Page 93 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

The locker room door slams open hard enough to crack against the wall.

The man who fills the doorway is built like a gladiator forced into retirement and still furious about it. An eyepatch covers his left eye, the leather strap disappearing into shaggy hair gone gray at the temples too early.

His remaining eye lands on me.

"The fuck is this?" he demands.

"Geo, I presume?" I ask. "I'm Valek Carter. A pleasure."

"I know who you are," the Demons' new coach grits out. "What I don't know is why you're in my locker room when you play for the other fucking team."

"Catching up with old acquaintances." I incline my head toward the door. "I was just leaving."

Geo's eye narrows. He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't have grounds to throw me out either. Not without looking paranoid in front of his players.

"Five minutes," he barks at the room. "Anyone not ready to hit the ice gets benched." His glare cuts to Wade specifically. "Move, Kelly. You can run your mouth on your own time."

The room scrambles into motion. Players who were lounging snap to attention. Equipment gets yanked on with sudden urgency. The atmosphere shifts from pre-game bravado to genuine tension.

Geo watches it all with the expression of a man who's seen everything and found it all equally disappointing.

I slip toward the exit, nodding to Nikolai as I pass. He returns it with the barest inclination of his head.

Wade intercepts me at the door.

"This isn't over." His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. His perfect face is flushed with fury, the golden-boy mask slipping. "You think you can come into my locker room and⁠—"

"Your locker room?" I let my smile widen. "I was under the impression this arena belonged to the Ghosts."

"You know what I fucking mean."

"I rarely do. When it comes to you."

I extend my hand. A peace offering, to anyone watching. Just two professionals parting on cordial terms.

Wade hesitates. He knows I'm not sincere. He isn't quite that stupid. But refusing a handshake in front of his team would make him look weak. His ego won't allow that.

He reaches out and clasps my palm.

I squeeze.

His eyes go wide. I watch the color drain from his face as I grind the bones of his hand together, focusing pressure on the fifth metacarpal—right where his missing finger used to be.

His mouth opens. Only the thin wheeze of trapped air comes out.

I release him and give him my most pleasant smile.

"May the best man win."

Chapter 17

Thane

Plague stands to my left, calm despite the pre-game chaos. Valek hovers at the edge of our group.

No Wraith.

Again.