Chapter 4
Oakley
The ice was the only place where the noise in my head stopped.
I was alone. Just me, a bucket of pucks, and the rhythmic shick-shick-shick of my blades carving into the pristine surface.
I lined up at the blue line, my breath pluming in front of me like dragon smoke.
I didn't aim. I didn't think. I just let the muscle memory take over.
I pulled the stick back and snapped it forward, channeling every ounce of frustration, self-loathing, and pent-up sexual aggression into the composite carbon fiber shaft.
Crack.
The sound was a pistol shot in the silence. The puck exploded off the blade, a blur of black rubber, and slammed into the crossbar with a metallic ping that echoed through the empty stands.
Missed.
I grabbed another puck.
Crack.
This one hit the glass, leaving a smudge.
Missed.
I snarled, the sound ripping from my throat, raw and animalistic. I wasn't missing because I was bad. I was missing because I couldn't see the net.
I saw her.
I saw Faye pressed against the wall of the hallway at the Lodge, her eyes wide and dark, her lips parted. I felt the ghost of her heat against my chest. I smelled the vanilla and fear that had driven my Wolf to the brink of insanity.
What if I don't want to be safe?
Her whispered challenge had haunted me for thirty-six hours. It had followed me into my dreams, turning them into feverish, sweat-soaked nightmares where I chased her through the woods, caught her, and did things to her that would surely get me expelled, arrested, or worse.
I had almost kissed her. I had been one second away from burying my hands in her hair, tilting her head back, and devouring her.
And then Jax had walked in.
I owed Jax a beer. Or a punch in the face. I wasn't sure which.
He had saved me from making a catastrophic mistake. Faye was human. She was fragile. She was a student. And I was... I was a ticking time bomb with a bad temper and a genetic predisposition for violence.
I slapped another puck onto the ice.
Crack.
Top shelf. Net rippled.
Finally.
"Nice shot," a voice echoed from the tunnel. "But you're aiming at the wrong enemy."
I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. Coach Varon.
I straightened up, skating a slow circle to cool down. My quads burned, a welcome pain that grounded me. "I'm just warming up, Coach."
"You've been out here for two hours, Thorne," Varon said, walking to the bench.
He held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a manila folder in the other.
He didn't look happy. "And while I appreciate the dedication to the craft, we have a problem.
And this time, it's not about your groin strain. "
I skated over to the boards, spraying snow as I stopped. I leaned on my stick, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. "What is it?"
Varon tossed the folder onto the bench. It slid across the wood and stopped inches from my hand.
"Academic probation," Varon said.
The words hit me harder than a crosscheck.
I stared at the folder. "What?"
"You failed the midterm, Oakley. Business Ethics. Professor Halloway sent the notice this morning."
"I... I didn't fail," I argued, though a cold pit of dread opened in my stomach. "I wrote the essay. I answered the questions."
"You got a 42 percent," Varon said flatly. "And you know the university policy. 'No Pass, No Play.' Especially for the Captain. If you don't get a B or higher on the next assignment and pass the final, you are ineligible for the playoffs."
The silence that fell over the rink was absolute.
Ineligible. Benched.
Hockey was the only thing I had. It was the only place where my aggression was an asset, not a liability. It was the only place I felt like I was in control of the monster inside me. If they took the ice away... I didn't know what I would become.
"I can't be benched," I said, my voice low. "We're going for the title."
"Then you need to fix this," Varon said. He took a sip of his coffee, watching me with those shrewd, grey wolf eyes. "I pulled some strings. I got the academic center to assign you a dedicated tutor. One-on-one sessions. Three times a week. Mandatory."
"I don't need a babysitter," I snapped, gripping my stick until the carbon fiber groaned. "I just need to study harder."
"You need help," Varon corrected. "Halloway says your papers read like a 'nihilistic manifesto written by a sentient tank.' You don't understand the material, Oak. You see the world in black and white. Predator and prey. Ethics is about the grey areas. You need someone to translate."
I hated that he was right. I hated that I struggled with concepts like moral relativity and utilitarianism. To me, life was simple: Protect the Pack. Kill the Threat. Survive. The nuance of human philosophy felt like trying to read a language I didn't speak.
"Who is it?" I asked, defeated. "Who's the tutor?"
Varon’s expression shifted. A flicker of something—amusement? Pity?—crossed his face.
"Check your email," he said, turning to walk back up the tunnel. "First session is tonight at 7:00. Library Study Room 4. Don't be late. And Thorne?"
He paused.
"Shower first. You smell like a wet dog."
The library at 7:00 PM was a tomb of hushed whispers and the rustle of paper.
I walked through the stacks, my backpack slung over one shoulder, feeling like an intruder. I didn't belong here. I belonged in the gym, in the woods, on the ice. Here, surrounded by fragile books and even more fragile students, I felt too big. Too loud.
I had showered, scrubbed the scent of the rink off my skin, and dressed in clean jeans and a grey hoodie. I had even tried to comb my hair, though it refused to lay flat, the black strands falling into my eyes.
I found Study Room 4.
It was located in the back corner of the second floor, nicknamed "The Penalty Box" by the athletes because it was a small, glass-walled cube where we were sent to serve our academic time.
I stopped outside the door.
The blinds were partially drawn, but I could see a silhouette inside. A small figure, hunched over a spread of textbooks, tapping a pen against her lips.
My heart stopped. Then it restarted with a violent kick against my ribs.
No.
It couldn't be. The universe wasn't that cruel.
I stepped closer, squinting through the glass.
Messy chestnut hair piled into a clip. An oversized grey sweater that looked soft enough to sleep in. A posture that screamed 'I am trying to make myself invisible.'
Faye.
Of course. Of course it was Faye.
I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against the cool glass of the door. Varon. That manipulative old bastard. He knew. He knew I was obsessed with her, he knew I was trying to stay away from her, and he had thrown us into a glass cage together.
Walk away, the logical part of my brain screamed. Request a transfer. Tell them you can't work with her.
Go in, the Wolf whispered, scratching at the door of my mind. She's right there. Just go in.
I couldn't walk away. If I didn't pass this class, I lost the team. If I lost the team, I lost my control.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I pushed the door open.
Faye jumped. Her pen flew out of her hand and skittered across the table. She spun around in her chair, her hazel eyes wide with alarm.
When she saw me, the alarm didn't fade. It morphed into shock, and then... resignation.
"You," she breathed.
"Me," I said, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind me. The room was small. Tiny. With me inside, it felt like a closet. The air was instantly sucked out, replaced by the tension that lived between us like a third entity.
"I... I wasn't expecting you," she stammered, scrambling to pick up her pen. "My assignment sheet just said 'Student Athlete - Ethics 201'. It didn't have a name."
"Coach Varon set it up," I said, dropping my bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. The plastic chair groaned under my weight. "He has a sick sense of humor."
Faye stared at me. She looked tired. There were faint purple shadows under her eyes, and she was chewing on her lower lip—a habit I was quickly learning meant she was anxious.
"You're failing Ethics?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.
I flinched. Hearing it said out loud, by her, stung more than I expected. I was the Alpha. I was supposed to be perfect. Admitting weakness to the girl I had been trying to intimidate felt like swallowing glass.
"I'm not failing," I lied, crossing my arms over my chest. "I'm... underperforming."
"You got a 42," she said, glancing down at a paper on her clipboard.
My jaw tightened. "So you have the file."
"I have the file," she confirmed. She looked at the paper, then back up at me. "Professor Halloway says your grasp of Kantian morality is 'disturbing'."
"Kant was an idiot," I muttered. "Categorical Imperative?
'Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law'?
It's bullshit. In the real world, you do what you have to do to survive.
If someone comes for your family, you don't ask if it's a universal law. You rip their throat out."
Faye blinked. She didn't look horrified. She looked... thoughtful.
"And that," she said softly, "is why you're failing."
"Because I'm right?"
"Because you're applying apex predator logic to human philosophy," she said. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "Oakley, this class isn't about survival of the fittest. It's about the social contract. It's about empathy."
"I have empathy," I defended. "I take care of my team."
"That's tribalism," she corrected gently. "Not empathy."
I stared at her. She wasn't backing down. She wasn't stuttering. In the locker room, she was out of her element. At the party, she was overwhelmed. But here? In this quiet room surrounded by books?
She was the Alpha here.
"Look," I said, running a hand down my face. "I don't care about the philosophy. I just need to pass. If I don't get a B, I'm benched. If I'm benched, we lose the championship."