Chapter 8
Arabella
The jersey was too big.
It smelled like him.
Even though it was freshly laundered—Dante had tossed it to me casually during our last study session, saying “Wear this, the arena is cold”—it still carried the indelible imprint of his scent. That deep, earthy mix of pine forest, woodsmoke, and the sharp, ozone tang of raw power.
I sat in the friends and family section, four rows up from the glass, hugging my knees to my chest. I felt like an imposter. I felt like a beacon.
Around me, the Wolves’ Den was a cauldron of noise. The student section—the "Pack Pit"—was already vibrating. Hundreds of shifters were stomping their feet in a rhythmic, tribal beat that shook the concrete foundations of the arena. Thump. Thump. Howl. Thump. Thump. Howl.
It wasn't the polite cheering of a human sporting event. This was primal. It was a gathering of apex predators anticipating violence.
"Breathe, Ara," Elena said beside me. She was wearing a sleek Blackwood jacket, looking bored and terrifyingly cool as she scrolled through her phone. "You're gripping that railing like you're trying to choke it."
"It's loud," I murmured, pulling the collar of the jersey up to my nose to steal a breath of Dante’s scent. It grounded me. "And aggressive."
"It's playoffs," Elena shrugged, not looking up. "And it’s the Idaho Grizzlies. They’re Bear shifters. Big, slow, and mean. They like to hit. The boys are going to have to be fast tonight."
They like to hit.
My stomach twisted. I looked down at the empty ice, the Zamboni having just finished its final pass. The surface was a perfect, glassy mirror, waiting to be shattered.
I wasn't here as a fan. I wasn't even here as a researcher anymore, though I had my notebook in my bag as a prop. I was here as... whatever I was to Dante. His anchor? His shadow? His liability?
The lights in the arena abruptly cut out.
The crowd roared, a sound that hit me in the chest like a physical blow. Spotlights began to sweep the ice, accompanied by a heavy, bass-boosted rock anthem that made my teeth rattle.
"And now," the announcer’s voice boomed, echoing off the rafters, "your... BLACKWOOD ALPHAS!"
They came out of the tunnel like war machines.
I had seen Dante in the library. I had seen him in the greenhouse, holding a bag of peas. I had seen him in his truck, soft and teasing.
I had forgotten what he looked like when he went to war.
He led the line. He skated out with a speed that defied physics for a man of his size. He didn't glide; he carved the ice, tearing it open. He was massive in his pads, his black jersey tucked into his pants, the ‘C’ on his chest catching the spotlight.
He did a lap, his strides long and powerful, his stick handling the puck with a lazy, lethal competence. He looked like a king surveying his kingdom. He looked terrifying.
He circled back toward the blue line, scraping to a halt in a spray of ice shavings. He took his helmet off for the anthem, tucking it under his arm. His black hair was slicked back with sweat and water, his face a stony mask of concentration.
The anthem played. The crowd sang. I just watched him.
I watched the way his chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. I watched the muscle feathering in his jaw. I watched the way his hand gripped his stick, the knuckles white.
He was locking it down. I knew that look now. I knew the Cost of Control. He was shoving the wolf into a cage, barring the door, and swallowing the key so he could play the game without killing anyone.
As the final note of the anthem faded, he put his helmet back on. He snapped the chin strap.
And then, before he turned to the faceoff circle, he looked up.
He didn't scan the crowd. He didn't search. He knew exactly where I was.
His gaze locked onto mine through the wire cage of his helmet. Even from this distance, I felt the impact. I saw his eyes widen slightly as he registered the jersey I was wearing. His jersey.
A small, almost imperceptible nod.
I see you. You're mine.
Then he turned away, skated to center ice, and the gladiator match began.
Hockey is a fast game. Shifter hockey is a blur.
The moment the puck dropped, the violence was immediate. The sound of bodies colliding was sickening—a wet, heavy thwack of meat and bone hitting composite armor.
The Idaho Grizzlies were exactly as Elena described: massive walls of muscle. They played dirty. They played heavy.
Dante was a blur of motion. He was everywhere. He won the faceoff, snapping the puck back to Jax. He checked a Grizzly defender who tried to block him, sending the six-foot-four Bear flying into the boards with a rattle of glass that made me jump.
"Nice hit, Cap!" someone screamed behind me.
I didn't cheer. I held my breath.
Every time Dante touched the puck, he was a target. The Grizzlies knew he was the engine. If they broke the engine, the machine stopped.
Ten minutes into the first period, Dante had the puck behind the net. He was looking for a pass. Two Grizzlies closed in on him, sandwiching him against the boards.
Crunch.
I flinched, my hand flying to my mouth.
Dante didn't go down. He spun, using his low center of gravity and immense leg strength to fight through the check. He emerged with the puck, leaving the two Bears tangled in a heap. He fired a pass across the slot to Jax.
Goal.
The horn blasted. The red light flashed. The crowd went insane.
But Dante didn't celebrate. He skated slowly to the bench, hunched over slightly.
"He's hurt," I whispered.
Elena looked up from her phone. "He's fine. Adrenaline blocks the pain."
"No," I insisted, watching him through the glass as he sat on the bench. He wasn't drinking water. He was leaning forward, his hand pressing against his left knee. "He's favoring the leg."
The game dragged on. It was a bloodbath. By the second period, the score was 2-1 Blackwood, but the penalty box was a revolving door.
The atmosphere in the arena was shifting. The scent of aggression was getting thicker. It was making my head spin. It smelled like copper and sulfur.
Then, the Black Moment happened.
It was late in the third period. Tie game. 2-2.
Dante picked up a loose puck in the neutral zone. He had a breakaway. He turned on the jets, accelerating past the defensemen like they were standing still. He was alone with the goalie.
But he wasn't alone.
A Grizzly defender—number 44, a guy with eyes that looked dead—was chasing him. He couldn't catch Dante. He wasn't fast enough.
So he cheated.
Just as Dante wound up for the shot, number 44 didn't go for the puck. He didn't go for the shoulder. He dove. He swung his stick like a lumberjack axe, aiming directly at the back of Dante’s left knee.
The sound was distinct. Crack.
It wasn't the sound of equipment. It was the sound of impact on bone.
Dante’s leg buckled.
He went down. He hit the ice at full speed, sliding uncontrollably. He crashed into the end boards feet-first.
He didn't get up.
The whistle blew. The arena went silent. Fifty thousand people, and you could hear a pin drop.
My heart stopped. The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and dizzy.
"Dante," I breathed, standing up. My hands gripped the railing so hard my nails dug into the metal.
"Oh, shit," Elena muttered, standing up beside me. "That was bad. That was a cheap shot."
On the ice, chaos erupted. Jax dropped his gloves and tackled number 44, pounding his fists into the guy's helmet. A brawl broke out. Referees were blowing whistles, pulling bodies apart.
But I didn't watch the fight. I watched the figure lying motionless near the goal.
"Get up," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Please, get up."
The trainer—Elena’s boss—ran onto the ice. He knelt beside Dante.
I saw Dante move. He rolled onto his back. He ripped his helmet off, throwing it across the ice. His face was twisted in a snarl of agony. His hands were clutching his knee.
"He needs help," I said, panic rising in my throat like bile. "Why aren't they helping him?"
"They are," Elena said, her hand gripping my arm to steady me. "Look."
Dante pushed the trainer away.
He rolled onto his hands and knees. He shook his head like a wet dog.
Then, slowly, painfully, he stood up.
He put weight on his left leg. His face went pale, but he didn't collapse. He glared at the Grizzlies' bench.
And then I saw it. The JumboTron zoomed in on his face.
His eyes.
They were glowing bright, radioactive red. The wolf had taken the wheel.
The crowd saw it too. A low rumble started, building into a roar of approval.
"He's staying in," Elena said, sounding awed and horrified. "The idiot is staying in."
"He can't!" I cried. "He's hurt!"
"He's the Alpha," Elena said simply. "He doesn't leave the field until the war is won."
Dante didn't go to the bench. He skated to the faceoff circle. He looked like a demon. He looked like death.
The referee dropped the puck.
Dante didn't pass. He didn't deke. He took the puck, skated three strides on a broken leg, and unleashed a slap shot from the blue line that was so hard it was invisible.
It hit the back of the net with a sound like a gunshot.
Game over. Blackwood wins.
The team swarmed him. But I saw Dante flinch when they touched him. I saw the way he sagged against Jax, unable to hold his own weight anymore.
I didn't wait for the three stars. I didn't wait for the song.
"I have to go," I told Elena.
"You can't go to the locker room," she warned. "It's a zoo down there."
"I don't care," I said, grabbing my bag. "I have to see him."
I ran up the stairs, fighting against the flow of the crowd, desperate to get to the tunnel. I needed to see that he was alive. I needed to touch him to prove that he hadn't broken into a million pieces.
The tunnel area outside the locker room was chaos. Reporters, family members, and arena staff milled around. The air smelled of sweat, champagne, and Deep Heat.
I stood in the corner, near the "Authorized Personnel" door, clutching the hem of the oversized jersey. I was shaking. The adrenaline dump was leaving me weak-kneed.
The door opened.