Chapter 7
Faye
My phone buzzed against the particle-board surface of my desk, vibrating so hard it nearly walked itself off the edge.
I didn't even have to look at the screen to know who it was. The specific, aggressive buzz pattern—two short, one long—was practically Pavlovian at this point.
Oakley.
I picked it up.
Oakley (7:04 PM): I’m outside. Wear the boots with the fur. It’s freezing.
Oakley (7:05 PM): And bring your appetite. I’m starving.
I couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth. It was a reflex now, involuntary and annoying. Two weeks ago, a command like that from the Captain of the Timberwolves would have sent me into a spiral of anxiety. Now? It just felt like... Friday.
"Let me guess," Sloane drawled from her bed, where she was currently upside down painting her toenails. "The Beast calls?"
"He's not a beast," I said, sliding off my chair and moving to the closet. "He's just... direct."
"He's a bossy, over-grown canine with a god complex," Sloane corrected, blowing on her wet polish. "But you like it. Which is the really disturbing part."
I pulled out my heavy winter coat and the boots he had specified—the Sorel snow boots that made me look like a confused lumberjack. "I don't like it. We have a deal. I tutor him, he passes Ethics. We usually study on Fridays because the team parties and he needs to stay sober."
"Right," Sloane said, flipping right-side up. "Studying. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Because last time I checked, 'studying' didn't involve you coming home with whisker burn on your neck and a glow that can be seen from space."
I froze, my hand on the doorknob. "I did not have whisker burn."
"You looked like you wrestled a belt sander, Faye. Just admit it. You're dating him."
"We are not dating," I insisted, though the denial tasted flimsy on my tongue. "It's... complicated. It's a strategic alliance."
"Uh-huh. Well, have fun with your 'strategy'. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Which leaves you plenty of options, considering I have no morals."
I rolled my eyes and slipped out into the hallway.
As I walked down the stairs of the dorm, my heart did that traitorous little flutter it always did when I knew I was about to see him.
It was ridiculous. We were from different worlds. He was old money, shifter royalty, destined for the NHL. I was a scholarship kid from Ohio who folded her socks and had a five-year plan that didn't involve getting her heart ripped out by a wolf.
But then I pushed open the front doors of the dorm, the biting wind of the Upper Peninsula hitting my face, and I saw him.
The black Ford Raptor was idling at the curb, a behemoth of a vehicle that looked like it ate Honda Civics for breakfast. The engine rumbled with a low, throaty growl that matched its owner.
I climbed into the passenger seat. The cab was warm, smelling of cedar, leather, and him.
Oakley was sitting behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over the top, the other resting on the gear shift. He was wearing a black hoodie under a flannel jacket, his dark hair messy, his jaw lined with the dark stubble that Sloane had so accurately commented on.
He looked over at me. His gold eyes scanned me from head to toe, checking for... what? Injuries? Cold spots?
"You wore the boots," he noted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the heated seat.
"I follow instructions," I said, clicking my seatbelt. "Sometimes. Where are we going? The library is closed for renovations this weekend."
"No library," Oakley said, putting the truck in gear. "I can't look at another page of Kant without shifting and eating the textbook. We're going to Mick's."
"Mick's?" I asked. "The dive bar on the edge of town?"
"The best burger joint in the state," he corrected. "And it's Shifter-owned, so the portions are actual meal sizes, not those garnish-sized plates you humans like."
"I like full meals," I defended as he pulled away from the curb.
"Good. Because you're too skinny. I worry a stiff wind is going to blow you away."
Without looking away from the road, he reached across the center console. His large, warm hand landed on my thigh.
It wasn't sexual—or at least, we pretended it wasn't. It was proprietary. Heavy. Grounding. His thumb rubbed a slow circle against my jeans, a habit he had developed over the last week. It was his way of checking in. I'm here. You're here. We're good.
I shouldn't have allowed it. It blurred the lines.
But I didn't push him away. Instead, I relaxed into the touch, feeling the tension of the week drain out of my shoulders.
"How was practice?" I asked, looking at his profile.
"Brutal," he said. "Varon is riding us hard. He thinks we're getting complacent. I spent two hours doing suicide sprints because Riot wouldn't stop making 'your mom' jokes."
I laughed. "Jax is a national treasure."
"Jax is a menace. I should have eaten him when we were pups."
He glanced at me, a smirk playing on his lips. The mask was gone. The brooding, terrifying Captain Thorne was absent, replaced by this version of Oakley—the one who held my hand, stole my protein bars, and made me laugh.
This was the Oakley only I got to see. And God help me, I loved it.
Mick's was exactly as advertised. It was a log cabin that looked like it had been built by drunk lumberjacks in the 1970s and never updated. The air inside was thick with the smell of grease, beer, and sawdust.
It was packed, mostly with locals—shifters and humans who lived in the town year-round, distinct from the transient college crowd.
When we walked in, the noise level dropped for a split second. Heads turned.
I felt the familiar prickle of anxiety. Being seen with Oakley Thorne was like walking around with a celebrity. Or a dangerous animal.
Oakley didn't hesitate. He placed a hand on the small of my back—a warm, solid brand—and guided me through the crowd. He didn't push people out of the way; he didn't have to. They sensed him coming and parted like the Red Sea.
"Thorne!" A massive man with a grey beard and forearms the size of hams shouted from behind the bar. "I thought you were dead! Haven't seen you in months."
"Busy season, Mick," Oakley called back, steering me toward a booth in the back corner. "The usual. Plus a vanilla shake. Extra whip."
I looked up at him as we slid into the booth. "I didn't order a shake."
"You want one," he stated confidently, sliding into the bench opposite me. His knees bumped mine under the table. He didn't pull back. He just settled his legs on either side of mine, trapping me in a cage of denim and muscle.
"You're very bossy tonight," I observed, unwinding my scarf.
"I'm decisive," he corrected. "There's a difference."
He leaned back, his eyes scanning the room quickly—a perimeter check—before landing on me. The gold in his irises was warm, liquid.
"You look nice," he said abruptly.
I looked down at my sweater. It was just a beige cable-knit. "I look like a potato."
"A very cute potato," he said seriously. "I like your hair down. It smells better when it's not trapped in that clip."
My cheeks heated. "It's just shampoo, Oakley."
"It's pheromones, Faye," he lowered his voice. "And yours are driving me crazy. As usual."
Before I could respond to that bombshell, a waitress appeared with two baskets of curly fries and the milkshake. She was an older woman with sharp eyes and a scent that marked her as a feline shifter.
"Here you go, honey," she said, sliding the shake to me. She looked at Oakley, then at me, then back at Oakley. A knowing smile curled her lips. "Finally brought a mate in, huh? About time. I was starting to think you were married to the ice."
My heart stopped. Mate.
Oakley didn't flinch. He didn't correct her. He didn't panic.
He just reached out, grabbed a fry from my basket, and winked at the waitress. "She's not a mate, Martha. She's my tutor. She's teaching me how to be a civilized human being."
Martha snorted. "Good luck with that, sweetheart. You can put a suit on a wolf, but he's still gonna howl."
She walked away, leaving us in a puddle of awkward silence.
"Sorry," Oakley mumbled, dipping the stolen fry into my milkshake.
"You dip fries in shakes?" I asked, horrified, seizing the distraction. "That is a crime against culinary arts."
"Don't knock it 'til you try it," he challenged, holding the fry out to my lips. "Open."
I hesitated. This was intimate. Feeding each other? In public?
But his eyes were dancing with that playful light I couldn't resist. I opened my mouth.
He fed me the fry. His fingers brushed my lips—a rough, fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to my toes.
The taste was salty and sweet.
"Well?" he asked, watching my mouth as I chewed.
"Acceptable," I admitted. "But don't tell anyone."
He grinned. "Our secret."
We ate in a comfortable rhythm. We talked—really talked. Not about Ethics or hockey stats, but about the things that kept us awake at night.
"Why Kinesiology?" he asked, stealing another fry. "You mentioned the scholarship, but you could have gotten a scholarship for anything. You're smart enough for Engineering or Law."
I traced the rim of my glass. "My dad was a runner. Track and field. He was amazing. Olympic hopeful."
Oakley stopped chewing. He sensed the shift in tone immediately. "Was?"
"He blew out his knee senior year," I said quietly. "Bad repair job. Bad rehab. He never ran competitively again. He spent the rest of his life working at a hardware store, limping, watching the Olympics on TV with this... look on his face. Like he was mourning a dead person."
I looked up at Oakley. His face was serious, his entire focus zeroed in on me.
"I want to fix people," I said. "I want to be the person who makes sure that doesn't happen. I want to make sure that when athletes break, they get put back together right. So they don't lose who they are."
Oakley reached across the table. He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine.
"That's why you're good at it," he said softly. "You treat us like we're precious. Like the machinery matters."