Chapter
Twelve
VALEK
Each arena has its own distinct personality.
Like people, they reveal themselves through scent first. The obvious notes hit you immediately—sweat, rubber, steel, and the mineral tang from the ice. But beneath those lie the subtler elements that truly define a space.
The soul of the building, if you will.
I pause at the players' entrance, several hours before I'm scheduled to meet my new team, and draw in a deep, appreciative breath. This arena's bouquet filters through my senses—sharper antiseptic than most places, perhaps a bit more salty brine, but otherwise familiar.
My boots click softly against polished concrete as I stroll through empty corridors. I've always preferred to scout new territory alone, unobserved. To taste it, to learn its secrets before others realize I'm even there.
I stop at an intersection where four hallways converge, head tilted slightly, listening. The arena breathes around me—thedistant hum of machinery, occasional metallic pings, the soft whoosh of air through vents.
A sleeping beast with its own heartbeat.
Voices drift from the administrative wing. One deep and controlled, the other high-pitched and agitated. Curiosity pulls me forward, and I risk a glance around the corner.
Ah. There they are.
Thane Belmont—captain, alpha, self-appointed moral compass from the interviews I've seen—stands with his massive arms crossed while Coach rages at him. The smaller man's face has bloomed into an impressive shade of crimson, wisps of white hair flapping like a bird's wings. His smoke-stained mustache quivers with each shouted word.
It seems I'm doomed to hate this coach in record time.
But itisperfect timing. While Superman gets his ass chewed out by the human equivalent of a bulldog, I can explore uninterrupted.
I slip down a side corridor toward the locker rooms, feet barely making a sound despite my height. Years of practice make stealth second nature.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above a water fountain. Silver eyes stare back, framed by hair so pale it looks white under the fluorescents. A few strands have come loose from my swept back undercut, brushing against my skin where a fresh thin scar traces my cheekbone.
Apparently, this arena is not full of top minds. It's incredible no one has noticed me. I stick out like a sore thumb even before I speak.
I trail my fingertips along the nameplates as I move past each stall.
THANE.
PLAGUE.
WHISKEY.
WRAITH.
And then an empty space with a crater where a nameplate once sat. Must be the aftermath of Wraith's infamous meltdown with Daniels.
That space will soon bear my name.
It’s the spot directly beside Wraith's. How fitting—the two most dangerous alphas on the team, side by side.
The stories about Wraith circulate through the hockey world like ghost stories around a campfire. Over seven feet tall. Solid muscle. Mute. Lower face perpetually hidden behind a mask that likely conceals scars worse than the one slashing through his eye. Rumored to have nearly killed the man whose spot I'm taking.
A feral alpha who communicates in growls and broken sign language.
My kind of alpha.
The thought pulls a smile from me as I continue deeper into the facility, moving past the weight room with its gleaming equipment, past the physical therapy suite with its stinging scent of menthol and alcohol. Into the twisted maze of maintenance corridors that form the skeleton of any large arena.
