Seven
WHISKEY
The puck slams into my stick with a satisfyingthwack, and I'm off like a shot down the ice. My legs pump as I weave between defenders, eyes locked on the goal. Just me and the net now. I wind up, muscles coiling?—
And completely whiff the shot.
The puck skitters pathetically wide as I overbalance and crash into the boards, landing flat on my ass. For a moment, I just lay there, bewildered.
What the actual fuck was that?
"What in the name of Wayne Gretzky's jockstrap is going on out there?" Coach bellows, face turning an alarming shade of purple. The thin white hair barely clinging to his shiny head flaps wildly. "My grandmother could run this drill better, and she's been dead for twenty-three goddamn years!"
He's right. We're a mess out there. But it's not just rust or an off day. Wraith being gone has been throwing off our entire dynamic.
We’re not just teammates, after all.
We’re apack.
Wraith taking off once in a while isn't exactly unusual, but this feels different. Like it’s straining at our pack bonds.
Practice limps on for another excruciating hour. By the time Coach finally dismisses us, we're all in foul moods. I yank off my helmet, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair as I trudge toward the locker room.
"Hey." Thane falls into step beside me. "You wanna grab a beer after this? Looks like we could all use one."
I shake my head. "Rain check. Got some stuff to take care of."
Thane raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it.
In the locker room, I strip off my gear on autopilot, mind churning. Something's not right. I can feel it in my bones, that same sixth sense that kept me alive in combat screaming that there's more going on than just Wraith being antisocial.
I'm still mulling it over as I hop in the shower. The hot water does little to ease the tension knotting my shoulders. Hoping it'll clear my head, I stay under the spray longer than usual.
It doesn't.
When I finally come back out, towel slung low on my hips, the locker room is mostly empty. Only Thane and Plague remain, deep in conversation by Thane's stall. They fall silent as I approach, which only ratchets up my suspicion another notch.
"Alright, spill it," I say, crossing my arms. "What's really going on with Wraith?"
Thane's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. "Like I said earlier, he just needs some space. You know how he gets sometimes."
I snort. "Bullshit. This is different and you know it."
"Whiskey—" Plague starts, but I cut him off with a look.
"Don't 'Whiskey' me." I turn back to Thane. "He won't answer texts. He missed practice. Hell, even you seem worried under that zen master act. So I'll ask again. What's. Going. On?"
For a long moment, Thane just studies me. I meet his gaze steadily, refusing to back down. Finally, he sighs.
"Honestly? I don't know." He scrubs a hand over his face, and for the first time, I notice how wiped he looks. "You're right, this isn't his usual disappearing act. But I don't have any more information than you do."
"Have you checked the tunnels?" I ask. "You know he likes to hide out down there sometimes."
Thane nods. "First place I looked. No sign of him."
"What about?—"
"I've checked everywhere, Whiskey," Thane interrupts, a rare edge of frustration in his voice. "If he doesn't want to be found, I won't find him. Period."
