And as the pack leader, keeping these psychos alive is just as much my job as winning games.
Fuck,I need this break.
Chapter
Three
IVY
The Ghosts are back from their away stretch, and the arena has been transformed into a hive of chaos.
I haven't actually seen any of the players yet. The first and last time I did, it was from afar, the first time I saw the Ghosts play the Demons. The Ghosts absolutely fuckingdemolishedthe Demons. The fact I saw Wade's "humiliation" in person had triggered a category five meltdown, so I've diligently avoided pretty much everything related to the Ghosts since, including their games.
Well. Except for hiding in their arena, I guess.
The chances of them recognizing me are way too high, even with my hair dyed brown. I’ve been careful to avoid them, timing my movements to avoid the hours when they're most likely to be around. They’re on break for now and don’t have any games scheduled for the next couple of weeks, but that doesn't mean they'll be in the pack house all the time.
And naturally, because the Ghosts are back, the arena staff arewaymore active than they were before.
It's made everything so much fucking harder.
I've adapted, though. Shifted my schedule even further into the dead of night, when even the most dedicated staff have gone home. If I let myself hide out in the tunnels the entire time, I'll lose my mind.
Literally.
The grinding wheel spins down as I finish the last skate. I clean up the metal shavings and start putting everything away. But just as I'm about to head for my usual escape route, I hear a sound and freeze.
Is that… footsteps?
They’re so light, I almost didn’t notice.
I put the skate back on the bench in a hurry and move quickly, ducking behind a rack of Ghosts jerseys since I can’t slip out of the room without risking being spotted by whoever’s coming. My heart rate spikes as I peek out from between the jerseys at the shadow stepping into the room. I hope it’s just Frank, who won’t notice the skate I left behind, but Frank is noisy as fuck. Whoever this is moves like a damn panther.
It’s Plague.
He’s lean and elegant, hence his almost silent movement, but his tall frame still fills the doorway. A disposable black mask covers his lower face, the kind K-pop idols and surgeons wear. Even with the mask, he's ridiculously attractive, with aristocratic features and bronze skin that make his pale blue eyes stand out from his dark lashes and even darker hair that falls in waves past his shoulders.
But I have no time to appreciate this alpha’s beauty. He steps into the room, gaze sweeping the equipment, brow furrowing when he sees the workbench.
The freshly sharpened skate.
My heart stops.
Plague picks up the skate, examining it closely. I hold my breath as he runs a gloved fingertip along the edge of the blade, testing its sharpness against the soft black leather of his gloves. He glances down, rubbing his fingertips together thoughtfully. Even from here, I can see where the blade sliced clean through the leather.
Can he tell the blade is hot even through his gloves?
Shit.
Shit, shit,shit.
At least he’s wearing a mask. The smell of the skates should drown out my scent, and the suppressants and layers upon layers of cologne should take care of the rest.
He lingers in the room for another minute, clearly suspicious, but when a pipe knocks in the wall in the hallway, it’s enough of a distraction to lead him back out. When he takes a left to investigate and I hear his footsteps going down the hall, I dart out and take the right, my heart pounding so loudly I'm almost afraid he will hear it.
Somehow, I make it back to the VIP suite without being discovered. I practically dive back into the nest of stolen Ghosts merchandise and towels covering the couch that has become my bed. From here, I can see my jerry-rigged security setup, which is really just a glorified collection of stolen unused tablets andlaptops that display feeds from cameras I've hidden throughout the arena.
Plague is gone.
