Probably Plague, always the early riser.
I roll over, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. No new messages. The knot in my stomach tightens.
Wraith still hasn't come home.
He never texts in the pack group chat, but he usually at least acknowledges the private texts I send him. Even if it's just an "ok" or a "yes" or a "no." Even signing, he's a man of few words.
Veryfew words.
But this time, he's just leaving me on read.
At least I know he's alive.
My eyes flick over the barrage of texts from Coach. He's making it clear in no uncertain terms that he wants Wraith back at practice today. We'll be introduced to the new winger, Valek, tonight. And we all need to show we're a cohesive team "or so help me God."
It'd be funny coming from anyone else, but Coach is a human volcano and my nerves are frayed enough without dealing with one of his nuclear meltdowns.
Frayed because I'm the closest pack member to Wraith by a mile, and for the first time, the bond we shared as brothers feels strained.
With a sigh, I push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Part of me wants to stay in bed. But that's not an option. Not when I have a team depending on me.
I stand, stretching out muscles still stiff from yesterday's practice. My shoulders pop, a reminder of the hits I took during our scrimmage. It wasn't our best showing. Too many missed passes, too many sloppy plays with Wraith's absence looming over us.
As I make my way to the bathroom to shave and run a comb through my shaggy hair, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The dark circles under my eyes are standing out more than usual. I look... tired. Worn the fuck out. Not at all like the unflappable captain I'm supposed to be.
Get it together, Thane, I tell myself, splashing cold water on my face.
The cool water helps clear some of the fog from my mind, but not all of it. Where is Wraith? Is he okay? And how the hell are we going to handle Valek's arrival with everything so unsettled?
By the time I make my way downstairs, I've managed to school my features into something resembling calm confidence. It's a mask I've worn so often, it almost feels natural now.
The kitchen is exactly as I expected. Plague is at the stove, methodically flipping pancakes while a pot of coffee brews nearby.
"Morning," I grunt, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
Plague doesn't turn from his task, but I see his shoulders tense slightly at the sound of my voice. "Any word?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.
I pour myself a mug of coffee, taking a long sip before answering. The bitter liquid burns its way down my throat. "Nothing," I finally admit. "You?"
Plague shakes his head, sliding a perfectly golden pancake onto a growing stack. "Not a peep. Whiskey's been up half the night pacing. I could hear him through the walls. Thought breakfast might make him feel better."
I grimace. Whiskey's always been the most outwardly affected by team drama. He may act like a wild, unpredictable bull, but military background makes him crave structure and routine. When things get chaotic, he tends to spiral. It's something I'll need to keep an eye on today.
Especially since we'll be meeting Valek later.
"What about you?" I ask, leaning against the counter. "How are you holding up?"
Plague's hands still for just a moment, his back still to me. When he speaks, his voice is low and controlled as usual. "I'm fine. It's not the first time Wraith's pulled a disappearing act."
No, it's not.
But it's the first time he's done it with a new player joining the team. The timing couldn't be worse, and we both know it.
I'm about to press further when the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupts us. Moments later, Whiskey appears in the doorway, looking like he hasn't slept a wink. His brown hair is a mess, his brown eyes look darker than their usual honey shade, and his t-shirt is rumpled like he's been tossing and turning all night.
"Any news?" he asks without preamble, scratching at the light stubble on his jaw as he looks between Plague and me.
I shake my head, and Whiskey's face falls. He slumps into one of the kitchen chairs, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
