Chapter 7
Rachel
The concept of a "date" with Stan Kowalski was an oxymoron.
Dates were supposed to be safe, structured social interactions. Dinner and a movie. Coffee and polite conversation about majors and siblings.
Dates were not supposed to involve covert operations, secret hand signals, and the constant, thrumming undercurrent of inter-species peril.
And yet, here I was, applying a second coat of mascara in the rearview mirror of my Honda Civic, parked three blocks away from the Blackwood Cinema.
"You look fine," I told my reflection. "You look like a normal college girl going to see a normal movie with a normal... terrifyingly attractive wolf-man."
I adjusted the collar of my sweater. It was emerald green, soft angora. I had chosen it because it brought out the green in my hazel eyes. Or so Chloe had told me before practically pushing me out the door.
Tonight was the "test run."
We had agreed—in hushed whispers during Stan’s shoulder rehab sessions—that if we were going to keep this secret, we had to be smart about it. We couldn't be seen sneaking into dorm rooms or making out in the library stacks. That was rookie behavior. That got people talking.
Instead, we were going "publicly private." We would go to places where people went, but we would arrive separately, sit in the back, and leave separately. We would be ghosts in the machine of the social scene.
It sounded like a spy novel plot. It felt like the best bad idea I had ever had.
I got out of the car, locking it with a beep. The night air was crisp, smelling of snow and pine. Grizzly Ridge was beautiful at night, the streetlights casting amber pools on the sidewalks, the mountains looming like dark guardians against the stars.
I walked toward the theater. My heart was doing a frantic salsa in my chest.
Be cool, Rachel. Be cool.
I bought my ticket at the automated kiosk. Action Movie. 7:45 PM.
I walked into the lobby. It was crowded—Friday night meant half the student body was here. I spotted a few football players near the concession stand. I kept my head down, clutching my purse, and made a beeline for Theater 4.
The theater was dark, the previews already rolling. I scanned the back row.
There.
In the far corner seat, cloaked in shadow, sat a mountain of a man.
He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a dark jacket. To anyone else, he was just a guy trying to avoid attention. To me, he was a beacon.
I walked up the aisle, my pulse quickening with every step.
As I reached the row, he looked up. Even in the dim light of the screen, I saw the flash of his eyes. He didn't smile, but his posture shifted. He uncrossed his arms. He moved his leg slightly to the side, opening the space next to him.
It was a silent invitation. Come here. Sit. Belong.
I slid into the seat beside him.
"You're late," he whispered. His voice was a low rumble that I felt in my bones more than I heard with my ears.
"Previews don't count," I whispered back, settling in. "And I had to park three blocks away to avoid Rizzo's jeep."
"Rizzo is at a frat party," Stan murmured, leaning closer. "I tracked him."
"You tracked him?"
"Snapchat map," he deadpanned.
I choked back a laugh. "Right. Modern technology."
He reached out. His hand, large and warm, found mine in the darkness between our seats. He interlaced our fingers, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.
"You look nice," he said softly. "Green."
"It's... thanks." I blushed, grateful for the darkness. "You look... incognito."
"That's the point."
He squeezed my hand. It wasn't a tentative squeeze. It was firm, possessive. It said, I have you. You're safe.
We watched the movie. Or, we pretended to.
It was some loud blockbuster with explosions and car chases. I couldn't tell you the plot if my life depended on it. My entire universe had narrowed down to the six inches of armrest between us and the sensation of his thumb moving against my skin.
Every time there was a loud noise on screen, I felt Stan tense slightly—his instincts reacting to the threat before his brain caught up. Every time there was a quiet moment, I could hear his breathing sync with mine.
Halfway through the movie, he shifted. He lifted our joined hands and placed them on his thigh.
His thigh was like a tree trunk. Solid muscle. The denim of his jeans was rough against the back of my hand. The heat radiating off him was incredible.
"You're warm," I whispered, leaning my head slightly toward his shoulder.
"High metabolism," he murmured back. "Wolf thing."
"Do you ever get cold?"
"Only when you're not touching me."
The line was so smooth, so unexpected, that I actually turned to look at him. He was staring at the screen, his profile stoic, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Smooth, Kowalski," I whispered. "Very smooth."
"I try," he said.
He lifted his arm—the one not holding my hand—and draped it over the back of my seat. His fingers grazed my shoulder, playing with the soft angora of my sweater.
"Soft," he muttered. "Like a rabbit."
"Is that a compliment? Or a menu option?"
He turned to look at me then. The light from the screen—a massive explosion—illuminated his face. His eyes were dark, hungry, and full of humor.
"Both," he said.
We laughed. A quiet, shared laugh that felt like a secret pact.
It was perfect. It was the most normal, wonderful date I had ever been on. And we hadn't even technically spoken a full sentence aloud.
After the movie, we exited through the side door to avoid the lobby crowd.
We walked down the alley behind the theater, the snow crunching under our boots.
"Hungry?" Stan asked.
"Starving," I admitted. "I was too nervous to eat dinner."
"Nervous?" He stopped walking, turning to face me. "About me?"
"About us," I corrected. "About... getting caught."
"We won't get caught," he promised. "I have... senses. If anyone comes within fifty yards, I'll know."
"That's handy."
"It has its perks." He grinned—a real, boyish grin that made him look five years younger. "Come on. I know a place."
He led me not to a restaurant, but to a small, greasy-spoon diner on the edge of town called The Late Night Bite. It was a dive, but it smelled amazing—like bacon and coffee.
"Is this safe?" I asked as we walked in. "The team comes here?"
"The team goes to O'Malley's or the taco place," Stan said, holding the door for me. "This is a local spot. Truckers and townies. No students."
We slid into a booth in the back. The waitress, a woman in her sixties named Barb, walked over with a pot of coffee.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Barb said, pouring coffee into two mugs without asking. "Haven't seen you in a while, Big Guy. And you brought a friend."
She looked at me, her eyes twinkling. "She's cute. Too cute for you."
"I know," Stan said, picking up a menu. "She's charity work. Helping me with my grades."
Barb snorted. "Uh-huh. Charity. Sure. What can I get you, honey?"
"Grilled cheese and fries, please," I said.
"And for the bottomless pit?" Barb gestured to Stan with her pen.
"Three burgers," Stan said. "Rare. And a side of onion rings."
"You got it."
Barb walked away.
I stared at Stan. "Three burgers?"
"I burn five thousand calories a day," he shrugged. "And I skipped lunch to chase you down in the hallway."
I felt a pang of guilt mixed with affection. "Sorry."
"Don't be," he reached across the table, taking my hand again. He played with my fingers, tracing the lines. "It was worth it."
We talked.
We didn't talk about hockey. We didn't talk about the Pack or the Council.
We talked about us.
I told him about my parents—how they owned a hardware store in a dying town, how they had scraped together every penny to buy me a laptop for college. I told him about my dream to open a sports rehab clinic for low-income athletes.
He listened. He didn't just nod; he asked questions. He wanted to know why I cared so much about fixing people.
And then, he talked.
He told me about his mother. Not the sad version he had hinted at before, but the happy memories. How she used to make pierogis from scratch. How she taught him to skate on a frozen pond behind their house.
"She used to call me 'Stasiu'," he said, a sad smile touching his lips. "It's Polish for Stanley. She said 'Stan' was too hard. Too American."
"Stasiu," I tested the name. It felt soft. Intimate.
"Only she called me that," he said quietly. "And you. If you want."
My heart squeezed. "I'd like that."
Our food arrived. Stan demolished his first burger in three bites. I watched him eat with a mixture of fascination and horror.
"Do you even chew?" I asked, dipping a fry in ketchup.
"Chewing slows down the intake," he mumbled.
Midway through the meal, a group of men walked in. They were locals—rough-looking guys in Carhartt jackets, smelling of diesel and sawdust.
They sat at the counter, loud and boisterous.
One of them turned and saw us. He squinted at Stan.
"Hey," the guy called out. " ain't you that hockey player? The one who put that kid in the hospital a few years back?"
The diner went quiet.
Stan froze mid-bite. His hand tightened around his burger. I saw the muscles in his jaw bunch.
"I play hockey," Stan said evenly, not looking at the guy.
"Yeah, The Butcher," the guy sneered, swiveling on his stool. "I lost twenty bucks betting on that game. You cost me money, kid."
Stan slowly set his burger down. His eyes were fixed on his plate, but I saw the amber flash.
"Sorry about your luck," Stan said. His voice was cold.
The guy stood up. He was big—not Stan big, but big enough to be trouble. He started walking toward our booth.
"You got an attitude, rich boy?" the guy challenged. "Think because you go to that fancy school you can look down on us?"
I felt the shift in the air. The pressure dropped. Stan was leaking pheromones—aggression, warning, danger.
I acted on instinct.
I reached out and grabbed Stan’s hand, interlacing our fingers tightly on top of the table. I squeezed hard.