, confirmed by medical exam. If Wraith hasn't marked her by end of month, the instinct defense is in jeopardy."
The fist comes down.
Plague sets his skate on the floor, both feet flat, spine straight. "That's in two weeks."
"Yup."
"What about Wraith's nerve damage?" Plague asks carefully.
"I have no fucking idea. He won't talk to me about it." I step into my leg pads and start strapping them. "He's going to the doctor tomorrow."
Valek hasn't moved. Both eyes are open now, though. The silver in them is flat and cold. I'm starting to think that's how he looks when he's worried.
Whiskey scrubs both hands down his face. "Well, shit."
"Yeah."
I pull my chest protector on and start cinching the straps, focusing on the familiar motions to keep myself from going insane. Tighten, adjust, tighten. The routine helps.
"Can you text Ivy and Wraith while I finish getting ready?" I ask Whiskey, dragging a hand through my hair. "I don't want them hearing this secondhand."
Whiskey already has his phone out. "Yeah, sure." He scratches the back of his neck with the phone. "You know we're fucked, right?"
I yank my jersey over my head.
The Wasps are on a five-game winning streak. Their goalie is a beast. Wraith, the most formidable alpha in our pack and our team, is off the ice.
"Yes, Whiskey." I grab my helmet off the shelf. "I know we're fucked."