Chapter 12
Stan
The locker room smelled of failure.
It wasn't the usual smell of sweat and hockey tape. It was the acrid, chemical scent of stress hormones leaking from twenty different guys.
We had won the last game, but practice today had been a disaster. The rhythm was off. The passing was sloppy. And I was the epicenter of the quake.
I sat on the bench in front of my stall, staring at my skates. The laces were frayed. I needed new ones. I needed a lot of things. New laces. A new shoulder. A new brain that didn't constantly replay the way Rachel looked when she was sleeping.
"Kowalski. My office."
Coach Wolfowitz didn't shout. He didn't have to. The Alpha's voice cut through the chatter like a knife through silk. The room went silent.
Rizzo looked at me from the next stall. He didn't make a joke. He just gave me a grim nod. Good luck.
I stood up, my knees protesting. I grabbed my towel and walked the gauntlet to the glass-walled office at the back of the room.
I stepped inside and closed the door. The sound of the locker room vanished, replaced by the humming of the air filter.
Wolfowitz was sitting behind his desk. He was watching tape on his laptop. He didn't look up.
"Sit."
I sat.
Wolfowitz paused the video. It was footage of today's scrimmage. Specifically, a moment where I had missed a check because I was looking at the stands.
"Tell me what you see, Stan," Wolfowitz said, turning the laptop toward me.
I looked at the screen. I saw Number 55—me—drifting. I saw a defenseman who was usually a predator looking like a lost puppy.
"I see a missed assignment," I said tightly.
"I see a liability," Wolfowitz corrected.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. He looked tired.
"I had a call from the NHL Central Scouting Bureau this morning," he said.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "And?"
"And they want to know why my star defenseman, who is supposed to be a first-round draft pick, is suddenly playing like a Junior B rookie."
He picked up a file from his desk and tossed it toward me. It slid across the polished wood.
"That's your scouting report from the last three games. Read the highlighted section."
I opened the folder. The highlighter was neon yellow, aggressive against the white paper.
Subject displays inconsistent focus. aggression levels fluctuating dangerously. Physical conditioning appears peak, but mental fortitude is questionable. Rumors of off-ice distractions affecting play.
"Distractions," I whispered.
"Your father called me, Stan," Wolfowitz said. "He told me about the little... scene in the Dean's office."
I stiffened. "That was personal."
"Nothing is personal when you are the Captain of this team!" Wolfowitz slammed his hand on the desk. "You are a Wolf, Kowalski. You have a duty. To the Pack. To the program. To your bloodline."
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the empty rink.
"I protected you yesterday," he said quietly. "The Dean wanted to suspend you for damaging property. I talked her down. I told her it was stress. I told her you were under pressure."
He turned back to me. His eyes were cold.
"But I can't protect you from the scouts. They smell weakness, Stan. And right now, you reek of it."
"I'm not weak," I growled, standing up.
"Then prove it," Wolfowitz challenged. "We play Denver on Friday.
They are the number one seed. If you drift...
if you hesitate for one second... the scouts will cross your name off the list permanently.
You will graduate, you will go work in a warehouse, and you will watch the NHL on TV like everyone else. "
He pointed to the door.
"Fix it. Or I bench you. And if I bench you, your career is over."
I walked out of the office. I didn't look at my teammates. I walked straight to the showers, turned the water to scalding, and stood there until my skin turned red.
I was drowning.
And the only life raft I had was the one person I wasn't allowed to touch.
For the next three days, I became a monk. A monk who worshipped at the altar of pain.
I woke up at 4:30 AM. Gym.
Classes.
Video review.
Practice.
More video review.
Sleep.
I turned my phone off. I didn't answer texts. I didn't check social media.
I ignored Rachel.
It was the hardest thing I had ever done. Every time my phone buzzed (before I turned it off), my heart leaped, hoping it was her. Every time I walked past the library, I wanted to go in. Every time I smelled vanilla in the hallway, I wanted to track it.
But I couldn't.
Wolfowitz was right. I was distracted. The happiness... the softness... it was dulling my edge. The Wolf needed to be hungry to hunt. And Rachel fed me too well.
Wednesday night. 9:00 PM.
I was alone in "The Cage"—the equipment room. I was sharpening my skates.
The rhythmic shhh-shhh of the grinding wheel was hypnotic. Sparks flew, illuminating the dark room in brief, violent flashes.
The door opened.
I didn't turn around. "I'm busy, Rizzo. Go away."
"I'm not Rizzo."
The voice was soft. Hurt.
My hand slipped. The blade screeched against the wheel.
I turned off the machine. The silence was sudden and heavy.
I turned around.
Rachel stood in the doorway. She was wearing her winter coat, a scarf wrapped around her neck, her nose pink from the cold. She held a Tupperware container.
"You haven't answered my texts in three days," she said. She didn't sound angry. She sounded worried. Which was worse.
"I've been busy," I said, turning back to the skate sharpener. I picked up the stone and started hand-honing the edge.
"Busy?" She stepped into the room, closing the door. "Stan, you vanished. I thought... I thought your dad did something. Or the Dean."
"I'm fine," I said curtly. "Just hockey."
"Just hockey?" She walked closer. I could smell her now. That damn vanilla. It made my mouth water. "You missed our session on Tuesday. You missed lunch today. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm preparing for Denver," I said. "It's a big game."
"I know it's a big game. But you still have to eat." She set the Tupperware on the workbench. "I made lasagna. Your mom's recipe. Or... what I think is her recipe. I found it online."
I stared at the container. Lasagna. Pierogis. Comfort.
I wanted to eat it. I wanted to pull her into my lap and bury my face in her neck and forget about the scouts and the pressure.
But I couldn't.
"I can't," I said. "Carb loading is tomorrow. Tonight is protein only."
It was a lie. A cruel, stupid lie.
Rachel flinched. "Okay. Well... save it for tomorrow then."
She reached out to touch my arm.
I pulled away.
"Don't," I snapped.
She froze, her hand hovering in the air. Her eyes filled with tears.
"Stan?"
"I can't do this right now, Rachel," I said, my voice rising. I turned on the sharpener again, needing the noise to drown out the sound of my own heart breaking. "I can't hold your hand and talk about feelings. I have a job to do. I have a career to save."
"I know that," she shouted over the machine. "I'm trying to help you!"
"You're not helping!" I roared, slamming the skate down on the bench. "You're a distraction! Don't you get it? Every minute I spend with you is a minute I'm not focusing on the game. Every time I think about you, I get soft. And soft gets you killed in this sport."
The words hung in the air, sharper than the steel blade in my hand.
Rachel stared at me. A single tear tracked down her cheek.
"Is that what I am?" she whispered. "A distraction? Softness?"
"Yes," I lied. "Right now? Yes."
She nodded slowly. She wiped the tear away with a furious swipe of her hand.
"Fine," she said. Her voice was cold. "Then I'll leave you to your sharp objects and your misery, Butcher."
She turned and walked out.
The door slammed shut.
I stood there in the silence.
I looked at the Tupperware. I looked at the skate.
I grabbed the skate and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the lockers with a deafening clang, leaving a dent in the metal.
I sank to the floor, put my head in my hands, and screamed.
Thursday Night
I didn't sleep.
I stayed in the equipment room all night. I sharpened every pair of skates on the rack. I re-taped fifty sticks. I organized the pucks by degree of wear.
By Thursday evening, I was hallucinating.
I was in the film room, watching the Denver power play for the fiftieth time. The screen was a blur of blue and gold jerseys.
My head was pounding. A migraine that started behind my eyes and drilled into my skull.
Focus. Find the pattern. Find the weakness.
But I couldn't find it. All I could see was Rachel’s face when I told her she was a distraction.
My phone buzzed on the table.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
I picked it up, ready to throw it against the wall.
It was a text from Rizzo.
Rizzo: Bro. You need to go home. You look like a zombie. And you smell like rancid coffee.
Me: Working.
Rizzo: No, you're spinning. Go home. Sleep. That's an order from your Delta.
I stared at the screen. Rizzo giving orders. The world had truly ended.
I stood up. The room spun. I grabbed the table to steady myself.
I needed sleep. Just a few hours.
I grabbed my bag and walked out to my truck.
It was snowing again. A heavy, wet snow that blanketed the world in silence.
I drove to my cabin.
I walked up the steps, fumbling with my keys. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped them in the snow.
"Damn it," I cursed, dropping to my knees to find them.
"Let me."
I looked up.
Rachel was sitting on the porch swing. She was wrapped in a blanket, shivering.
"What are you doing here?" I rasped. "I told you to leave me alone."
"I know," she said, standing up. She picked up my keys from the snow. "But you're an idiot. And I don't listen to idiots."
She unlocked the door and held it open.
"Get inside, Stan."
I didn't argue. I didn't have the strength. I walked inside.
The warmth hit me. It smelled like... lasagna.
She had been here. She had heated it up.
"Sit," she ordered, pointing to the couch.
I collapsed onto the leather sofa. I didn't take off my coat. I just closed my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"I know," she said.
I felt her hands on my boots. She was untying them. Pulling them off.
Then my coat. She peeled it off my shoulders.
"You're burning up," she murmured, touching my forehead. "You've run yourself into the ground."
"Had to," I mumbled. "Scouts. Denver."
"Shh."
She went to the kitchen and came back with a plate of lasagna and a glass of water.
"Eat," she said.
"Carbs," I protested weakly.
"Eat the damn pasta, Stan. Your brain needs glucose."
She fed me. Literally. She sat on the coffee table and forked bites of lasagna into my mouth. It tasted like heaven. Like forgiveness.
When the plate was empty, I felt the crash coming. My body was shutting down.
"I need to study the playbook," I said, trying to sit up.
"No," Rachel said. She pushed me back down. "You need to sleep."
She climbed onto the couch with me. She pulled the blanket over us. She wrapped her arms around my waist and rested her head on my chest.
"I'm a distraction," I whispered into her hair.
"Yes," she agreed. "I am. And you need a distraction. Because if you keep going like this, you're going to snap on the ice. And then the scouts really will have something to write about."
She looked up at me. Her eyes were fierce.
"You think being 'hard' means being alone," she said. "You think you have to carry the weight by yourself. But that's not how a pack works, Stan. The pack shares the load. Let me carry some of it."
"It's too heavy," I said. "My dad... the bloodline..."
"I'm strong," she said. "I can take it."
She kissed me. Softly. A kiss of peace.
"Sleep," she commanded. "I'll wake you up at 6 AM. I'll make coffee. I'll quiz you on the Denver defense. But for the next eight hours... you are just Stan. And I am just Rachel. And we are sleeping."
I felt the tension drain out of my body. It was a physical release, like a valve opening.
I wrapped my arms around her. I buried my face in her neck. I inhaled the vanilla.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."
I fell asleep in seconds.
And for the first time in a week, I didn't dream about failure. I dreamed about running through the woods, free, with a white wolf running beside me.
Friday Morning - Game Day
I woke up at 5:59 AM.
Rachel was already up. I could hear bacon sizzling in the kitchen.
I sat up. I felt... rested. Strong. The migraine was gone. The panic was gone.
I walked into the kitchen.
Rachel was wearing my t-shirt again. She looked back at me and smiled.
"Morning, Captain. Ready to crush Denver?"
I walked over to her. I wrapped my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
"Ready," I said.
"Good," she said, flipping a pancake. "Because I put extra protein powder in the batter."
I laughed.
"Rachel?"
"Yeah?"
"You were right," I said. "I can't do this alone."
She turned in my arms. She looked up at me, serious.
"You never have to," she said.
I kissed her.
"I love you," I said.
It slipped out. Easy. Natural. Like breathing.
Rachel froze. The spatula hovered in mid-air.
"You..." she stared at me.
"I love you," I repeated, louder this time. "I love you, Rachel Miller. And I don't care about the scouts. I don't care about the Council. If loving you makes me soft... then I'll be soft. I'll be the softest damn wolf in the league."
She dropped the spatula.
She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me with a ferocity that nearly knocked me over.
"I love you too, you idiot," she cried. "I love you so much."
We stood there in the kitchen, hugging, while the pancakes burned.
I knew the game tonight was going to be war. I knew the scouts would be watching every move. I knew my father was probably plotting something terrible.
But standing there, holding her, I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't going to fail.
Because I wasn't fighting for a contract anymore. I was fighting for her.
And the Butcher never lost a fight that mattered.