Page 82 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Can't do anything except collapse on this cold concrete floor with my hands buried in my hair, fingers digging into my scalp hard enough to hurt, trying to anchor myself to something—anything—that isn't the spiraling horror of knowing the entire world knows what I am.

A wraith wearing the skin of a dead boy.

Chapter 14

Ivy

Thousands of voices from fans blend together into white noise filling the entire arena. I'm sandwiched in the stands between fans in matching jerseys and college guys who've already had too many overpriced beers.

There's no way anyone knows I'm here.

But the face gaiter keeping me invisible is fucking miserable. I keep having to pull it away from my face so it doesn't stick to my mouth.

How the hell does Wraith wear these things all the time?

The massive screen above the ice flickers to life with the pre-game highlights. The Demons logo splashes across first, red and black with a horned demon with tongue lolling out, and then…

Wade's perfect face fills the screen.

My stomach lurches.

He's mid-celebration in the clip, arms raised, white chiclet teeth gleaming as he soaks in the crowd's adoration.

The golden boy of professional hockey.

America's sweetheart with the tragic missing fiancée.

Former fiancée.

Escaped fiancée.

I can barely breathe until the screen switches to the Ghosts lineup.

Thane appears first, crouched low in the goal crease. His dark eyes have that look that makes rookies dump the puck and skate the other direction. The captain's C on his chest looks less like an honor and more like a threat.

Plague cuts across the blue line in the next clip, reading the play three moves ahead like always. His light eyes track the puck as he pivots, dark hair whipping behind him. He makes everything look easy.

Then Whiskey absolutely demolishes someone into the boards.

The hit rattles the camera. He's grinning like a maniac behind his face shield, clearly having the time of his goddamn life while the other guy's soul leaves his body.

And then Wraith.

Holy shit.

The clip catches him mid-stride, his towering form bearing down on some huge defenseman who still looks like he's reconsidering every choice that led him to this moment. Wraith's eyes—those same blue eyes that soften and warm when he looks at me—are cold and fixed on his target.

He looks like something you'd summon on accident and spend the rest of your very short life regretting.

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.

Because this is the Wraith everyone else sees. The reason opposing teams have a buddy system.

Meanwhile, the real Wraith can't make eggs without setting off the smoke detector and sleeps wrapped around me like an octopus with separation anxiety.

This morning, before we left, he spent ten minutes crouched by the dumpster outside the pack house with a can of tuna, trying unsuccessfully to lure the disinterested stray cat that lurks around the property.

He is a complete sweetheart and they have no idea.