Chapter 7
Lydia
There is a specific kind of intimacy that exists only on long-haul bus rides.
It’s a suspended reality, a capsule of stale air, humming engines, and grey highway stretching out endlessly into the winter landscape. It forces a proximity that defies the laws of personal space.
We were three hours into the six-hour drive to Marquette, and the chartered bus for the North Ridge Direwolves smelled like Cool Ranch Doritos, athletic tape, and thirty massive, testosterone-loaded predators.
And I was in heaven.
Well, maybe not heaven. My knees were cramping, and the heater was blasting air that was simultaneously too hot and too dry. But I was sitting in the window seat of the fourth row, and Michael Holt was sitting in the aisle seat next to me.
He was asleep. Or at least, he was pretending to be.
His head was tipped back against the headrest, his massive frame sprawled out as much as the cramped seating allowed. His left leg was pressed firmly against mine, a solid, immovable wall of heat that radiated through his denim and my leggings.
Every time the bus hit a bump or took a curve, his shoulder brushed mine.
Bump. Brush. Heat.
Curve. Press. Heat.
I wasn't reading my book. I wasn't reviewing the hydration charts on my iPad. I was studying him.
Without the scowl, without the glowing amber eyes of a threatened wolf, Mikey looked younger.
The tension that usually knitted his brows together was gone.
His eyelashes were surprisingly long, casting shadows on his cheekbones.
The scar on his jaw looked less like a warning and more like a story I wanted to trace with my thumb.
He had spent the first hour of the trip vibrating with tension, glaring at anyone who walked down the aisle to use the bathroom. He had practically growled at Davis when the freshman tried to ask me for a bottle of Gatorade.
"Get it yourself, rookie," Mikey had snapped. "She's not a waitress."
I had touched his arm then, a small gesture to ground him. "It's okay, Mikey. That's literally my job."
"Not today," he had muttered, crossing his arms. "Today, you're cargo. Precious cargo."
Now, he was out. The exhaustion of the last few days—the financial panic, the training, the late-night studying—had finally caught up to him.
I looked at his hand resting on his thigh. It was relaxed, fingers curled slightly. I remembered how those fingers felt. I remembered the roughness of them, the skill, the way they had claimed me in the hydrotherapy room.
A shiver ran down my spine, hot and sharp.
"Staring is rude, Doc."
I jumped.
Mikey hadn't opened his eyes. His voice was a low rumble, rough with sleep.
"I wasn't staring," I lied, my face heating up. "I was... assessing your respiration rate. You looked like you might be suffering from sleep apnea."
One golden eye cracked open. He turned his head slowly to look at me, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"And? What's the diagnosis?"
"Terminal grumpiness," I whispered.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my shoulder where we were touching. He didn't move his leg. If anything, he pressed harder against me.
"Where are we?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Crossing the bridge soon," I said, gesturing to the window where the grey sky was meeting the grey water of the Straits. "Another two hours to the hotel."
He groaned, stretching his arms over his head. His biceps bulged against his black thermal shirt. I tried very hard not to look. I failed.
"Hungry?" he asked, dropping his arms.
"Starving. I have a granola bar, but I think Miller stole my sandwich when I went to the bathroom."
Mikey frowned. He reached down into the bag at his feet and pulled out a massive Tupperware container. He popped the lid. It was filled with grilled chicken strips and roasted sweet potatoes.
"Eat," he commanded, holding it out to me.
"That's your meal prep," I protested. "You need the protein. Growth phase, remember?"
"I need you not to faint from low blood sugar," he countered. He picked up a piece of chicken and held it up. "Eat. Or I'll feed you, and Jagger will take pictures."
I took the chicken. It was cold and under-seasoned (Mikey ate for fuel, not flavor), but it was the sweetest thing anyone had ever offered me.
"Thanks," I mumbled, chewing.
"We're a team, right?" he said softly, watching me eat with an intensity that made my stomach flip. "Teams share resources."
"Is that what we are?" I asked, daring to look him in the eye. "A team?"
"Yeah," he said, his gaze dropping to my mouth then back up. "Us against the bus, Mouse. Us against the world."
He reached out and brushed a crumb from the corner of my lip. His thumb lingered for a second, just long enough to brand me.
"And for the record," he whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. "I like it when you stare."
The hotel in Marquette was a sprawling, lodge-style complex right on the harbor. It was nice, but chaos erupted the moment the bus doors opened.
Thirty shifters spilling out into a lobby meant noise, luggage everywhere, and a poor front desk clerk who looked like she wanted to crawl under the counter.
Uncle Mac was barking orders about curfew and room keys.
"Listen up!" Mac roared, silencing the lobby. "Room assignments are posted. Key cards are in the envelopes. Two to a room. No leaving the hotel after 10 PM. No girls in the rooms. No shifting in the hallways. If I catch anyone breaking a lamp, you're running suicides until you vomit."
He started handing out keys.
"Holt!" Mac called.
Mikey stepped forward. I trailed behind him, dragging my suitcase.
"You're in 204 with Vance," Mac said, tossing him a key card. Then he looked at me. "Lydia, I put you in 206. Right next door. Single room. Staff privilege."
"Thanks, Coach," I said, taking my key.
Mikey frowned, looking at the keys. "Do the rooms connect?"
Mac raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Connecting doors," Mikey said, his face impassive. "For security. If she needs help, I can get there faster."
Mac stared at him. The lobby went quiet. Jagger snickered somewhere in the back.
"She has a phone, Holt," Mac said slowly. "She can call 911. Or me."
"Phones die," Mikey argued, not backing down. "Connecting door is better."
Mac sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They don't connect, Mikey. But the balconies do. Is that sufficient for your paranoid Alpha brain?"
Mikey looked at the blueprints on the evacuation map on the wall. He nodded once. "Acceptable."
He turned to me, grabbing the handle of my suitcase before I could protest. "I'll carry this."
"It has wheels, Mikey," I said, hurrying to keep up with his long strides toward the elevator.
"Don't care."
We crammed into the elevator with Jagger and Miller. The air was instantly sucked out of the space.
"So," Jagger grinned, leaning against the mirrored wall. "Connecting doors, huh? You trying to sneak in, or make sure nobody else sneaks out?"
"I'm doing my job," Mikey grunted, staring at the floor numbers.
"You're doing something," Jagger laughed. "Hey, Lyd. Does he growl in his sleep? I've always wondered."
"I wouldn't know," I said primly.
"Yet," Mikey muttered under his breath.
I whipped my head toward him. He kept his eyes forward, but the tips of his ears were red.
The elevator dinged at the second floor. We walked down the hallway. 204. 206.
Mikey swiped his card for his room, then turned to me. "Give me your key."
"I can open my own door, Mikey."
"I'm checking the room first," he said, holding out his hand.
I sighed and dropped the plastic card into his palm. He unlocked my door and stepped in. I waited in the hallway while he did a sweep—checking the bathroom, checking the closet, checking the lock on the balcony door.
He came back out a minute later. "Clear. Balcony door was unlocked. I locked it. Don't open it unless it's me."
"Aye aye, Captain," I saluted.
He didn't smile. He stepped close, crowding me against the doorframe. He lowered his voice.
"Dinner in thirty. We're going to the steakhouse down the street. Wear something warm. It's windy off the lake."
"Are you telling me what to wear now?"
"I'm telling you I don't want you to freeze," he said. He reached out and zipped my parka up to my chin. "Thirty minutes, Mouse. Don't make me come get you."
He walked into his room next door.
I entered my room and flopped back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. My heart was doing a samba in my chest.
This wasn't fake. It couldn't be fake. You don't check closet locks for a fake girlfriend. You don't give up your protein for a fake girlfriend.
But the debt... the $12,000 looming over him. Was he clinging to me because he liked me, or because I was the lifeline that kept him eligible for the draft?
Stop it, I told myself. Don't ruin this.
I got up and went to the mirror. I took my hair down from its messy bun, shaking out the curls. I applied a layer of mascara and a swipe of tinted lip balm. I swapped my leggings for dark jeans and put on the nicest sweater I had packed—a cream cable-knit that was soft and huggable.
I looked at my reflection. My cheeks were flushed. My eyes were bright.
I looked like a girl in love.
Oh no.
The Iron Bay Steakhouse was loud, rustic, and completely unprepared for a hockey team.
We had taken over the entire back section. Tables were pushed together. Pitchers of beer and soda were flowing. The noise level was somewhere between "Rock Concert" and "Rioting Zoo."
I was sitting at the end of the long table, squeezed between the wall and Mikey. Jagger was across from us.
It felt... right.
Usually, at these team dinners, I sat at the "Kids Table" with the other trainers or the equipment managers. I was staff. I was separate.
But tonight, Mikey had pulled out the chair next to him and simply glared at anyone who thought about sitting there until I arrived.
"Steak," Mikey ordered for me when the waitress came. "Filet. Medium rare. Asparagus. Mashed potatoes. And a water."