Page 312 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Fuck.

I point to her phone sticking out of her pocket.

She pulls it out and reads Whiskey's texts. Her eyebrows climb up, and she blinks, but then she types back to Whiskey. I try not to look at her screen, because it's hers, but my own lights up anyway since he texted the whole fucking group chat.

IVY

I can't wait!

I stare at her in shock, my hands already coming up. I could hurt you. We don't even know if it's safe.

"You won't."

You don't know that.

"I know you."

I shake my head harder, the motion pulling at the gaiter and sending another spike of pain through my jaw. My teeth are not like theirs. And I can't control the pressure. I don't have fucking lips to⁠—

Ivy catches my hands.

"That's what the trip to Cedarbrook is for, right?" she asks softly. "Your pain could even be because you didn't finish your appointment. Talk to your doctor. See what they say. And then we figure it out."

The tightness in my chest doesn't ease up, but I can't fully spiral into the dark with her in my lap like this.

I nod and she settles back against me, tucking herself into the curve of my chest, and pulls the blanket tighter. Below the tinted glass, the Ghosts and the Wasps line up on the ice.

"Best seat in the house," she announces, wiggling to get comfortable.

I huff through my nose.

She tips her head back against my collarbone to look up at me, grinning. "What? It is. I've got popcorn, a heated box, a blanket, and a giant alpha chair." She pats my thigh. "Premium and ergonomic."

You're ridiculous.

"And you love it."

I do.

My phone buzzes again.

WHISKEY

also thane says hi and to stop worrying

(he's totally worrying too btw)

we got this game don't stress

ok I gotta go hit shit now byeeeee

The crowd starts roaring as I'm finishing reading the texts. Below us, Thane skates to the net. Whiskey is already jawing at the Wasps' center across the face-off circle, and Plague glides past Valek with his stick low.

The puck drops.

My hand twitches against the armrest and my weight shifts forward in the chair. Below, Whiskey wins the face-off and sends it back to Plague, and my legs tense as if the ice itself is calling me down from the fucking box.

The rest of the roster that isn't part of the core pack fills the gaps well enough, Whiskey's playing wider to compensate, burning more energy covering ground that used to be mine, and Plague's shifts run fifteen seconds longer than they should. Valek is adjusting—he's sharp enough to read the gap and fill it—but it's not the same.