Page 96 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Fuck, would it really be so risky to text her?

The horn sounds.

Warm-up is over.

We file back through the tunnel, skates clicking against rubber matting. The locker room is controlled chaos. Last-minute equipment checks, tape jobs, the low murmur of players getting their heads right. Coach paces near the whiteboard, barking final instructions that blur into background noise.

I find the pack clustered near our lockers, away from the rookies who are still giving Wraith too much space.

"Everyone good?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

Whiskey nods, bouncing slightly on his skates. "Born ready, bro."

Plague leans against his locker, arms crossed. "The Demons are agitated. During warm-up, Wade kept losing his temper. We can exploit that."

"Do it." I look at each of them in turn. My pack. My brothers. "Play smart. Stay focused. Don't give anyone a reason to throw flags."

My eyes land on Wraith last.

He meets my gaze steadily, and for a moment, I see past the mask, past the feral glint, past all the walls he's built to survive. I see my brother who I love with my whole fucking heart, in tremendous pain, and I hope to gods isn't going to lose himself to ferality when he's face-to-face with Wade.

You've got this, brother, I sign.

His eyes soften slightly. He still looks fucking devastated, but he doesn't look like he's about to come completely unglued, either.

He can do this. I know he can.

And I have to trust him.

"Two minutes!" someone shouts.

We move as one toward the tunnel entrance. The fog machines have kicked on, artificial mist swirling in the darkness ahead.

Lights strobe. Music pounds.

Our names echo through the speakers as we take the ice one by one.

When Wraith emerges from the fog like his namesake, the crowd reaction splits. Cheers from our faithful, louder jeers and taunts and yells from the assholes.

More aggressive and ugly than usual.

The feral edge in Wraith's eyes hardens, and I have to watch him breathing to steel himself without being able to actually go to his side.

Then Whiskey coasts through the fog in a full Herculean flex, not even moving his feet, and almost flattens Plague.

The crowd goes wild, and forgets about Wraith.

The Demons emerge from their tunnel next to a wall of angry roars from our fans, Wade leading them out with swagger. His eyes drift toward us and his lip curls.

Something is different with him tonight.

He knows something's up.

He just doesn't know what.

I settle into my familiar crouch, stick planted, eyes tracking the puck as the centers prepare for face-off.

The puck drops.