Page 56 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Cool." Whiskey hauls the carry-ons down and hands Plague's to him. "Remember the house rules and we're good."

The threat in those words is subtle but unmistakable.

Stay away from our omega.

We disembark and make our way through the terminal. I'm immediately aware of the attention we're drawing. Three professional hockey players traveling together. The phones come out instantly.

"Oh my god! The Ghosts!" Someone shouts. "Can we get a picture?"

"Of course!" Whiskey booms, already moving toward the small crowd gathering.

I consider making a break for it, but that would look suspicious. So I paste on my charming public face and join the photo op.

Plague hangs back, but Whiskey grabs his arm and drags him forward. "Come on, don't be antisocial."

We pose for what feels like a hundred photos. Fans asking about the season, about me joining the team, about the upcoming game against the Demons. I answer with my usual aloofness, which they eat up anyway, giving them just enough to seem engaged without revealing anything real.

Whiskey, naturally, is in his element. Cracking jokes, making fans laugh, being the lovable teddy bear everyone is comfortable with. If they knew he's capable of full-blown grizzly mode, they would be even more obsessed. What they've seen on the ice is nothing compared to what he's really capable of.

Finally, we manage to extract ourselves from the crowd and head toward baggage claim. My single bag appears quickly, then Plague's. Whiskey's was apparently the last one loaded.

"Seriously?" he mutters, watching bag after bag that isn't his circle past. "This is bullshit."

"Patience," Plague says without sympathy.

"I don't have patience. I'm a Leo."

Whiskey's bag finally appears, bright red and impossible to miss with the stickers of his likeness plastered all over it. They were clearly gifts from fans, and from the looks of it, he makes room for every single one.

How cute.

I hate him.

The glass doors slide open to reveal the pickup area. Cars and rideshares creating their usual chaos. I'm already pulling out my phone to call an Uber when Whiskey comes up alongside me.

"Ride with us," he says.

"No thank you," I reply flatly.

"Dude, we flew here together. You riding separately is gonna look weird and suspicious to the fans. If you're gonna be on our team, you have to act like it. We don't need fans to go wild with conspiracy theories right now."

He doesn't need to say why. I know. It's because of the omega they're protecting. The omega who bludgeoned me with a fire extinguisher and branded her honeysuckle scent on every cell in my body. The omega I haven't been able to stop thinking about, even in the back of my mind.

He has a point. Annoyingly.

"Fine," I concede.

"It's my car," Plague points out, leading us toward the parking garage. "I should have a say in who⁠—"

"We would've taken my ride if Wraith and Thane hadn't had a brotherly brawl in the parking garage and flattened my beautiful bike," Whiskey interrupts him. "And you refuse to take Ubers because they smell funny."

Plague pinches the bridge of his nose. "What do the fans call you? A himbo, is it?"

"Himbo king specifically," Whiskey corrects, grabbing both his and Plague's luggage before Plague gets a chance. "I'll take that before you break a nail, Ice Prince."

I follow them through the garage, amused by their continued bitching despite my general irritation with existence. Plague's car is exactly what I expected. A sleek black sedan, meticulously maintained, likely has UV-sterilizing lights in the interior. He unlocks it with a click and Whiskey immediately moves to the passenger door, opening it for him with a flourish.

"After you, babe."