Chapter 8
Faye
The Ironclaw Arena didn't just hold noise; it amplified it, compressing the screams of fifteen thousand fans into a physical force that hit you in the chest like a sonic boom.
It was Friday night. Game night. The Timberwolves versus the Northern State Grizzlies.
The rivalry was legendary. It wasn't just a hockey game; it was a turf war. The Grizzlies were mostly bear shifters—heavy, brutal hitters who played a slow, grinding game designed to crush bones. The Timberwolves were faster, sharper, a pack of precision killers on skates.
I stood in the "Wives and Girlfriends" section—a designation I vehemently denied despite Sloane dragging me into it—clutching the railing until my knuckles turned white.
I was wearing a generic Ironclaw hoodie, refusing to wear a jersey with a name on the back, but underneath my coat, my heart was wearing #19.
"Relax," Sloane yelled over the deafening roar of the band. She nudged me with her elbow. She was unashamedly wearing the backup goalie’s jersey, which was three sizes too big for her. "You look like you're about to perform surgery."
"Have you seen the size of their defenseman?" I shouted back, pointing at the Grizzlies' warm-up. "Number 44 is a literal refrigerator on skates. If he hits Oakley, physics says Oakley loses."
"Oakley is a genetically enhanced wolf monster," Sloane reminded me, taking a sip of her smuggled flask. "Physics is a suggestion to him. Besides, he looks fine."
I looked down at the ice.
He did look fine.
Oakley was circling the center ice, leading the warm-up stretch.
He moved with a predatory grace that made the other players look clumsy.
He was fast, fluid, and terrifyingly focused.
He wasn't looking at the crowd. He wasn't looking at the cheerleaders.
He was staring at the opposing goal like he intended to dismantle it with his teeth.
His black jersey, emblazoned with the white 'C', stretched across his broad shoulders. His helmet was strapped tight, the cage obscuring his face, but I could see his eyes. Even from up here, I could feel the intensity of that gold gaze.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out, shielding the screen from the prying eyes of the actual WAGs around me.
Oakley (6:58 PM): Section 104, Row 8, Seat 12. I see you.
Oakley (6:59 PM): Stop chewing your lip. I’m not going to die.
I looked down at the ice, searching for him.
He was standing at the blue line, tapping his stick against his shin pads. As if sensing my attention, he tilted his head up. Just a fraction of an inch. A nod directed specifically at me.
The invisible tether snapped taut.
In a stadium full of screaming fans, cheering mascots, and flashing jumbotrons, it was just us.
My breath hitched. The power of it—the sheer arrogance of him finding me in this chaos—sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the arena's temperature.
He tapped his chest with his gloved fist—right over his heart—and then turned back to the face-off circle.
The buzzer sounded. Game on.
The first period was a bloodbath.
The Grizzlies came out hitting. They weren't interested in the puck; they were interested in bodies. Every time an Ironclaw player touched the rubber, they were smashed into the boards with a bone-rattling thud.
I flinched every single time.
"Oh my god," I gasped as Jax got sandwiched between two bears, his helmet popping off and skittering across the ice.
"He's fine!" Sloane cheered, waving her pom-pom. "Get up, Miller! Bite him!"
Oakley was playing like a man possessed. He was everywhere. He was faster than everyone else, weaving through the heavy defense like smoke. He scored the first goal five minutes in—a beautiful, top-shelf wrist shot that made the water bottle on the net jump.
The crowd erupted. The goal horn blasted, a guttural howl that shook the floorboards.
I jumped up, screaming with the rest of them, caught up in the adrenaline.
But Oakley didn't celebrate. He just fist-bumped his linemates and skated back to the bench, his expression grim. He knew what I knew: one goal wasn't enough against a team that wanted to hurt you.
The game turned ugly in the second period.
The refs were losing control. There were scrums after every whistle. Shoving matches. Facewashes with dirty gloves. The penalty box was a revolving door.
And then, it happened.
Oakley had the puck. He was breaking out of the defensive zone, flying down the left wing. He had a step on the defense. He was clear.
But he didn't see the blindside hit coming.
Number 44—the refrigerator—came out of nowhere. He didn't play the puck. He lined Oakley up, lowered his shoulder, and launched himself.
The collision was sickening.
It wasn't a thud. It was a crack.
Oakley was lifted off his skates. He flew through the air horizontally before slamming violently into the boards, his head snapping back against the glass right in front of where I was sitting.
He crumpled to the ice and didn't move.
The arena went silent. Fifteen thousand people held their breath.
"Oakley!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat raw and terrified. I lunged for the railing, as if I could phase through the glass and get to him.
"Faye, wait," Sloane grabbed my arm, her face pale.
Down on the ice, chaos erupted.
Jax dropped his gloves instantly, tackling Number 44 and pummeling him. The refs blew their whistles frantically, trying to separate the brawl.
But I didn't care about the fight. I only cared about the black jersey lying motionless on the ice.
Get up. Please, God, get up.
I pressed my hand against the cold glass, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst. I scanned his body for signs of life. Was he breathing? Was his leg bent wrong?
Coach Varon was screaming from the bench. Doc Miller—the head trainer—ran out onto the ice, sliding on his knees next to Oakley.
Then, a movement.
Oakley’s hand twitched. He rolled onto his side, pushing himself up to his knees. He shook his head like a wet dog, sending a spray of ice crystals flying.
He grabbed the trainer’s arm and shoved him away.
He stood up. He wobbled for a second, then planted his skates. He looked furious.
He skated over to the penalty box where Number 44 was being escorted, shouting something that was definitely not PG-13. The ref got between them, pushing Oakley toward the bench.
He was okay. He was alive.
I slumped back into my seat, my legs turning to jelly. "I hate this sport," I whispered, burying my face in my hands. "I hate it so much."
"He's tough, Faye," Sloane said, rubbing my back. "He's built for this."
"Nobody is built to be hit by a truck," I muttered.
Oakley didn't go to the locker room. He sat on the bench, drinking water, glaring at the ice. I watched him like a hawk. I saw him rotate his shoulder. I saw the way he winced when he turned his head.
He was hurt. He was hiding it, but he was hurt.
The third period was agonizing. Every time Oakley touched the puck, I braced for impact. But the hit seemed to have woken something up in the team. They played angry. They played fast.
They won 4-2.
When the final buzzer sounded, the relief was so profound I almost cried.
"Come on," I said to Sloane, grabbing my bag. "We need to go."
"Go where? To the party?"
"To the tunnel," I said, already moving toward the stairs. "I need to see him. Now."
The tunnel area outside the locker rooms was a hive of activity. Reporters, family members, and team staff milled around. The air smelled of stale popcorn and triumph.
I flashed my student trainer badge at the security guard. He nodded and let me past the velvet rope.
I waited by the locker room door, pacing back and forth.
Players started trickling out. They looked exhausted, battered, but happy. Jax walked out with a black eye and a grin, holding an ice pack to his cheek.
"Faye!" he called out. "Did you see that hit? I totally wrecked that bear."
"You did good, Jax," I said distractedly. "Where is he?"
"Shower," Jax said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "He's in a mood. Even for him. Varon tried to check him for a concussion and he nearly bit the old man's hand off."
"Great," I muttered. "Thanks."
I waited another ten minutes. The crowd thinned out.
Finally, the door opened.
Oakley walked out.
He was wearing a suit—charcoal grey, tailored to fit his massive frame—but his tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. His hair was wet. He had a fresh cut on his cheekbone, stitched up with butterfly bandages, and he was favoring his left side.
He looked... electric.
The adrenaline was still rolling off him in waves. His eyes were wide, scanning the hallway with a restless energy. He looked like a man who had just survived a war and was looking for a fight.
Or a release.
His eyes landed on me.
He stopped. The restless energy focused instantly into a laser beam.
He didn't say a word. He walked straight toward me, ignoring the two reporters who tried to flag him down. He grabbed my arm—firm but gentle—and pulled me.
"Hey," I squeaked, stumbling to keep up with his long strides. "Where are we going?"
"Not here," he growled.
He dragged me down a side corridor, past the equipment room, and pushed open the door to a janitor’s closet. He pulled me inside and locked the door.
Darkness enveloped us, broken only by the thin strip of light under the door. The smell of bleach and mops was overwhelmed by the scent of him—soap, sweat, and pure, concentrated Alpha pheromones.
Before I could speak, he had me pinned against the door.
His mouth crashed onto mine.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a claiming. It was rough, desperate, and tasted of blood and victory. He groaned into my mouth, his hands tangling in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the angle.
I gasped, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. I needed this just as much as he did. I needed to feel him solid and warm and alive against me.
"You're okay," I breathed against his lips. "You're okay."