The horn blares. The crowd erupts.
"THAT'S WHAT I'M FUCKIN' TALKING ABOUT!" Whiskey roars, throwing his arms up as he crashes into Plague for a celebratory hug that Plague clearly does not want.
"Get off me," Plague says flatly, shoving at Whiskey's chest with one gloved hand, his sophisticated demeanor cracking just enough to show genuine irritation.
"Come on, bro, bring it in! That was beautiful!"
The second period starts with the Warriors playing desperate. Bodies crash into the boards. Sticks hack at ankles. Their enforcer—Berthold, a thick-necked alpha who thinks he's tough shit—has been running his mouth all period.
"Hey, freak!" Berthold calls toward Wraith during a stoppage. "What's under the mask? You hiding something ugly under there?"
My grip tightens on my stick. I'm too far away to intervene without leaving my crease, but I'm already calculating how long it will take me to get there if things go south.
Wraith doesn't react. Just stands there, still as a statue, those burning blue eyes fixed on Berthold with an intensity that should be setting off every survival instinct the guy has.
"I'm talking to you, mute." Berthold skates closer, puffing up his chest. "Everyone wants to know. You got a fucked-up face? That why you hide like a little bitch?"
I can hear Wraith's low growl from across the fucking rink. I start skating over to keep him from turning Berthold inside out.
Whiskey gets there first. "Hey, Berthold," he says in a mocking sing-song, his voice carrying across the ice as he skates up. "You know what they call it when you pick a fight with someone twice your size who could literally rip your arms off?"
Berthold's bravado wavers. "What?"
"Natural selection, bro!"
The ref drops the puck.
Wraith wins the face-off.
Midway through the third period, one of the Warriors decides to be a hero. Their left winger—a kid barely out of juniors with more balls than brains—catches Plague with his head down along the boards. Plague goes down hard, his long black hair whipping across his face as his head snaps back and he crumples to the ice.
The whistle blows.
Time stops.
Plague isn't moving.
Shit.I'm already pushing off my crease when I see Wraith change direction. He was nowhere near the play, but now he's cutting across the rink at breakneck speed.
The kid who threw the hit is celebrating. Pumping his fist. Grinning at his teammates like he just won the fucking Stanley Cup.
He doesn't see Wraith coming.
The force of the slam sends the winger airborne. He flies backward, helmet bouncing off the ice when he lands, and slides into the boards with a crash that echoes through the roaring arena.
The winger doesn't get up.
Neither did Plague, but I at least see him stirring now, pushing himself onto his hands and knees while Whiskey hovers nearby, apparently thinking verbally harassing Plague is going to get him up faster.
To be fair, it does.
The refs swarm, whistles shrieking. Wraith just stands there, staring down at the crumpled Warrior like he's not sure if he's done yet. His chest heaves beneath his jersey. His gloved hand twitches toward his face—checking the mask, always checking—but he catches himself and forces it back down.
"Misconduct!" one of the refs is screaming. "You're out of here!"
Wraith doesn't acknowledge him. Just turns and skates toward the bench, not looking at anyone. The crowd is going insane. Some fans are cheering, some are booing, andallof them are losing their minds with excitement at the display of violence on the ice.
Plague is on his feet now, waving off the trainer who's trying to examine him. His face is a few shades paler than its usual bronze beneath his curtain of long black hair, but his eyes are sharp and wary as he watches Wraith disappear down the tunnel.
