Chapter 20
Stan
The National Championship game was less of a sporting event and more of a coronation.
The arena in Minneapolis was a deafening cauldron of noise. Twenty thousand fans. A national TV audience. The Blackwood Kodiaks vs. The Boston College Eagles.
I sat in the locker room, lacing my skates. The same ritual I had performed a thousand times since I was four years old. Left skate first. Tighten until the circulation cuts off, then back off one notch. Right skate second. Double knot.
But today, the ritual felt different.
For three years, I had laced these skates with dread. Every game was a test. Every shift was a minefield where I risked exposing the monster inside me. I played with the weight of my father’s legacy and the Pack’s secrecy crushing my spine.
Today?
Today I felt light.
I looked around the room.
Rizzo was dancing to some awful pop song in his headphones, using his goalie stick as a microphone. Johnson was taping his stick with meticulous care, humming. The freshmen were puking in the trash can from nerves.
It was chaos. It was beautiful.
And I wasn't alone in it.
I looked down at my chest protector. Taped to the inside, right over my heart, was a photo. A Polaroid Rachel had taken a week ago. Just the two of us, sitting on the tailgate of my truck, eating ice cream. She was laughing, ice cream on her nose. I was looking at her like she hung the moon.
"Hey, Cap."
I looked up. Rizzo was standing there, his mask pushed up on his forehead.
"You good?" he asked. "No... wobbles?"
"No wobbles," I said, grinning. "Just hockey."
"Good," Rizzo punched my shoulder. "Because I really want that ring. And if you go wolf-mode, we get disqualified."
"I won't go wolf-mode," I promised. "But I might go Beast Mode."
Rizzo laughed. "That works. Let's go get it."
The door to the locker room opened.
Coach Wolfowitz walked in.
He looked different too. The lines of stress around his eyes had softened. Since the press conference, since the Pack Council had retreated into the shadows, Wolfowitz had been... lighter. He was still a hard-ass, but he wasn't looking over his shoulder anymore.
"Alright, boys," Wolfowitz barked. "Listen up."
The room went silent.
"Nobody expected us to be here," Wolfowitz said. "Three months ago, we were a mess. We were distracted. We were fragmented."
He looked directly at me.
"But something changed," he said. "You stopped playing for yourselves. You stopped playing for the scouts. You started playing for each other. You became a Pack."
The word hung in the air. The humans thought it was a metaphor. The shifters knew better.
"Tonight is the last game for our seniors," Wolfowitz continued. "Kowalski. Rizzo. Johnson. Miller. Leave it all out there. Don't come back into this room with anything left in the tank. We play fast. We play hard. And we play together."
"TOGETHER!" the team roared.
"Let's go!"
We filed out of the locker room. The noise of the crowd hit us in the tunnel—a physical wave of sound.
I stood at the front of the line. The Captain.
I tapped my stick against my pads. Tap-tap.
I looked up toward the bench area.
She was there.
Rachel was standing by the glass, holding her clipboard. She was wearing the team parka, but underneath, I knew she was wearing my black t-shirt. She had painted '55' on her cheek in gold glitter.
She saw me. She smiled. A radiant, confident smile that lit up the dark tunnel.
She raised her hand and made a small sign. Three fingers up. The 'W'.
Win.
I nodded.
I wasn't playing for my father. I wasn't playing for the Red Wings.
I was playing for the girl with the clipboard who had looked at a monster and decided to build him a home.
"Let's go, boys!" I shouted.
I led the team onto the ice.
The Game
Hockey is a game of mistakes. The team that makes fewer mistakes wins.
For two periods, neither team made a mistake.
It was a chess match played at 30 miles per hour. Boston was disciplined, structural. They clogged the neutral zone, forcing us to dump and chase. They frustrated us.
0-0 going into the third period.
My legs burned. My lungs felt like they were filled with broken glass. But my mind was crystal clear.
The Treaty of Versailles.
I remembered my history class. Punish the loser so hard they have to fight back.
Boston was punishing us physically. They were hitting everything that moved. Johnson had a bloody nose. Rizzo had taken a shot to the mask that left a dent.
But we weren't breaking.
Because we had something they didn't. We had nothing to lose.
Ten minutes left in the third.
Boston took a penalty. Slashing.
Power play.
"Kowalski, you're on point," Wolfowitz shouted. "Rizzo, stay sharp. Miller, set the screen."
I hopped over the boards.
The ice was chopped up, snowy. The puck bounced.
I got the pass at the blue line. I walked the line, looking for a lane. The Boston penalty killers were aggressive, blocking lanes.
I saw Rachel out of the corner of my eye. She was leaning over the bench, yelling something. I couldn't hear her, but I could read her lips.
Patience.
Patience.
I held the puck. I waited. I faked a slap shot. The Boston forward bit, dropping to block it.
I pulled the puck back. I side-stepped him.
Now I had a lane.
I didn't shoot. I saw Johnson open on the back door.
I wired a pass—hard, flat, perfect.
Johnson tapped it in.
Goal.
1-0 Kodiaks.
The arena exploded. The sound was deafening. I felt the vibration in my skates.
We celebrated, hugging in the corner, slamming into the glass. I looked at Rachel. She was jumping up and down, hugging Doc Halloway.
But the game wasn't over.
Boston pushed back. Hard.
With two minutes left, they pulled their goalie. 6-on-5.
It was a siege. They fired puck after puck at Rizzo. He was a wall. A sprawling, acrobatic wall.
Thirty seconds left.
The puck came to the corner. I battled for it. Two Boston players were on me. They were digging, hacking, trying to pry it loose.
My shoulder—the bad one—screamed in protest.
Hold it, the Wolf growled. Protect the den.
I pinned the puck against the boards with my skate. I used my body as a shield. I took a cross-check to the back. Then another.
I didn't move. I was granite. I was the mountain.
The clock ticked down.
10... 9... 8...
The whistle blew. The refs had to separate us. Faceoff in our zone. Five seconds left.
"Timeout!" Wolfowitz called.
We skated to the bench. We were gasping for air. Sweat poured down my face.
"Five seconds," Wolfowitz said. "Win the draw. Tie it up. Do not let them shoot."
He looked at me.
"Stan. Can you take the draw?"
Usually, centers took faceoffs. Defensemen stayed back. But I was the strongest guy on the team.
"I got it, Coach," I gasped.
I looked at Rachel. She handed me a water bottle.
"You look tired," she said.
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding," she pointed to my lip.
I licked it. Copper.
"War paint," I grinned.
"Finish it, Butcher," she whispered.
I skated to the faceoff dot.
The Boston center was glaring at me. He was good. But he was just a man.
I wasn't.
The ref dropped the puck.
I didn't try to win it clean. I just tied up his stick. I drove through him, pushing him back.
The puck squirted loose behind me.
Johnson grabbed it. He didn't shoot. He just pinned it against the wall.
The buzzer sounded.
Game over.
National Champions.
It was a blur. Gloves flying in the air. Sticks clattering to the ice. A pile of bodies on top of Rizzo.
I was at the bottom of the pile, crushing the air out of my lungs, laughing hysterically.
We stood up. We shook hands. We got the trophy.
I skated around the ice with the massive silver cup over my head. It was heavy, but it felt weightless.
I skated toward the bench.
Coach Wolfowitz was crying. Actually crying.
But I was looking past him.
Rachel was standing on the ice now. The staff had come out for the ceremony.
She was standing back, letting the players have their moment. Always humble. Always observing.
I skated over to her.
I stopped. I sprayed snow on her boots.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she smiled, tears streaming down her face. "Nice cup."
"It's okay," I said. "Missing something though."
"What?"
I handed the Cup to Johnson. "Hold this."
I grabbed Rachel by the waist. I lifted her up.
She squealed as I hoisted her onto my shoulder, carrying her like a sack of potatoes.
"Stan! Put me down! The cameras!"
"Let them look!" I shouted.
I skated to center ice. I spun in a circle, holding her. The crowd cheered.
I set her down. Her face was flushed, her eyes shining.
"You are insane," she laughed.
"I'm a champion," I corrected. "And champions get to kiss the girl."
I kissed her.
Right there on the logo. Under the Jumbotron. On national television.
It was a long, deep, earth-shattering kiss. It tasted of sweat and Gatorade and victory.
Confetti rained down on us. Gold and black. It stuck to our hair, our clothes.
When we broke apart, I looked at her.
"I love you," I said loud enough for the cameras to hear.
"I love you too, Butcher," she whispered.
Two hours later.
The locker room was finally empty. The champagne was gone. The reporters had left.
We walked out of the arena, hand in hand.
My suit bag was slung over my shoulder. Rachel was carrying my stick.
We walked to the parking lot. The bus was waiting, but I had gotten permission to drive back separately.
We got into my truck.
The silence was welcome.
I started the engine, but I didn't drive. I just sat there, listening to the hum.
"We did it," Rachel said softly. "It's over."
"The season is over," I corrected. "The rest is just starting."
"Did you talk to Vance?" she asked.
"Yeah. He was in the locker room."
"And?"
"Detroit," I said. "Second round. Guaranteed."
Rachel let out a breath. "Detroit."
"You checked the residency programs?"
"I did," she smiled. "Wayne State has a great sports medicine fellowship."
"Perfect."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the ring.
Not the amber necklace. A ring.
I had bought it three days ago. With my own money. Not my father's money. Money I had saved from summer construction jobs.
It was simple. A silver band with a small, perfect diamond. And tiny chips of amber on either side.
"Stan?" Rachel's breath hitched.
"I know I said 'eventually'," I said. "And I know we're young. And crazy. And I'm a werewolf who almost got expelled."
I took her hand.
"But I don't want to wait. I don't want to go to Detroit as your boyfriend. I want to go as your partner. Your family."
I looked at her.
"Rachel Miller. Will you marry me? Will you be my Pack?"
She stared at the ring. She stared at me.
"You're asking me in a truck in a parking lot?" she laughed, crying again.
"It's our spot," I shrugged. "Trucks are lucky for us."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. You idiot. Yes."
I slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.
I kissed her hand.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go home."
"To the cabin?"
"No," I said, putting the truck in gear. "Home is wherever you are."
We drove out of the parking lot, leaving the arena behind.
I looked in the rearview mirror one last time.
I saw the boy I used to be. The lonely, angry kid who thought he was a monster. I saw him fading away, replaced by the man sitting next to the woman he loved.
The ice was melted. The winter was over.
It was spring.
And the Wolves were running free.