That was fuckingclose.
Chapter
Four
PLAGUE
As I approach the pack house, I'm still processing what I discovered in the equipment room. The freshly sharpened skate, still hot to the touch even through my glove.
Who the hell was in there at that hour?
Perhaps I should ask Wraith about it. I know he prowls the arena’s tunnels when he wants to avoid us. If anyone would notice an intruder, it'd be Wraith. He knows every nook and cranny of the arena better than the architects who designed it. And he has a sixth sense that borders on the supernatural.
But why does it even matter to me?
Why will my brain not let me stop wondering about the mystery equipment manager who clearly made themselves scarce the moment I stepped into the room?
I shake the questions off for now as I pull my keys from the pocket of my charcoal wool overcoat. Our pack house looms before me, a five-story modern structure located a convenient distance from the arena while still allowing us privacy andspace. The players that aren't part of the core—Thane, Whiskey, Wraith, and me—live elsewhere in their own homes. Players like them get traded every season.
Only the four of us are constants.
I've barely opened the door an inch when the booming voice of our power forward, Whiskey, thunders from deeper in the pack house before I even see him. I can hear the low baritone of our captain, Thane, beneath Whiskey's. Judging from the indignation in Whiskey's voice and Thane's bored tone, Whiskey has roped Thane into one of his usual one-sided debates.
I'm already irritated.
Perfect. I could use the distraction.
"What's the topic this time?" I ask as I round the corner.
Whiskey looks up from the couch, honey-brown eyes lighting up. "Plague! Perfect timing. We need a tiebreaker."
I arch an eyebrow. "On what, exactly?"
"Whether or not a hot dog is a sandwich," Thane says flatly.
"No," I say, heading for the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. Some debates aren't worth having, however nice a distraction might be right now.
Fortunately, by the time I make my way back to the living room with my water, they’ve already moved on. Whiskey’s one saving grace is that he’s easily distractible.
“Any news on the new teammate?” I ask Thane.
Whiskey perks up like an eager, overgrown Saint Bernard puppy. “A new teammate? Who're we getting? Is he replacing Daniels?”
“Yeah,” Thane says. “Another winger. Name's Valek.”
"Is Daniels really not coming back?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Thane's expression darkens. "After that stunt he pulled with Wraith, he’s lucky all he lost was his spot on the team."
He isn’t lying. Daniels was always a bit too curious about what Wraith looks like beneath the mask. After one of our games, fueled by adrenaline and a complete lack of regard for personal boundaries, Daniels tried to snatch Wraith’s mask.
Triedbeing the key word.
And now we have to deal with Whiskey’s constant jokes about Wraith mauling wingers, and how I’m probably next.
“When is he coming?” I ask.
Thane shrugs. "Couple of days, maybe. Management's still ironing out the details."
