Chapter 12
Leo
The sound of a hockey puck hitting the crossbar at ninety miles per hour is a specific, violent ping that usually sounds like music to me. It sounds like precision. It sounds like a near-miss that I can correct.
Today, it sounded like a judgment.
Ping.
I missed. Again.
"Vance! What the hell are you doing?"
Coach Miller’s voice cut through the freezing air of the arena, echoing off the empty seats. He blew his whistle, the shrill sound drilling into my temples like an ice pick.
I skated to the bench, my chest heaving, my lungs burning with the dry, recycled air. I slammed my stick against the boards—a petulant, loss-of-control gesture that I would have benched a freshman for.
"Sorry, Coach," I gritted out, not looking at him. I squirted water into my mouth and spat it onto the rubber mat. It tasted like bile.
"Look at me, Leo," Miller commanded.
I looked up.
Miller was a hard man. He had played in the league for ten years as an enforcer. He had a nose that had been broken four times and eyes that saw everything. Right now, those eyes were narrowed, scanning my face with a mixture of disappointment and concern.
"You look like shit," Miller said bluntly. "You're slow. Your edges are dull. And you just missed the net three times in a row on a drill you could do in your sleep."
"I didn't sleep well," I lied.
"I don't care if you slept on a bed of nails," Miller snapped. "There is a scout from the Chicago Blackhawks sitting in the stands right now. He got here twenty minutes ago. And for the last twenty minutes, you've looked less like a first-round pick and more like a liability."
My stomach dropped. I whipped my head around, scanning the upper deck.
There, sitting alone in section 104, was a man in a tan trench coat. He wasn't taking notes. He was looking at his phone, bored.
Bored.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded my veins. Boredom was worse than anger. Anger meant they cared. Boredom meant they were moving on.
"I'll fix it," I said, my voice tight.
"You better," Miller stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I know you're dealing with... stuff. I know the pressure is on. But you are the Captain. If you crumble, the team crumbles. And if you crumble now, weeks before the playoffs, you can kiss the draft goodbye. You hear me?"
"I hear you."
"Get back out there. And stop trying to hit the puck through the post. Finesse, Vance. Not just force."
Miller shoved me back toward the ice.
I skated away, but my legs felt heavy. My body, usually a finely tuned machine, felt disjointed. My center of gravity was off.
Because my center of gravity wasn't on the ice anymore.
It was sitting in a dorm room across campus, probably staring at a positive pregnancy test and hating me.
Positive.
The word was a drumbeat in my head. Positive. Positive. Positive.
It had been thirty-six hours since I walked out of The Hive. Thirty-six hours since I left Maya sitting in my kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, carrying my child.
I hadn't gone back. I hadn't called. I had slept in my truck in the arena parking lot, shivering under a horse blanket, terrified to close my eyes because every time I did, I saw a baby with golden eyes going feral.
I was a coward. I knew it.
But I told myself I was doing it for her. If I stayed away, I couldn't hurt her. If I focused on hockey—on the Draft—I could get the contract. I could get the money. I could pay for the best doctors, the best care, a house where she and the baby would be safe... from me.
I was trying to be the Provider because I knew I couldn't be the Father. My blood was poison.
"Vance! Heads up!"
Silas’s warning came too late.
I looked up just in time to see a slapshot from the point coming straight at my face. I hadn't been paying attention. I was in the kill zone without looking.
I flinched, turning my head.
The puck grazed my helmet with a deafening crack, snapping my head back.
I lost my edge. My skates slid out from under me, and I crashed hard onto the ice, sliding into the corner boards with a bone-rattling thud.
"Leo!"
The whistle blew. Silence fell over the rink.
I lay there on the cold ice, staring up at the banners in the rafters. My head was ringing. My ribs—the broken ones—screamed in protest.
But I didn't get up.
For a second, just a second, I wished the puck had hit me harder. I wished it had knocked the lights out. Because the darkness was the only place where I didn't have to choose between the two things that were tearing me apart.
The Locker Room. One hour later.
The room smelled of damp gear and silence. The team had cleared out quickly, sensing the radioactive mood radiating off their Captain.
I sat in my stall, still in my half-gear, staring at the floor. My helmet lay next to me, a black scuff mark on the white plastic where the puck had hit.
"You're trying to get yourself killed," a voice said.
I didn't look up. I knew the voice.
Silas leaned against the row of lockers opposite me. He was dressed in street clothes, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look like my best friend right now. He looked like my Beta—the second-in-command who was watching his Alpha fail.
"It was a deflection," I muttered.
"It was a suicide attempt," Silas corrected. "You weren't looking. You haven't looked at the play all morning. You're somewhere else."
"I'm tired, Si."
"You're terrified." Silas pushed off the lockers and walked over to me. He lowered his voice. "I know about the test, Leo."
My head snapped up. "She told you?"
"She didn't have to," Silas said quietly. "I smelled the change in her scent on Saturday. And then you ran out like the house was on fire. It's not hard to do the math. Pups?"
I flinched at the word. Pups. It sounded so animalistic. So real.
"One," I rasped. "She's... three weeks along."
Silas let out a low whistle. He sat down on the bench next to me. "Okay. Wow. That's... fast."
"It's the curse," I said, putting my head in my hands. "It's the Vance blood. My dad knocked up my mom the first month they were together. It's biological warfare. I trapped her, Silas. I knotted her, and I trapped her, and now she's stuck with a monster's kid."
"Stop it," Silas said sharply.
"It's true! You know what happens to us. You know about the Feral gene. What if the kid has it? What if I have it? What if I turn into my father and..." I couldn't finish the sentence. The image of violence was too vivid.
"Leo," Silas grabbed my shoulder, his grip hard. "You aren't your father. Your father was a narcissist who loved power more than his pack. You? You just ran away and slept in a truck because you were scared of hurting her. That's not a monster. That's an idiot. But a well-intentioned idiot."
He shook me slightly. "But you can't stay away. The pack is restless. They feel your stress. The Blackhawks scout left early because he saw you check out. If you don't fix this, you lose the Draft. And if you lose the Draft, you can't take care of that kid."
"I know," I groaned. "I'm trying to focus. I'm trying to be the machine."
"You can't be a machine anymore," Silas said. "Machines don't have mates. You need her, Leo. You're bleeding out emotionally, and she's the tourniquet."
"She probably hates me."
"She doesn't hate you," Silas said. He stood up, checking his phone. "But she is definitely planning to kill you."
"Where is she?"
"She's outside," Silas said calmny.
I froze. "What?"
"I texted her," Silas shrugged. " told her you were being a dramatic ass and getting hit with pucks. She’s waiting by your truck. Go fix it, Cap."
Silas patted my shoulder and walked out of the locker room, whistling.
I sat there for a long moment. My heart was hammering against my ribs.
I had to face her.
I stood up, stripped off my gear with shaking hands, and pulled on my sweats.
I walked down the tunnel toward the exit. It felt like walking to the gallows. But Silas was right. I couldn't hide on the ice forever.
It was snowing again. Big, fat flakes that dampened the sound of the world.
Maya was leaning against the passenger door of my truck.
She was wearing a thick wool coat and a beanie, her hands buried in her pockets. Her nose was red from the cold.
She looked... strong.
That was the first thing I noticed. I expected tears. I expected her to look broken, like she had in the kitchen.
But she didn't. She looked steady. Her chin was lifted, her eyes clear and brown and fierce. She was staring at the exit door, waiting for me.
When I stepped out, she didn't move. She just watched me walk toward her.
I stopped three feet away. The snow fell between us.
"Hi," I whispered.
"You look terrible," she said. Her voice wasn't angry. It was matter-of-fact.
"I feel terrible."
"Good," she said. "You deserve to."
She pulled one hand out of her pocket. She was holding a brown paper bag. "Here."
I looked at it. "What is it?"
"A sandwich," she said. "Turkey and swiss. And a bottle of Gatorade. Silas said you haven't eaten since Saturday."
I stared at the bag. My throat tightened. I had abandoned her. I had left her with a life-altering reality bomb. And she brought me a sandwich.
"Why?" I choked out. "Why are you taking care of me? I left you."
"I know," she said. "And I was furious. I spent all Sunday crying and throwing your t-shirts into the trash."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because," she stepped closer, closing the gap. "I realized something. You didn't run because you didn't want the baby. You ran because you love me."
I blinked. "What?"
"You think you're poison," she said, her voice softening. She reached up and touched my cheek. Her hand was cold, but it burned my skin. "You think if you stay away, you're saving me from the 'Vance Curse'. You're trying to be noble."
She shook her head. "But it's not noble, Leo. It's stupid."
I leaned into her hand, my eyes burning. "I am poison, Maya. My blood..."
"Your blood is just blood," she interrupted firmly. "It doesn't make decisions. You do. And right now, you're deciding to let fear win."
She grabbed my jacket lapels and pulled me down until our foreheads touched.
"I went to the doctor today," she whispered.
I froze. "And?"
"And everything is fine. It's early. But it's real." She took a deep breath. "And I'm keeping it, Leo. With or without you. I'm doing this."
The declaration hit me like a physical blow. With or without you.
The thought of her doing it without me—raising my pup, struggling, being alone—tore a hole in my chest so wide the wind whistled through it.
"Not without me," I growled. The Wolf surfaced, possessive and desperate. "Never without me."
"Then stop running!" she yelled, pushing me back. "Stop hiding in your truck! Stop playing bad hockey! If you want to be part of this, you have to show up. All of you. The man, the wolf, the fear. I want all of it."
"I'm scared," I admitted. The words tasted like ash. "I'm terrified I'll hurt you."
"Then use that fear," she said. "Use it to be careful. Use it to be gentle. But don't use it as an excuse to leave."
She shivered. The cold was getting to her.
"You're freezing," I said. My protective instinct overrode my self-loathing.
"I've been waiting for twenty minutes."
"Get in the truck," I ordered.
I unlocked it. We climbed in.
I turned on the engine and cranked the heat. The cab warmed up quickly, smelling of leather and the turkey sandwich.
Maya sat in the passenger seat, rubbing her hands together.
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She was carrying my child. She was carrying my future. And she wasn't asking me to be perfect. She was just asking me to be present.
"The scout left early," I said, staring at the dashboard. "Because I was playing like garbage."
"I know," she said. "Silas told me."
"If I don't get drafted..."
"Then we figure it out," she said. "You get a job. I teach cello lessons. We make it work. It's not the end of the world, Leo. It's just a change of plans."
"It was the only plan I had," I whispered.
"Well, now you have a new one," she said. She reached across the console and took my hand. She placed it on her stomach.
It was flat. There was nothing to feel yet. But the heat of her skin seeped through her sweater.
"Plan B," she whispered. "Us."
My hand trembled against her stomach.
Us.
The connection snapped back into place. The emptiness in my chest filled with a warm, golden light. The Wolf settled down, curling up at her feet.
I looked at her.
"I'm sorry," I said again. "I swear to you, Maya. I will never run again."
"I know," she said. She squeezed my hand. "Because if you do, I'll hunt you down and flatten your tires."
I let out a wet, shaky laugh. "Fair."
I leaned across the console and kissed her. It wasn't passionate. It was desperate. It was a vow sealed in breath and lips.
"Come home," she said against my mouth. "Come back to The Hive. Sleep in a bed."
"Okay," I said. "But first..."
I reached for the paper bag.
"I'm going to eat this sandwich."
She smiled. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Good choice."
I took a bite. It tasted like forgiveness.
I wasn't fixed. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my gut. The pressure of the Draft was still a mountain I had to climb.
But as I sat there, holding the hand of the woman carrying my legacy, I realized something.
I didn't have to climb the mountain alone.
And for the first time in my life, the silence in my head wasn't lonely. It was peaceful.