Seven minutes until Frank comes belching into the room. More than enough time to slip out and disappear into the labyrinth of maintenance tunnels I've mentally mapped.
I do one final sweep of the room, kill the lights, and ease open the door, pausing to listen. The corridor stretches out in both directions, lit by emergency strips and a few overhead caged bulbs. The hum of the refrigeration system masks smaller sounds, but I've learned to listen through it.
Nothing.
I slip out, pulling the door closed behind me with a soft click.
The knowledge the Ghosts will be back soon eats at me as I navigate the maze of maintenance tunnels I've memorized in the dark. The team has been gone for a couple of weeks on a brutal stretch of away games that had them bouncing from city to city.
When I first got here, the team was mid-season andeverywhere. Practices, meetings, media days—the arena was a constant hive of activity. I spent the first couple of weeks barely leaving my room, which is when I started to feel decidedly… crittery.
Omegas don't do well underground.
So I can't just hide while the Ghosts are back. But I can't risk one of them spotting me and recognizing me as Wade Kelly's missing ex, either.
Shit's about to getcomplicated.
Chapter
Two
THANE
The Warriors' center takes the face-off like he's got something to prove.
Poor bastard.
I settle into my crease, watching the puck drop through the cage of my mask. My legs are loose, my glove hand ready, my mind already three plays ahead.
Whiskey easily wins the face-off—his bulky six-five frame makes him look like a grizzly bear on ice—and they’re off.
A shot comes from the point. I track it easily, catching it in my glove with a satisfyingthwap. The whistle blows. My defensemen tap my pads as they skate past. It’s routine, automatic, the small rituals that keep us connected even though they're not part of the pack core. Not all teams are lucky enough to have a bonded pack of alphas serving as the beating heart, but the Ghosts are.
"Nice save, Cap," Whiskey calls from center ice, already lining up for the next face-off, his honey-brown eyes bright with adrenaline.
I don't respond. Don't need to. He knows I heard him.
The puck drops again, and this time the Warriors win possession. Their right winger carries it into our zone with decent speed, but he makes the mistake of cutting toward the boards.
Where Wraith is waiting.
I see the moment the winger realizes his error. His head comes up, eyes going wide behind his visor as over seven feet of silent menace materializes in his path. My brother's massive frame blocks out the arena lights like an eclipse. The Warriors' winger tries to pull up, to change direction, but it's too late.
Wraith doesn't hit him. Doesn't need to. Just angles his body to cut off the lane, forcing the winger to dump the puck into the corner and retreat like his skates are on fire.
Wraith retrieves the puck, agile despite his insane size. Before he passes it off, I catch his gloved fingers brushing the edge of his half-balaclava where it slipped down a fraction of an inch. Quick. Automatic. Making sure it hasn't shifted to expose more of the scarring than the one that cuts through his right eye.
The play moves up ice, and I let myself breathe for a moment. Watch. Assess.
Plague has the puck now, skating through the neutral zone with that effortless glide that makes other players look like they're trudging through mud. He more than makes up for his lean, elegant build with lethal agility, his long black hair streaming behind him. His pale blue eyes read the ice like a chess board. Two Warriors converge on him—bad idea—and he splits them without breaking stride, leaving them tangled up in each other.
He doesn't celebrate. Doesn't even change expression. Just keeps skating, eyes flicking over the ring.
Whiskey, on the other hand, is a one-man highlight reel of chaos. He barrels toward the net like a freight train, drawing defenders with his sheer mass and unpredictability. The Warriors' goalie is already cheating toward Whiskey's side, expecting the shot.
Whiskey doesn't shoot.
Instead, he drops the puck back to Plague, who one-times it into the top corner before the goalie can react.
