Chapter 8
Zoe
The Ice Box was screaming.
It wasn't a roar; it was a shriek, a cacophony of thousands of students, alumni, and townies crammed into the metal bleachers, banging thunder sticks, stomping their feet, and baying for blood.
The air smelled of popcorn, stale beer, and aggression. It was hot, humid, and suffocating.
I hated it. And I loved it.
I stood in the "WAGs" section—Wives and Girlfriends—though I wasn't officially either. I was a "neighbor." A "tutor." A "girl wearing number sixty-six’s away jersey because she stole it from his laundry basket."
The jersey was huge on me. It reached my mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up three times to free my hands. On the back, in bold white letters against the midnight blue fabric, was the name: THORNE.
Wearing it felt like wearing a target. It also felt like wearing a promise.
"They're going to kill them," Mia yelled over the noise, clutching my arm. "Did you see the size of their center? He looks like he was bred in a laboratory specifically to destroy happiness."
The Timber Wolves were playing the Duluth Bulldogs—their arch-rivals. The Bulldogs were a shifter team, too. Everyone knew it, though no one said it. You could see it in the way they moved, the supernatural speed, the unnatural size.
Down on the ice, it wasn't a game. It was a turf war.
I gripped the cold metal railing, scanning the ice. The players were a blur of blue and red, skates carving violently into the white surface.
I wasn't looking for the puck. I was looking for him.
There.
Rory was patrolling the blue line. He moved differently than the others. He didn't skate; he stalked. He was lower to the ice, his center of gravity dropped (thanks to those squats), his stick held like a weapon.
He looked terrifying.
His helmet visor was tinted, hiding his eyes, but I knew what they looked like. I knew the gold would be flaring. I knew the Wolf would be pushing against his skin, demanding release.
Be careful, Rory. Please be careful.
A Bulldog winger broke away, speeding toward the goal. He was fast—shifter fast.
Rory intercepted.
He didn't check him. He obliterated him.
Rory lowered his shoulder and stepped into the lane. The collision sounded like a car crash. CRACK.
The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers. The Bulldog player flew backward, hitting the ice and sliding ten feet.
Rory didn't taunt. He didn't celebrate. He just stood over the fallen player for a split second—a silent, dominant pause—before turning and skating back to position.
"Jesus," Mia breathed. "Is that legal?"
"Clean hit," I said automatically, though my stomach churned. It was clean, but it was violent. It was the violence he feared lived in his blood.
I watched him skate to the bench for a line change. As he sat down, ripping his water bottle off the ledge, he looked up.
He didn't scan the crowd. He looked straight at section C, row 4, seat 12.
He looked at me.
Even through the tinted visor, I felt the weight of his gaze. He nodded once—a sharp, almost imperceptible dip of his chin.
I see you. You anchor me.
I touched the railing, sending a silent message back. I’m here.
"Okay," Mia whispered, nudging me. "That was intense. You guys just had a telepathic conversation, didn't you?"
"Maybe."
"Disgusting. I love it."
The game restarted. The energy in the arena shifted. The Bulldogs were angry now. They weren't playing for the puck anymore; they were playing for revenge.
The violence escalated.
High sticks. Slashes behind the referee's back. Late hits.
Rory was the target. Every time he touched the puck, two red jerseys swarmed him. They were trying to goad him. They were trying to make him fight. If he fought, he got a penalty. If he fought too hard—if he went Feral—he lost everything.
"They're headhunting," I murmured, my knuckles white on the railing. "They're trying to make him snap."
"He’s keeping it together," Mia said soothingly.
"For now."
Third period. Tie game. 2-2.
The tension was so thick you could choke on it. The crowd was standing. The chant began, low and rhythmic. “Let’s go Wolves! Let’s go Wolves!”
Rory was on the ice. He had been playing heavy minutes. I could see the fatigue in the way he stood during the whistles, hands on his knees, chest heaving.
The puck dropped.
Rory took possession behind his own net. He looked up ice, looking for a breakout pass.
That’s when it happened.
He didn't see the Bulldog enforcer coming from his blind side. It was a dirty hit—late, high, and aimed at the head.
BANG.
Rory’s head snapped back. His helmet flew off, skittering across the ice. He crumpled.
He didn't move.
The arena went silent. Fifty thousand people, and you could hear a pin drop.
My heart stopped. I mean it literally stopped beating. The world turned gray at the edges.
"Rory," I whispered.
He lay face down on the ice, motionless.
The referee blew the whistle frantically. The trainer ran out.
"Oh god," Mia squeezed my hand. "Oh god, Zoe."
I couldn't breathe. I was back in the kitchen, watching the blender shatter. Fragile. Breakable. Even monsters could break.
Then, a movement.
Rory’s hand twitched. He pushed himself up to his knees. He shook his head, looking dazed.
Blood was dripping from his nose onto the white ice. Bright, stark red against the pristine surface.
He looked up. His eyes were wild. Unfocused.
And then they found me again.
Even from this distance, I saw it. The gold was gone. His eyes were black.
The Wolf was in control.
He stood up. He shrugged off the trainer. He didn't look at the bench. He turned toward the Bulldog player who had hit him—number 44.
Number 44 was smirking.
Rory dropped his gloves.
"No," I gasped. "Rory, don't."
If he fought now, in this state, he wouldn't stop. He would kill him.
Rory skated toward 44. The crowd realized what was happening and started screaming again, a bloodthirsty roar.
“KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”
Rory grabbed 44 by the jersey. He didn't throw a punch. He just... growled.
It was a sound that the microphones picked up. A low, vibrating rumble that sounded like a tectonic plate shifting. It wasn't human.
Number 44’s smirk vanished. He looked terrified. He tried to back away, but Rory held him fast.
Rory pulled back his fist.
I closed my eyes. Please. Please think of me. Please think of the C plus. Please think of the date.
He froze.
His fist hovered in the air. He was shaking, vibrating with the effort of holding back years of instinct.
He looked up at the WAGs section one last time.
He lowered his hand.
He shoved 44 away with a disdainful push that sent the large man sprawling.
Rory turned his back on him. He skated to the penalty box, sat down, and put his head in his hands.
The crowd was confused. They wanted blood.
I let out a sob of relief, slumping against Mia.
"He didn't do it," Mia whispered, awestruck. "He walked away."
He hadn't walked away because he was weak. He had walked away because he was strong.
He had walked away for me.
The post-game wait was agonizing.
The Wolves had won in overtime—a miracle goal by the captain—but I didn't care. I stood in the concrete tunnel outside the locker room, leaning against the cold wall, shivering in my oversized jersey.
WAGs waited here. Girls with perfect hair and heels, checking their makeup, waiting for their champions.
I just wanted to see if he was okay.
The door opened. Steam and noise spilled out.
Players started trickling out. They looked exhausted, battered, high on adrenaline.
Then, him.
Rory walked out. He was still in his gear, minus the helmet. His hair was wet with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He had a butterfly bandage over his nose, which was swollen and turning purple. There was a bruise blooming on his jaw.
He looked wrecked.
He saw me.
He didn't smile. He didn't say hello. He just walked straight to me.
He didn't care about the other players. He didn't care about the girls watching.
He reached me and slammed me against the concrete wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to feel the impact.
He buried his face in my neck.
He was burning up. His skin was scorching hot against mine. He smelled of sweat, blood, ice, and pure, concentrated pheromones.
"You're okay," I whispered, my hands flying to his hair, holding him close. "You're okay."
"I almost lost it," he rasped against my skin. His voice was raw. "Zoe. I almost killed him. I wanted to tear his throat out."
"But you didn't," I said fiercely. "You stopped. You chose."
"I heard you," he mumbled. "In my head. You were screaming 'don't'. That’s the only reason he’s still walking."
He pulled back, looking at me. His eyes were still dark, the pupils blown wide. He looked drugged with violence.
"I need..." He trailed off, his gaze dropping to my lips. "I need to come down. I need to be grounded."
"Let’s go home," I said.
"Can't," he groaned. "Coach is keeping us for film. Another hour. Mandatory."
He looked tortured.
"Rory!"
We both turned. A man in a suit was standing near the locker room door. He had a clipboard. He looked official.
"Scout," Rory whispered. "Detroit."
The man walked over. He looked at Rory, then at me, then at the position we were in—Rory crowding me against the wall, his hands on my waist.
"Thorne," the scout said. "Hell of a game. That hit in the second? NHL caliber."
"Thanks," Rory grunted, not moving away from me.
"But the third period," the scout continued, his eyes narrowing. "You took a shot to the head. You looked... unstable for a minute there. Hesitant."
"I was clearing the cobwebs," Rory lied smoothly.
"Sure." The scout tapped his pen on his clipboard. "We like aggression in Detroit, son. But we don't like hesitation. And we don't like loose cannons. You walked away from a fight. Some people might call that discipline. Others might call it soft."
Rory stiffened. I felt his muscles bunch under my hands.
"I don't care what people call it," Rory said coldly. "We got the win."
The scout raised an eyebrow. "Fair enough. Keep it up. We're watching."
He walked away.
Rory sagged against me, letting out a long breath.