"I'm fine," he snaps when Whiskey tries to support him. "It was just a bell-ringer."
Whiskey opens his mouth to argue, but catches my eye instead. I shake my head slightly.Not now. Later. Get back in the game.
He gets it. Nods once. Skates back to position.
We're down a man and a half for the rest of the game. I’m sure Wraith's destroying something inanimate to burn off the feral energy I could practically see simmering beneath his skin. And Plague is playing through what's obviously a mild concussion no matter what he claims.
But we win.
And that's what matters.
In spite of that, in the locker room, the mood is... complicated. Wraith changed out of his game uniform before any of us got off the ice. Now he's in gray sweats and a black hoodie, hood pulled up to shadow his face even though he’s wearing the half-balaclava as usual. Even hunched over, trying to make himself smaller, he still dwarfs the bench he's sitting on. His right knuckles are bleeding through his fingerless gloves—he definitely punched something, probablymultiplesomethings—and he won't let the trainer near him.
"Hell of a game, boys," Whiskey says with a low chuckle as he strips off his pads, revealing the mass of bruises already forming on his ribs and shoulders across his thick, muscled frame."Wraith, bro, I think that kid's still in orbit. Isn't that the second winger you've destroyed in two weeks? First Daniels, nowthispoor fucker."
Wraith doesn't react.
"It wasn't necessary, either," Plague mutters, stripped down to his boxers and the undershirt he doesn't like to take off. He's wearing one of his usual disposable surgical masks, too. Says he hates the way locker rooms smell, but I know it's really because he hates germs.
"I dunno, man. You were on your ass for a solid minute."
"I'mfine,Whiskey," Plague grits out.
I decide to leave them to their usual bickering and check on my brother, who's still just sitting there on the bench, tense enough he isn't moving a muscle. He's been off since Berthold harassed him about his mask. Getting kicked off the ice is just part of why he's stressed out.
"You good?" I ask Wraith, settling onto the bench across from him. I push my shaggy dark hair out of my face and take a swig from my water.
Wraith's blue eyes flick to mine, then away, and he nods once. His hands move, signing slowly like he's exhausted.
He hurt Plague.
"I know," I say, signing along with my speech.
Couldn't let it stand.
"I know," I say again, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. "But Wraith…" I pause, making sure he's really hearing me. "Youneed to be careful. The league's already watching you. Another incident like this and they could suspend you."
I don’t need to remind Wraith they’re wary of him because of his latent feral nature. He knows. It isn’t common for alphas with a history of ferality to be capable of playing professional hockey in the first place without losing their shit every time there’s a confrontation. There are higher-ups who would rather see him off the ice for good.
Wraith’s jaw tightens beneath the mask. I can tell by the way the fabric shifts and pulls.
Don't care.
"Icare." I stand, reaching out to grip his massive shoulder. He tenses hard under my touch. "We're a pack. We protect each other. But we do it in a way that keeps us all on the ice, yeah?"
He nods.
I'll take it.
"Alright," I say, pushing to my feet and using every inch of my frame to command the room. "Plague, you need to get your head checked. Whiskey, stop antagonizing him before you end up with a concussion yourself. Wraith, ice your hand."
Grumbling. Muttering. A few creative insults I pretend not to hear.
But I'm not just the captain, and we're not just the core of the Ghosts team.
We're the Ghostspack.
A family.
