Chapter 20
Arabella
The air in the Wolves' Den was different during the Frozen Four. It wasn't just cold; it was electrified.
The banners hanging from the rafters—dozens of them, marking decades of Blackwood dominance—seemed to shiver in the draft created by the HVAC system, which was working overtime to keep the ice frozen despite the eighteen thousand bodies packed into the arena.
But this time, the jersey wasn't just a piece of fabric. It wasn't a secret. It was a flag.
I looked down at my hand. A silver ring, simple and elegant, sat on my left ring finger. It wasn't an engagement ring—not officially. It was a promise ring. A "we're moving to Seattle together and buying a house" ring.
Dante had given it to me last night, in the quiet of his room, his voice shaking as he slid it onto my finger. I want you to have something solid, he had said. Something metal. To remind you that I'm not going anywhere.
"You nervous?"
Jax appeared beside me, bouncing on his skates. He was wearing his game face—which for Jax meant a manic grin and eyes that darted around like a squirrel on espresso.
"Terrified," I admitted, clutching my notebook (which was filled with more doodles of hearts than actual notes these days). "It's the championship, Jax. Boston University is good. Really good."
"They're okay," Jax shrugged. "But they're Terriers. We're Wolves. Big difference in the food chain."
He winked and tapped his stick against my shin pads—well, my jeans. "Don't worry, Ara. Cap is locked in. I haven't seen him this focused since... well, ever. Usually, he's focused and angry. Today? He's focused and... scary calm."
"Scary calm is good?"
"Scary calm is lethal," Jax promised.
The whistle blew from the ice. Warm-ups were over.
"Showtime," Jax said. He fist-bumped me through the imaginary barrier of propriety and skated toward the bench.
I watched him go. Then I turned my eyes to the center of the ice.
Dante was there.
He was doing his final stretch, his massive legs spread wide, his chest low to the ice. He looked like a mountain range in black and grey.
He stood up. He adjusted his helmet. He tapped his stick on the ice—once, twice.
Then he turned.
He didn't search the crowd. He didn't scan the VIP box where the scouts were sitting (including Thomas Reed, who had flown in specifically to watch his "investment").
He looked straight at the tunnel. Straight at me.
He couldn't see my ring from there. But he knew it was there.
He raised his gloved hand and tapped the C on his chest. Then he tapped his heart.
Captain. Heart. Yours.
I placed my hand over my own heart in return.
He nodded, a sharp, decisive movement, and turned back to face the Boston captain.
The referee dropped the puck.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a physical wave of sound that vibrated in my teeth. But as the game began, the noise faded into the background. All I saw was him.
Dante
The ice was fast today.
It felt crisp under my blades, responding instantly to every shift in my weight. My knee—the knee that had almost cost me everything—felt strong. Reinforced by tape, adrenaline, and the knowledge that Arabella was watching, it held up under the immense pressure of the first period.
Boston was fast. They were a team of speedsters—Rabbit and Fox shifters mostly, with a few human snipers mixed in. They moved like quicksilver, darting around our heavier defensemen.
But speed didn't matter when you controlled the space.
I was in the zone.
The "Machine" I used to rely on was gone. That cold, unfeeling robot had been dismantled. In its place was something better.
The Wolf.
But not the chaotic, angry wolf of my youth. This was a disciplined wolf. A wolf who knew his territory. A wolf who knew his pack was safe.
I picked up the puck in our zone. A Boston winger tried to poke-check me. I shielded the puck with my body, using my size to box him out. I felt the impact of his stick on my pads, but it was nothing. It was a fly buzzing around a bear.
I saw the ice differently now. Before, it was a battlefield. Now, it was a blueprint. I saw the angles. I saw the open lanes. I saw Jax breaking down the left wing.
I feathered a pass through two defenders. It landed perfectly on Jax’s tape.
Jax shot. Top shelf.
Ding.
Goal.
The crowd erupted. The horn blasted.
Jax leaped into my arms. "That pass was pure sex, Cap!"
I laughed, patting his helmet. "Keep your stick on the ice, Rook. I'll find you."
We celebrated, but I kept it brief. I skated to the bench, fist-bumping the line.
Coach Vane was pacing behind us. He looked stressed. His tie was loosened, his face red.
"Good shift," Vane grunted as I sat down. "But don't get cocky. They're going to push back."
"Let them push," I said, taking a sip of water. "We'll push harder."
I looked up at the tunnel. I saw the flash of blonde hair.
A sense of peace settled over me. It was strange. This was the biggest game of my life. The scouts were here. My future salary depended on my performance.
But I wasn't afraid.
I thought back to the start of the season. To the Dante who sat in the dark, icing his knee, terrified that one wrong move would reveal the monster inside. The Dante who thought love was a weakness.
That guy was an idiot.
Love wasn't a weakness. It was a supercharger. Knowing she was there—knowing she accepted the monster and the man—gave me an limitless reserve of energy.
I hopped over the boards for the next shift.
Let's finish this.
Arabella
The game was a grinder. 1-0 Blackwood. Then 1-1. Then 2-1 Boston.
By the third period, the tension in the arena was suffocating. The air smelled of burnt popcorn and anxiety.
I was pacing the tunnel. I couldn't stand still.
Elena came down from the stands to join me. She looked uncharacteristically pale.
"This is too close," she muttered, chewing on a fingernail. "Boston is playing trap defense. They're clogging the neutral zone. Dante can't get any speed."
"He'll figure it out," I said, though my stomach was doing flip-flops. "He sees things we don't."
"He's getting tired," Elena noted. "He's played twenty-five minutes already. Vane is double-shifting him."
I looked at the ice. Dante was bent over at the waist during a stoppage, gasping for air. Sweat dripped from his chin. His jersey was soaked.
"He's not tired," I whispered. "He's waiting."
Two minutes left in the game. Score 2-1 Boston.
Blackwood pulled the goalie. Six attackers against five.
The Empty Net desperation.
The crowd was on its feet. The noise was a continuous, deafening roar.
Dante won the faceoff. He controlled the puck.
He cycled it to the point. The defenseman shot. Blocked.
The puck skittered into the corner.
Dante went in. Two Boston players—massive Bears—went in after him.
They slammed him into the boards. Crunch.
I flinched.
But Dante didn't go down. He fought. He dug his skates in, battling for the puck. He kicked it free to Jax.
Jax passed it back to the point.
Dante extricated himself from the pile. He skated to the front of the net. The "dirty area." Where the bruises happened.
He planted himself in front of the goalie, screening his vision. A Boston defender cross-checked him in the back. Hard.
Dante didn't move. He was a statue.
The point man shot.
The puck was going wide.
Dante saw it. He reached out with his stick—a lightning-fast reflex.
He tipped it.
The puck changed trajectory. It dipped. It fluttered over the goalie’s shoulder.
Thwack.
It hit the back of the net.
Tie game. 2-2.
The arena exploded. The noise was so loud I felt my eardrums pop.
But Dante didn't celebrate. He pointed to the clock.
Thirty seconds left.
He wasn't playing for overtime. He was playing to win.
He skated back to center ice. He won the faceoff again.
He drove the net. He deked left. He deked right. He dropped the shoulder.
He shot.
Save.
The rebound kicked out.
Chaos in the crease. Bodies flying everywhere.
Dante dove. He didn't shoot. He poked the loose puck.
It slid... slowly... painfully slowly... across the goal line.
Just as the buzzer sounded.
GOAL.
3-2 Blackwood.
Pandemonium.
The bench cleared. Gloves flew into the air. Helmets rained down like confetti. The team piled onto Dante, burying him in a mound of black jerseys and joy.
I screamed. I jumped up and down. I hugged Elena so hard I think I cracked her rib.
"He did it!" I sobbed. "He actually did it!"
I watched the pile. I waited for him to emerge.
Finally, the bodies parted.
Dante stood up. He was helmetless. His hair was a disaster. His face was bleeding from a small cut on his cheek. He looked exhausted.
And he was smiling.
A smile so wide it looked like it hurt.
He scanned the crowd. He found the tunnel.
He started skating toward me.
The team tried to stop him, to hand him the trophy, but he waved them off. He kept coming.
He reached the glass. He reached the gate.
An usher tried to stop him. "Sir, you can't go off the ice..."
Dante ignored him. He pushed the gate open.
He stepped onto the rubber matting. His skates clacked loudly.
He walked straight up to me.
He smelled of sweat, ice, and victory. He radiated heat.
"You won," I breathed, looking up at him.
"We won," he corrected.
And then, in front of eighteen thousand people, in front of the cameras, in front of the scouts... he grabbed me.
He lifted me up, sitting me on the railing of the tunnel.
He kissed me.
It was the kiss of a lifetime. It was salty and wet and fierce. It tasted like champagne and adrenaline.
The crowd went berserk. The JumboTron caught it. Our faces were fifty feet high.
I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my hands in his sweaty hair.
"I love you," I shouted over the noise.
"I love you," he shouted back. "Pack your bags, Arabella. We're going to Seattle."
Dante
The locker room celebration was a blur of champagne, cigars, and bad singing.
I stayed for an hour. I drank from the cup. I hugged every teammate. I shook Reed’s hand (who told me, with a wink, that the Kraken pick was officially mine).
But the whole time, I was itching to leave.
I wanted the quiet. I wanted the reality.
At midnight, I slipped out the back door.
Arabella was waiting in my truck. She had changed out of the jersey into a soft sweater, but she was still wearing the ring.
I climbed in. The silence of the cab was a relief.
"You smell like a brewery," she noted, wrinkling her nose.
"I feel like a champion," I countered, leaning over to kiss her cheek.
"Where to, Captain?" she asked.
"Not the Hive," I said. "Not the dorm."
I started the engine.
"Take me to the mountain," I said.
We drove up the familiar logging road. The snow was almost gone now, just patches of white in the shadows. The air was warmer. Spring had arrived.
We parked at the lookout.
We sat on the tailgate of the truck, wrapped in a blanket, looking out at the valley lights.
"It's over," I said softly. "College. The fear. The hiding."
"It's just starting," she corrected. "Seattle. The rookie season. The house hunting."
"Are you scared?" I asked, looking at her.
"A little," she admitted. "It's a big change. Leaving my dad. Leaving the safety of the academic world."
"You're not leaving it," I said. "You're taking it with you. You're going to write the best damn book on shifter mythology the world has ever seen. And you're going to do it from a home office with a view of the Sound."
She smiled, leaning her head on my shoulder.
"And you?" she asked. "Are you scared?"
I thought about it. I thought about the NHL. The bigger, faster players. The travel. The pressure.
"No," I said honestly. "I used to be scared of failing. I used to be scared of becoming my father."
I looked down at my hands. The same hands that had scored the winning goal. The same hands that held hers.
"But I realized something tonight," I said. "When I was in the pile. When everyone was screaming."
"What?"
"I realized that the wolf isn't a curse," I said. "He's just... a part of me. He's the drive. He's the protection. He's the part that loves you so much it hurts."
I turned to her. I brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I'm not a monster, Ara. I'm just a man who loves a woman. And I happen to have sharp teeth."
She laughed softly. She reached up and touched the scar on my neck.
"You're my monster," she whispered. "And I love every sharp edge."
I pulled her into my lap. I wrapped the blanket around us tight.
We sat there for a long time, watching the stars fade as the first hint of dawn painted the sky pink.
The future was vast and unknown. But as I held my mate, listening to her steady heartbeat sync with mine, I knew we were ready.
We had survived the ice. We had survived the fire.
Now, it was time to live.
"Let's go," I said, hopping off the tailgate and lifting her down.
"Where?"
"To get breakfast," I said. "I'm starving. And then... we start the rest of our lives."
She took my hand.
"Lead the way, Alpha."
I squeezed her hand.
"Always."
We walked back to the truck together, leaving the mountain behind us. The echo of the howl was gone, replaced by the sound of laughter.
And for the first time in the history of the Moretti bloodline... the story didn't end in tragedy.
It ended in triumph.