Chapter 12
Spike
The clock on the locker room wall ticked louder than a bomb.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
My hands were shaking.
I looked down at them. They were big hands. Capable hands. Hands that could crush a throat or hold a girl so gently she barely felt the weight. But right now, they felt useless.
The oral exam was in six hours.
If I failed, I was ineligible.
If I was ineligible, the team lost the final.
If the team lost the final, the scouts walked away.
If the scouts walked away, I had no future. No NHL contract. No way to pay for the expensive, specialized suppressants that kept Unbound blood from boiling over.
I would end up like my father. In a cage. Watching the world through reinforced glass.
And Riley...
If I failed, Riley lost her scholarship. She would be expelled. She would have to go back to Ohio, to whatever life she had escaped to come here.
I closed my hands into fists, squeezing until the knuckles popped.
"Focus," I hissed to the empty room. "Just focus."
I grabbed my playbook. But instead of hockey plays, I had taped history notes over the diagrams.
The Treaty of 1894: Signed by the Three Great Packs to end the Territorial Wars. Key provisions: The demarcation of Neutral Zones (Universities), the ban on Unbound leadership, and the establishment of the Council.
I recited it. Again. And again.
But the words wouldn't stick. They kept sliding off my brain like water off oil.
My phone buzzed on the bench.
Riley: Good luck today. You know this. You are smarter than you think.
Riley: P.S. I left a coffee and a muffin outside your door at the Hive. Don't let Jax eat it.
I stared at the screen. The tightness in my chest eased, just a fraction.
She believed in me. She actually believed I could do this.
But belief wasn't enough. My father had believed he could control the madness, too. Look where that got him.
I threw the phone into my bag and grabbed my stick. I needed to move. I needed to sweat the panic out.
I walked out to the ice. The arena was dark, lit only by the emergency lights. The ice was a gray, shadowy mirror.
I stepped on. No skates. Just boots.
I started to run. Lines. Blue line to red line. Red line to blue line. Back. Forth.
Run until you can't feel.
Run until the Wolf is too tired to argue.
By 9:00 AM, I was a wreck.
I had showered, but I still felt the phantom slick of sweat on my skin. I had dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks—Jax had ironed them for me, surprisingly—but the collar felt like a noose.
I walked toward the Administration Building. It was a gothic nightmare of a structure, all stone gargoyles and looming arches.
The Ethics Board meeting room was on the top floor.
I stepped into the elevator. The doors closed, trapping me in a metal box.
Ding.
The doors opened.
Coach Miller was waiting for me in the hallway. He looked nervous. He was pacing.
"You're late," he snapped, checking his watch.
"I'm on time," I said, my voice raspy.
"You look like hell, Thorne. Did you sleep?"
"No."
"Great. Just what we need. A zombie defending his academic integrity." Miller straightened my collar, a strangely paternal gesture that made me flinch. "Listen to me. They are going to try to trip you up. The Dean is in there. So is Henderson Senior."
I froze. "Henderson is on the board?"
"He's a donor. He insisted on observing." Miller grimaced. "He's going to push you, Spike. He wants you to snap. He wants to prove that an Unbound's son doesn't belong at IMU."
"I won't snap," I said, though the Wolf was already pacing in my chest, snarling at the scent of Henderson's name.
"Good. Go in there. Answer the questions. Don't let them see you bleed."
I nodded. I pushed the heavy oak doors open.
The room was vast. A long, polished table sat in the center. Behind it sat five people. The Dean (a human with a comb-over), two professors I didn't know, Dr. Aris (Riley’s boss), and Henderson Senior.
Henderson smiled when he saw me. It was a shark's smile.
"Mr. Thorne," the Dean said, shuffling papers. "Please. Sit."
I sat in the single chair facing the tribunal. It felt like an interrogation.
"We are here to assess your comprehension of the course material for History of Shifter Warfare," the Dean began. "Given the... unusual improvement in your grades."
"I studied," I said flatly.
"With Miss Bennett," Henderson cut in. His voice was oily. "The Latent tutor."
"Yes."
"Is it true you spent a weekend alone with her at the Blackwood Cabin?" Henderson asked. "To 'study'?"
"That is irrelevant to the course material," Dr. Aris interjected, looking annoyed. "Stick to the history, Henderson."
"Context is everything, Aris," Henderson countered. He looked at me. "Tell me, Spike. Did you study the Treaty of 1894? Or did you study anatomy?"
The Wolf roared. Kill him.
I gripped the arms of the chair. The wood creaked.
"Ask me a question," I said through gritted teeth. "About the history."
The Dean cleared his throat. "Very well. Mr. Thorne. Explain the significance of the 1902 Uprising and its impact on modern Pack Law."
I took a breath. I closed my eyes. I pictured Riley in the library. I heard her voice.
The Uprising wasn't a rebellion. It was a correction.
"The Uprising of 1902," I began, my voice steadying, "was a direct response to the Council's attempt to regulate breeding rights based on lineage rather than compatibility. The Northern Packs argued that biology overrides bureaucracy."
I opened my eyes. I looked straight at Henderson.
"It established the precedent that a Wolf chooses his own Mate," I said. "Regardless of what the Council—or the donors—think."
Silence.
Dr. Aris nodded slowly. "And the consequences?"
"The establishment of the Free Zone," I continued. "And the recognition of Latent rights. Because the Packs realized that without the genetic diversity Latents provide, the bloodlines become... unstable. Inbred."
I held Henderson's gaze. Like yours.
Henderson's face turned purple.
The questioning continued for an hour. They grilled me on dates, on names, on economic impacts. I answered them all. I stumbled a few times, but I recovered.
Finally, the Dean put his pen down.
"Well," he said, looking surprised. "It appears you do know the material, Mr. Thorne."
"Can I go?" I asked, my shirt sticking to my back with sweat.
"One more thing," Henderson said. He leaned forward. "This... condition of yours. The family history."
"Henderson," Miller warned from the corner.
"It's a valid question of ethics," Henderson insisted. "If you are prone to... episodes... how can we trust your judgment on the ice? Or in the classroom?"
He smiled.
"How can we trust you around a vulnerable student like Miss Bennett?"
The room seemed to tilt.
He knew. Or he suspected. He was baiting me.
"My medical history is private," I said, my voice vibrating with a low growl I couldn't fully suppress.
"Is it?" Henderson stood up. "Because I have reports from the infirmary. An injury to your hand. Iron poisoning. Consistent with punching a wall in a rage."
He tossed a file onto the table.
"You're a danger, boy. Just like your father. And sooner or later, you're going to hurt that girl."
The red haze flooded my vision.
Rip his throat out.
I stood up. The chair flew back, hitting the floor with a crash.
Coach Miller stepped forward. "Spike. Don't."
I looked at Henderson. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to vault over the table and end him.
But then I saw the coffee cup in my mind. The muffin. The note.
You are smarter than you think.
If I hit him, I proved him right. If I hit him, Riley lost her scholarship.
I forced my hands to open. I forced the Wolf down, chaining him in the dark.
"I punched a wall," I said, my voice deadly quiet, "because I refused to punch a man who insulted my team. That’s restraint. That’s control. That’s Ethics."
I picked up the chair and set it upright.
"Am I done?"
The Dean looked at Henderson, then at me. He looked impressed. Or maybe just afraid.
"You passed, Mr. Thorne," the Dean said. "You're eligible for the final."
I didn't say thank you. I turned and walked out.
I made it to the elevator. I made it to the lobby. I made it out the front doors.
Then I collapsed on the stone steps, putting my head between my knees, gasping for air as the panic attack finally hit.
I didn't go to Riley. I couldn't.
I felt toxic. Henderson's words were like poison in my blood. You're going to hurt that girl.
I went to the gym. I lifted until my muscles screamed. Then I went to the ice. I skated until my lungs burned.
I ignored my phone.
Riley (3 missed calls)
Riley: How did it go?
Riley: Spike?
Riley: Where are you?
I couldn't talk to her. If I heard her voice, I would break. And I needed to be unbreakable for the game tomorrow.
I spent the night on the couch in the team lounge at the Hive. I didn't sleep. I watched game tape of the Badgers until my eyes watered.
The next morning—Game Day—I was a robot.
I went through the motions. Breakfast (protein shake). Warm-up (stretching). Tape the stick (black tape, heel to toe).
The locker room was hyped. The music was blasting. The guys were dancing, shouting.
I sat in my stall, staring at the floor.
"You okay, Cap?" Jax asked, sitting next to me.
"Fine."
"You haven't checked your phone in twenty-four hours," Jax noted. "Bennett is worried. She texted me asking if you were alive."
"Tell her to focus on her job," I snapped.
Jax recoiled. "Whoa. Okay. Trouble in paradise?"
"There is no paradise, Jax. There's just the game."
I stood up and put my helmet on. "Let's go."
The game against the Badgers was a war.
They were fast. Dirty. They knew we relied on speed, so they clogged the neutral zone and hit anything that moved.
I played angry. I played mean.
I checked a Badger winger so hard his helmet flew into the third row. I blocked shots with my body, not caring about the bruises. I was a machine.
But I was sloppy.
In the second period, I pinched too early. I tried to force a play. The Badger center stole the puck, skated past me, and scored on a breakaway.
1-0 Badgers.
The crowd groaned.