Chapter 8
Eloise
The Ironwood Arena was a living, breathing entity. And tonight, it was screaming.
I stood in the VIP box—my father’s box—gripping the railing until my knuckles turned white. Below me, the ice was a blindingly bright battlefield, scarred by skate blades and littered with the debris of violence.
The noise was physical. A wall of sound created by four thousand students, alumni, and townies, all baying for blood. The drum line pounded a rhythm that synced with my frantic heartbeat. The air smelled of popcorn, spilled beer, and the electric charge of high-stakes aggression.
I wasn't wearing my usual white wool coat.
I was wearing Jack’s jersey.
It was number 9. Black with grey trim, the Sentinel wolf logo snarling on the shoulder.
It was massive on me, hanging to my mid-thigh like a dress.
I had tucked it into my jeans, but the sleeves still swallowed my hands.
It smelled like him—cedar and laundry detergent—and wearing it felt like wearing a target.
"You look like a groupie," my father commented from behind me. He was swirling a glass of amber liquid, staring down at the ice with disdain.
"I’m supporting the university," I said, not turning around. "School spirit, remember? The thing that brings in donors?"
"It’s undignified," he sniffed. "Wearing another student’s name on your back. Especially his."
I ignored him. I couldn't focus on his petty snobbery. My entire world had narrowed down to the figure circling the center ice.
Jack.
He looked different down there. Up close, in the dorm or the truck, he was huge, yes. But on the ice, padded in armor, moving with that terrifying, predatory speed, he looked like a monster. A gladiator.
He was skating warm-up laps, his strides long and powerful, eating up the ice. Every movement was efficient violence. He wasn't just skating; he was carving the territory.
He stopped at the blue line, scraping a spray of ice, and looked up.
He didn't search the crowd. He didn't scan the stands.
His head snapped directly to the VIP box. To me.
Even through the cage of his helmet, I felt the weight of his gaze. It was heavy. Possessive. He saw the jersey. I saw his posture shift—shoulders squaring, spine straightening. A subtle puffing of the chest.
Mine, the gesture said.
My breath hitched. I raised a hand, pressing it against the glass.
He nodded. Once. sharp. Then he turned and slammed into his teammate, Silas, for a pre-game chest bump that looked hard enough to crack ribs.
"Barbarians," my father muttered.
"Warriors," I whispered.
The game began.
It wasn't a game. It was a massacre.
The visiting team—The Duluth Badgers—weren't shifters. They were just big corn-fed humans. But they played dirty. They knew the Sentinels were faster, stronger, "different," so they compensated with cheap shots.
Hooking. Slashing. Late hits.
By the second period, the ice was streaked with red. A Badger winger had taken a puck to the face. One of our defensemen was in the locker room with a dislocated shoulder.
And Jack... Jack was a man possessed.
He was everywhere. He was a blur of black and grey. He hit with the force of a freight train. Every time a Badger touched the puck, Jack was there to separate them from it, usually by separating them from their consciousness.
But he was disciplined. He wasn't taking penalties. He was riding the razor's edge of the rules, channeling that feral wolf rage into precise, devastating checks.
I watched him with a mixture of awe and nausea.
I saw the way he protected his teammates. When a Badger took a run at our goalie, Jack was there instantly, putting himself between the threat and the net, taking a cross-check to the spine without flinching.
He’s hurt, I realized, watching him grimace as he skated back to the bench. He’s hiding it, but he’s hurt.
My father was talking to a donor about endowment funds. The crowd was screaming for a fight. But I was the only one watching Jack’s left hand—the way he kept flexing it, shaking it out.
"Be careful," I whispered to the glass. "Please, Jack. Don't break."
The third period started. Score tied 2-2.
The tension in the arena was suffocating. You could feel it in the air—the static electricity of four thousand people holding their breath.
Jack won the face-off. He passed to Silas. Silas deked, passed back to Jack.
Jack broke away. He had a lane. He was flying down the ice, the puck glued to his stick.
"Go!" I screamed, forgetting my dignity, forgetting my father. "Go, Jack!"
He crossed the blue line. He wound up for a slap shot.
And then, disaster.
A Badger defenseman—a guy built like a refrigerator—didn't go for the puck. He went for the knees.
It was a low, dirty, dangerous hit. Illegal in every league on earth.
Jack was mid-swing. He was vulnerable.
The Badger slammed into Jack’s legs.
Jack went down. Hard.
He didn't slide. He tumbled. He hit the ice shoulder-first, then his helmet slammed against the boards with a sickening crack that echoed through the sudden silence of the arena.
He didn't get up.
My heart stopped.
"Jack!" I screamed, slamming my hands against the glass.
The crowd gasped. Then, a roar of outrage. The Sentinel bench cleared. A brawl erupted on the ice. Silas was pounding the Badger defenseman into the ice. Gloves were everywhere. Referees were blowing whistles.
But I didn't see the fight. I only saw Jack.
He was lying face down. Still. Too still.
"Oh god," I choked out. "Oh god, oh god."
"He’s fine," my father dismissed, sipping his drink. "They have hard heads. Probably just a concussion."
"Just a concussion?" I spun on him, fury exploding in my chest. "He could be dead! That hit was criminal!"
"Sit down, Eloise," my father snapped. "You’re making a scene."
"I don't care!"
I grabbed my purse. I didn't care about the game. I didn't care about the rules.
I ran for the door.
"Eloise! Get back here!"
I slammed the door of the box behind me, sprinting down the carpeted hallway toward the elevator.
Please be okay. Please get up. Please, please, Wolf.
By the time I reached the ground level, the arena was in chaos. The brawl had been broken up, but the energy was toxic.
I ran toward the tunnel leading to the locker rooms.
A security guard stepped in front of me. "Whoa, miss. Players only. No access."
"I’m Eloise Vance," I panted, flashing my ID. "Dean’s daughter. Let me through."
The guard hesitated. "Miss Vance, I can't—"
"Move," I ordered. I channeled every ounce of my father’s imperious arrogance. "Now."
He moved.
I ran down the concrete tunnel. The smell of sweat and blood was overwhelming here.
I rounded the corner just as the medical team was helping Jack off the ice.
He was on his feet, but barely. He was leaning heavily on the trainer and Silas. His helmet was off. His face...
There was blood. A lot of it. A cut above his eye was gushing, painting the left side of his face crimson. His eyes were glazed, unfocused.
"Jack!"
He stopped. Even dazed, he heard my voice.
He lifted his head. He blinked, trying to clear the blood from his vision.
"Mouse?" he rasped.
I ran to him. The trainer tried to stop me, but Jack growled—a low, animal sound that made the trainer freeze.
I reached him. I didn't care about the blood. I put my hands on his face, avoiding the cut.
"Jack. Look at me. How many fingers?" I held up two shaking fingers.
He squinted. "Two. And you’re wearing my jersey."
A crooked, bloody grin spread across his face.
"You idiot," I sobbed, laughing and crying at the same time. "You scared me to death."
"I’m okay," he grunted, wincing as the trainer prodded his ribs. "Just... bells ringing. And my knee hurts."
"We need to get him to the evaluation room," the trainer said urgently. "Miss Vance, you can't be back here."
"She stays," Jack commanded. His voice was weak, but the Alpha tone was there. "She stays with me."
The trainer looked at Jack’s eyes—which I noticed were flickering dangerously between brown and gold—and nodded. "Okay. Come on."
We walked him into the medical room. It was sterile, bright, and smelled of antiseptic.
They sat him on the table. The trainer started cleaning the cut on his forehead.
"It needs stitches," the trainer said. "About six."
"Do it," Jack said through gritted teeth. He looked at me. He held out his hand. The one with the bruised knuckles.
I took it. I squeezed hard.
"Don't look," he whispered to me.
"I’m looking," I said stubbornly. "I’m not leaving."
The trainer stitched him up. Jack didn't make a sound. He just squeezed my hand, his grip crushing, his breathing controlled and rhythmic.
When it was done, the trainer checked his pupils, his ribs, his knee.
"Mild concussion," the trainer diagnosed. "Bone bruise on the knee. You’re lucky, Sterling. That hit could have torn your ACL."
"Am I cleared?" Jack asked.
"For tonight? No. Game over for you."
"I mean to go home," Jack said. "I’m not going to the hospital."
"Someone needs to monitor you for the next twelve hours," the trainer warned. "Wake you up every two hours. Check for vomiting, confusion."
"I’ll do it," I said instantly.
The trainer looked at me. "Miss Vance, that’s a lot of responsibility."
"I’m pre-med," I lied smoothly (Kinesiology was close enough). "I know the protocol. I’ll take him."
The trainer sighed. "Fine. Sign this release."
I signed.
Silas came in, still in full gear, looking furious.
"We won," Silas said grimly. "I put the guy who hit you through the glass. He’s done."
"Good," Jack grunted, sliding off the table. He swayed. I caught him.
"Easy, big guy," I murmured, wrapping my arm around his waist. He leaned into me, heavy and warm.
"Silas, grab my street clothes," Jack ordered. "I’m getting out of here."
Ten minutes later, Jack was dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, limping toward the exit with his arm over my shoulders.
We bypassed the main exit where the press and fans were waiting. We took the back service door that led directly to the player parking lot.
The cold air hit us like a slap. It was snowing again.