Chapter 8
Lydia
There is no sound on earth quite like a hockey arena during a rivalry game.
It isn't just noise; it's a physical assault. It’s the roar of five thousand people screaming for blood, the thundering bass of the organ, the deafening CLACK of sticks hitting the ice, and the brutal, bone-jarring THUD of bodies slamming into the boards.
The Berry Events Center at Northern Michigan University was packed to the rafters. It was a sea of Green and Gold—the enemy colors. But in the corner behind the visitor’s bench, a small, defiant patch of North Ridge Grey and Black stood its ground.
I was standing right behind the glass, wearing a grey hoodie that was three sizes too big for me.
It was Mikey’s.
He had tossed it to me on the bus this morning, muttering something about the arena being cold and not trusting the heater in the press box. It smelled like cedar, ice, and him. Every time I inhaled, it felt like a hug.
My hands were gripping the metal railing so hard my knuckles were white.
"Relax, Lyd," Uncle Mac shouted over the noise, pacing the bench behind me. He looked calm, but I could see the vein in his temple pulsing. "They're just feeling each other out."
"They're trying to kill each other," I shouted back, not taking my eyes off the ice.
It was the second period. The score was tied 1-1.
But nobody cared about the score. They cared about the violence.
The Northern Bear shifters were playing dirty. Every check was a little late. Every hit was a little high. They were trying to bait us. They were trying to trigger the Wolves.
And Mikey was their target.
Number 14 was a blur of black on the ice. He was massive, moving with a terrifying, predatory grace that defied his size. He was the Enforcer. His job wasn't to score goals; it was to protect the ones who did.
And tonight, he was working overtime.
I watched Erickson—the Bear captain from the restaurant last night—take a run at Jagger. Jagger spun away at the last second, too fast to catch, but Erickson’s stick came up high, clipping Jagger’s chin.
The crowd roared. No whistle.
Mikey saw it.
From the blue line, I saw his posture change. It wasn't subtle. It was the shift from Athlete to Executioner.
He didn't skate toward the puck. He skated toward Erickson.
"Mikey, no!" I whispered, my breath fogging the glass. "Don't take the penalty."
But he couldn't hear me. He was locked in.
He accelerated, his strides long and powerful, tearing up the ice. Erickson saw him coming at the last second. The Bear braced himself, lowering his shoulder.
CRASH.
The collision shook the glass in front of me. It sounded like a car wreck.
Erickson went flying. He didn't just fall; he was launched. He hit the boards with a sickening crunch and crumpled to the ice.
The crowd went insane. Half were cheering the hit; half were screaming for Mikey’s head.
Mikey stood over him for a second—just a split second—glaring down. Then he skated away, his expression stone cold.
The referee’s whistle blew.
Two minutes. Charging.
Mikey skated to the penalty box. He didn't argue. He didn't look at the ref. He looked straight at the North Ridge bench.
He looked straight at me.
Through the chaos, through the screaming fans banging on the glass, his amber eyes locked onto mine. He gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
I'm okay. I'm handling it.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"He's playing angry," Mac muttered, marking something on his clipboard. "Too angry. If he takes another penalty, the scouts are going to write him off as undisciplined."
"He was protecting Jagger," I defended, turning to my uncle. "It was a clean hit."
"It was a statement hit," Mac corrected. "And in this league, statements are expensive."
He looked at me, his eyes sharp. "What did you say to him last night, Lydia? He's been staring at you all day like you're the Holy Grail."
My heart skipped a beat. "I told him to breathe. That's all."
Mac grunted, clearly not buying it, but the game restarted, pulling his attention back to the ice.
I turned back to the penalty box. Mikey was sitting there, alone in the glass cage. He had his helmet off, wiping sweat from his forehead. His hair was plastered to his skull. He was chugging water.
He looked exhausted.
I knew why. He hadn't slept. Not really. I had heard him pacing in the room next door until 3 AM. The stress of the debt, the pressure of the game, the confusion of us... it was eating him alive.
And now he had to sit there for two minutes while five thousand people screamed that he was a monster.
I wanted to run onto the ice. I wanted to bang on the glass of the penalty box and tell him he was good. That he was worthy.
But I was just the intern.
So I stood there, wrapped in his hoodie, and prayed the game would end before he broke.
The third period was a war of attrition.
The Northern Bears realized they couldn't out-skate us, so they decided to out-bruise us. The hits got harder. The slashes got vicious.
With two minutes left on the clock, the score was 2-2.
North Ridge had the puck. Jagger was weaving through the neutral zone, dancing around defenders.
"Go, Jags!" I screamed, jumping up and down.
Jagger crossed the blue line. He wound up for a shot.
But he never took it.
A massive Bear defender—Number 55—blindsided him. It was a knee-on-knee hit. Dirty. Illegal. Dangerous.
Jagger went down screaming.
He spun on the ice, clutching his knee, writhing in agony.
The arena went silent.
My stomach dropped. I grabbed my med kit before Mac even shouted.
"Lydia! Ice!"
I vaulted over the boards—clumsy in my boots but fueled by adrenaline. I slipped and slid my way to where Jagger was lying.
"Jagger," I gasped, dropping to my knees beside him. "Talk to me. Where is the pain?"
"Knee," he groaned, his face pale, sweat beading on his lip. "Inside. Pop. I heard a pop."
MCL. Maybe ACL. Shit.
I started assessing, my hands moving fast. "Don't move. Breathe."
While I worked, a shadow fell over us.
Mikey.
He had been on the bench. Now he was on the ice. He wasn't looking at Jagger. He was looking at Number 55, who was smirking near the referee.
"Mikey, don't," Jagger rasped, grabbing Mikey’s skate boot. "Don't kill him. Not worth it."
Mikey looked down. His eyes were glowing so bright they looked like headlights. His chest was heaving. The Wolf was scratching at the surface, desperate to dole out punishment.
"He hurt the pack," Mikey growled. It wasn't a human voice. It was a subsonic rumble.
"He's baiting you," I said sharply, looking up from Jagger’s knee. "Look at me, Michael."
He looked at me.
"If you fight him, you get ejected," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos around us. "If you get ejected, the scouts leave. If the scouts leave, you lose the bonus. If you lose the bonus, you can't help your dad."
I held his gaze. I used the truth like a weapon.
"Stay in the game," I commanded. "For your dad. For us."
Mikey stared at me. His jaw worked. His hands flexed on his stick, the composite carbon groaning under the pressure.
Then, slowly, the glow faded.
He nodded. Once.
He turned away from Number 55 and skated over to help me lift Jagger.
"Lean on me, Jags," Mikey said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He practically carried Jagger off the ice, taking all his weight.
As they passed the Bear bench, Number 55 shouted something.
"Coward!"
Mikey didn't even flinch.
He helped Jagger onto the bench, where the other trainers took over. Then he turned to Mac.
"Put me back in," Mikey said.
"You're emotional," Mac warned.
"No," Mikey said, looking at me. "I'm focused."
Mac studied him for a second. "Alright. One minute left. Win the faceoff. Get the puck deep. End it."
Mikey vaulted back over the boards.
The faceoff was in the offensive zone. Mikey lined up on defense. The puck dropped.
Chaos.
bodies crashed. Sticks hacked.
The puck squirted out to the point. To Mikey.
He had a lane. He could shoot.
But he saw something else. He saw Miller—the freshman—open on the back door.
Mikey faked the slap shot. The Bear defenders bit, diving to block it.
Mikey slid a perfect, saucer pass across the ice, right onto Miller’s tape.
Miller tapped it in.
SCORE.
The red light flashed. The siren wailed. The North Ridge bench exploded.
3-2.
The clock ran out.
We won.
I stood by the bench, shaking, watching the team pile onto Miller. Mikey hung back. He skated toward the bench slowly. He looked up at the stands, where a group of men in suits—scouts—were taking notes.
Then he looked at me.
He didn't smile. He just lifted his glove and tapped his heart.
Ba-bump. Ba-bump.
I tapped mine back.
I see you.
The locker room hallway was a war zone of a different kind.
It smelled of damp wool, sweat, and victory. The guys were shouting, blasting music, high-fiving.
I was waiting outside the door with the other staff, organizing the post-game meal boxes.
"Hey, Doc."
I turned. Mikey was standing there. He was still in half his gear—skates off, but pants and shin pads still on. He wore a compression shirt soaked in sweat. He had a cut on his cheekbone and a bruise forming on his bicep.
He looked wrecked. And beautiful.
"You played amazing," I said, handing him a water bottle.
He didn't take it. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the hallway, away from the team, into a small alcove near the Zamboni entrance.
He pinned me against the cinderblock wall.
"Did you see?" he demanded, his breath hot and ragged against my face. "Did you see I didn't fight him?"
"I saw," I whispered, reaching up to touch the cut on his cheek. "I was so proud of you."
"It was so hard," he admitted, resting his forehead against mine. "Every cell in my body wanted to tear his head off. The Wolf was screaming."
"But you didn't," I soothed. "You controlled it."
"Because of you," he said. He pulled back to look at me, his eyes searching mine. "Because you reminded me what I was fighting for."
"The bonus," I nodded.
"No," he said fiercely. "You. Us."
He kissed me.
It wasn't like last night. Last night was lust. This was adrenaline. This was survival.
He kissed me hard, his mouth devouring mine, tasting of salt and victory. His hands gripped my waist, lifting me up until my feet dangled.
I wrapped my legs around his waist—awkward with his hockey pants, but I didn't care. I needed to be close. I needed to feel that he was whole.
"Mikey," I gasped when he moved to my neck. "We're in a hallway."
"Don't care," he growled. "I need to feel you. I need to know I'm alive."
He pressed his hips against mine. Through the padding, I could feel the heat. I could feel the hardness.
"You're alive," I promised, running my hands through his damp, sweaty hair. "You're so alive."
He groaned, biting gently on my earlobe. "Come back to my room tonight. No Jagger. No interruptions. Just us."
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes."
"Excuse me."
The voice was cold. Official.
We froze. Mikey dropped me—gently—to my feet. We spun around.
Standing at the end of the alcove was a man in a tailored suit. He had a notebook in his hand and an NHL logo pin on his lapel.
A scout.
"Michael Holt?" the man asked, looking Mikey up and down with clinical detachment.
"Yeah," Mikey said, straightening up, moving instinctively to shield me. "That's me."
"I'm Jim Reynolds. Detroit Red Wings."
Mikey’s posture stiffened. Detroit. The dream team.
"Nice to meet you," Mikey said, extending a hand.
Reynolds didn't shake it. He just looked at Mikey, then at me—disheveled, flushed, wearing Mikey’s hoodie—and then back at Mikey.
"I saw the game," Reynolds said. "Nice assist on the winner."
"Thanks."
"But I also saw the penalty in the second. Charging. Emotional play."
"Protecting a teammate," Mikey defended.
"And I saw the moment in the third," Reynolds continued, ignoring him. "Where you almost dropped the gloves. You hesitated. You looked at the bench. You looked at her."
Reynolds pointed his pen at me.
"Distraction," Reynolds said. The word was a verdict.
"She's not a distraction," Mikey said, his voice dropping into a growl. "She's the reason I didn't fight."
"Maybe," Reynolds shrugged. "But in the NHL, we don't have girls on the bench to talk you down. We need players who can control themselves without a handler."
He closed his notebook.
"You have raw talent, son. Size. Power. But your head? It's not in the game. It's somewhere else."
He glanced at the cut on Mikey’s cheek.
"And I heard the rumors about your father. The genetics."
Mikey went still. Stone still.
"What rumors?"
"Word gets around," Reynolds said vaguely. "Feral Madness isn't something we take lightly. It's a liability. Insurance nightmare."
He sighed.
"Clean it up, Holt. If I see you lose focus again on this trip... we're passing. There are plenty of big guys who don't come with baggage."
Reynolds nodded once, turned, and walked away.
The silence he left behind was deafening.
Mikey stood there, staring at the empty hallway. His hands were clenched at his sides.
"He knows," Mikey whispered. "They know about Dad."
"He said rumors," I said quickly, grabbing his arm. "He doesn't know for sure. You played great, Mikey. You got the assist."
Mikey pulled away from me.
It wasn't violent. It was worse. It was a withdrawal.
"I'm a liability," he said. His voice sounded dead. "A genetic time bomb with a handler."
"Don't listen to him," I pleaded. "He's just one scout."
"He's Detroit," Mikey said. "If Detroit passes, everyone passes. They talk."
He looked at me. The heat in his eyes was gone. The lust was gone. All that was left was the cold, hard reality of his fear.
"I can't do this tonight, Lydia," he said.
"Do what?"
"Us. This." He gestured between us. "He was right. I was looking at you. I hesitated because of you. If I had just played my game..."
"If you had played your game, you would have been ejected!" I argued.
"Maybe!" he shouted. "But at least I would have been myself! Not some... some pet you've trained to sit and stay!"
The words hit me like a slap.
"Is that what you think this is?" I asked, my voice trembling. "Training?"
"Isn't it?" he challenged. "You're the scientist. I'm the subject. You're fixing me."
"I'm loving you!" I screamed.
The words echoed off the cinderblocks.
Silence.
Mikey stared at me. His mouth opened slightly.
I covered my mouth with my hand. I hadn't meant to say it. It was too soon. It was too messy.
"Lydia," he whispered.
"Forget it," I said, backing away. tears pricking my eyes. "Just... forget it. Go be the Mauler. Go be alone. Since that's apparently the only way you know how to be safe."
I turned and ran.
I ran back down the hallway, past the cheering team, past the confused equipment managers, and out into the cold night air.
I didn't go to his room. I went to mine.
I locked the door. I threw his hoodie into the corner.
And then I sat on the bed and cried, because I had just realized something terrible.
We had won the game. But we had lost the team.